Chapter 151: The Language of Light
The rain had finally stopped.
After three days of grey, the world outside the windows flushed with a hesitant gold. The roses breathed again, the ivy shook out its curls along the garden walls, and somewhere in the back, a pair of doves had returned to the terrace ledge to preen in the late morning light.
Eva sat at the piano in her socks.
Not because she was cold. Not because the floor was marble and Mére — Aunt Vivienne still hadn't installed those funny heated rugs from N•••••. But because she needed to feel the vibrations through her soles. She always did, when a piece was nearly done.
This time, there were two.
She hadn't meant to write both. The first — Passerina's Waltz — had come easily, in short glistening phrases, like the notes were waiting just behind her fingertips. It was a song about motion, about Seraphina laughing while watering herbs in her apron, about her hair catching the sunlight. It was full of arpeggios and playful shifts in rhythm, light and spirited.
Passerinae Saltatio
(Passerina's Waltz)
In tribus passibus placidis descendit e caelo,
Flocculus vesperis tinctus caeruleo.
Caput inclinans, alas levat—
Saltatio susurris incipit.
Gyrans leviter plumis nitens,
Per somnii marginem volitans.
Notae quas texit vix audiuntur—
Suspirium, silentium, umbra volucris.
Nec loquitur nec manere audet,
Sed lucem in umbras spargit molliter.
Ventus secreto signo paret;
Saltat ubi silentia creverunt.
Et licet mundus nomen eius obliviscatur,
Rami inclinantur ad flammulam eius.
Hospita fugax super maris crepusculi—
Saltat in memoriam aeternam.
Passerina's Waltz
(For piano or strings, allegretto grazioso)
In three soft steps, she lands from sky,
A flake of dusk in cobalt dye.
She dips her head and lifts her wing—
The waltz begins with whispering.
A pirouette of down and gleam,
She floats along the edge of dream.
Each note she spins is barely heard—
A sigh, a hush, a shadow - bird.
She neither speaks nor dares to stay,
But scatters light in shades of gray.
The wind obeys her secret cue;
She dances where the silence grew.
And though the world forgets her name,
The branches bow to watch her flame.
A fleeting guest on twilight's sea—
She waltzes into memory.
The second — Nocturne for the Distant Sea — was entirely different. Slower. Hollowed with longing. Made of silences and shadows. It had come at night, after a dream she didn't fully remember, but couldn't let go of. It ached.
Nocturnum pro Mari Longinquo
(Nocturne for the Distant Sea)
Mare est longe, tamen canit—
Immortale murmur sublatum leviter.
Argenteus spiritus, quamvis procul,
Per somnia venit, quae nox revelat.
Nulla stella lamentum eius notat,
Nec lunam inter tenebras dirigit.
Non clamat, sed suspirat—
Et sal in caelum dissolvitur.
Infans evigilans manum tollit,
Tangere conatur quod nemo scit.
Testa, aura, unda umbratica—
Audit quod adulti corda celant.
Et qui eum de litore spectaverunt
Distantiam crescere senserunt, deinde dolere desierunt.
Nam in illo silentio ubi maria dormiunt,
Anima incipit iuramentum suum servare.
Itaque, licet aestus a me recedat—
Amabo tamen mare longinquum.
Nocturne for the Distant Sea
(Adagio, con malinconia)
The sea is far, and yet it sings—
A low, immortal murmuring.
Its silver breath, though leagues away,
Arrives through dreams the night betrays.
No stars can chart its mournful tune,
Nor map the dark between the moon.
It calls not loud, but with a sigh
That folds like salt into the sky.
A child may wake and lift her hand,
To touch what none can understand.
A shell, a breeze, a ghostly swell—
She hears what grown hearts never tell.
And those who've watched it from the shore
Feel distance grow, then ache no more.
For in that hush where oceans sleep,
The soul begins its vow to keep.
So let the tide recede from me—
Still I shall love the distant sea.
Both were finished now.
And even Briony, perched on the window seat with her knees tucked up and her tea untouched, looked stunned when Eva struck the last chord.
There was a hush. The air barely moved.
Then a quiet, reverent whisper.
"You're… seven?"
Eva turned and gave a small nod. "Still." "Just turned seven"
Briony crossed the room slowly, as if speaking too soon might collapse the moment. She crouched beside the bench, laying a hand delicately on the polished wood. "The first one made me want to dance barefoot on a marble floor. The second made me want to cry in a cathedral."
"I like the second better," Eva said. "But Ina will love the first more."
"Then she'll weep to both."
Aunt Vivienne, who had been pretending to scroll through emails on the chaise, gave a dramatic sniffle and dabbed at her eyes with a lemon - embroidered handkerchief. "My niece (daughter) isn't just a genius," she declared. "She is an emotional architect. She builds entire cathedrals in four minutes and three key changes."
