Chapter 152: A World Beyond, Still Hers
Eva did not cry when the car pulled away from the Ainsley's estate. Her fingers curled around the edge of her coat, her pale gray eyes fixed on the window. Seraphina had waved until she vanished into the trees, auburn curls tucked under a scarf, her pale red eyes shining with quiet longing.
"Ina," Eva whispered once, like a secret.
Briony sat across from her on the Ainsleys' private jet, elegantly poised as always, skimming a score of Debussy with one leg crossed over the other. The hum of the aircraft was soft and silken, like the luxury it carried. Crystal glasses clinked softly in the bar cabinet, and the plush seats were the color of warm cream. The sky beyond the windows was a deep and endless blue, trailing its silent song across the clouds.
"You know," Briony said, glancing up, "we could always try commercial travel sometime. It's not dreadful. Unrefined, yes, but sometimes people - watching in airports is rather fun."
Eva turned to her slowly. "No," she said simply.
Briony raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"My maman arranges these," Eva said, her tone gentle but immovable. "She took time for my safety. I will not undo her efforts for a novelty."
There was a pause.
"Well," Briony murmured with a soft smile, "when you put it like that, I'd rather not disappoint your maman either."
Eva gave a small nod, as though the matter were sealed. Then she turned back to the window, her face unreadable. There was something about her in that moment — small, yes, but not fragile. Contained. The way a flame is contained in a lamp, only because it chooses not to burn the world yet.
"You're very quiet this morning," Briony said, switching to E••••••.
Eva didn't respond.
"Excited?" Briony tried again.
Eva turned slowly, her tone crisp, deliberate, and in perfect F•••••: « Je suis ici, mais mon cœur est resté là - bas. » (I'm here, but my heart stayed there)
Briony blinked, one eyebrow arching. "I'm surprised you still speak F•••••."
Eva didn't look up from her sheet music. « Pourquoi est - ce que je l'oublierais ? »
("Why would I forget it?")
Briony tilted her head, amused. « Parce que les enfants l'abandonnent dès qu'ils peuvent. »
("Because kids drop it the moment they can.")
Eva finally glanced up, calm and just a little smug. « Je ne suis pas les enfants. »
("I'm not like other children.")
Briony smiled, clearly entertained. « Bien sûr que non. »
("Of course not.")
And with that, Eva turned back to the window, fingers tracing imaginary notes on the glass, her mind composing. Her heart belonged elsewhere, but her body moved forward — toward something new.
The Académie de l'Étoile was older than Eva expected — grand, ivy - covered, and quiet in a way that felt almost too intentional. The high, arched ceilings echoed softly, even when no one was speaking, and the whole place carried the scent of polished wood, old sheet music, and a hint of lemon oil.
Her dorm room was spacious