Eva flushed slightly, but said nothing.
It was Seraphina who appeared next, stepping softly from the study. Her auburn waves were tucked behind one ear, sleeves rolled from trimming mint. She leaned in to whisper something to Vivienne, then crossed to Eva and knelt, gently cupping her small hands.
"You composed these since Sunday?" she asked, looking not at the sheet music, but at Eva herself.
"Yes," Eva said. "They kept growing."
Seraphina brushed a knuckle under her chin. "Then let them grow. I hope your whole life will be filled with pieces like this."
Briony tilted her head, clearly enchanted. "Is it always like this around here? Little girls writing masterpieces over breakfast and getting praised like Renaissance queens?"
Vivienne gave a proud little sniff. "Only when they deserve it." Then she added with a grin, "And when I remember to film it."
She raised her phone.
Eva narrowed her eyes. "You're not filming this, are you?"
"Oh, but darling, your maman would perish if she didn't see what her prodigy has been doing. You haven't spoken F••••• to us in months."
Eva pursed her lips. Then turned to Briony — deliberately — and spoke in clear, crystalline F•••••, her tone as elegant as a P••••••• recital:
« Tu n'es pas facile à impressionner, mademoiselle Ward. Mais je suis heureuse que tu aimes ma musique. » (You are not easy to impress, Miss Ward. But I'm glad you like my music)
Briony blinked. Then grinned. "You speak F•••••?"
Eva offered a modest shrug. "I don't forget what belongs to me."
Vivienne, who was now openly filming, gasped. "Regardez - moi ça!(Look at that) Did you hear that? My niece is practically a diplomat! I'm sending this to your Maman right now." She muttered gleefully into her phone in rapid F•••••, something about la petite étoile qui renaît dans son empire natal (The little star that is reborn in its native empire), and waved dramatically to make sure the light caught Eva's glossy chestnut — medium brown - blue hair.
Briony laughed, shaking her head. "How did none of you tell me she spoke like that?"
"We weren't sure she remembered," Seraphina murmured, brushing Eva's hair from her cheek. "She never uses it with us."
"She was waiting for the right moment," Vivienne said. "The moment you arrived."
Briony made a face of mock suspicion. "Was that a flirt?"
Eva looked up, eyes calm and cool. "If it was, it was very subtle."
Vivienne nearly choked on her espresso. "Mon Dieu (My God), she's toying with you, Briony."
Briony, undeterred, leaned forward, her nose nearly touching Eva's. "Well then. If you keep composing like this, I may have to marry your aunt just to stay close."
Eva didn't blink. "Only if I get joint custody of Ina when we got married."
Seraphina flushed deep pink.
Vivienne let out a peel of delighted laughter. "She's bartering for my niece to be like a duchess with a dowry!"
Briony laughed too, but softened. "In all seriousness, Eva… I don't think I've ever met anyone like you."
"I know," Eva said matter - of - factly. "But I'm still seven."
And that, for now, was her shield.
The rest of the day felt like a quiet celebration. Eva sat cross - legged on the floor, carefully copying her scores onto fresh sheet paper while Aunt Vivienne started planning a private performance night for the weekend — something casual but elegant, just close friends and a few insiders.
Briony offered to sight - read one of Eva's older pieces, which she played beautifully — though Eva still went over the margins with a red pencil, jotting a few precise corrections like a tiny, exacting composer.
No one mentioned the little hearts she'd doodled next to Seraphina's name in the corner of the page.
But everyone saw them.
In the evening, Eva curled up beside Seraphina on the couch, her head tucked under her chin, as the fire flickered low. They were reading a leather - bound book of L•••• riddles, giggling quietly at the ones about foolish philosophers and talking owls. Eva dozed off like that, tucked into the curve of Seraphina's side, soothed by the low music of her voice.
When she woke, the fire was nearly out and the house was quiet. Briony had gone to bed. Seraphina lifted her carefully in her arms — warm, sure arms that always made Eva feel smaller and safer than she'd admit.
"Tomorrow," Seraphina whispered, "we'll play the waltz for your maman. She'll love it."
"She'll cry."
"She always does."
Eva nuzzled closer. "Did you like that I spoke F•••••?"
"I loved it. It was a beautiful surprise."
"Do you want me to teach you?"
Seraphina smiled. "I'd love that."
"Okay," Eva said drowsily. "We'll start with this: Je t'aime toujours." (I still love you)
Seraphina whispered back, "And I love you, always."
They reached her bedroom, but Eva clung tighter.
"Stay?" she murmured.
Seraphina laid her down gently, tucked the blankets close, and climbed in beside her.
"Of course."
Eva's lashes fluttered. The very last thing she said, voice dreamy and sweet:
"Mon nid, c'est toi." (My nest is you)
Seraphina kissed her brow, holding her close.
And the stars blinked softly above, listening.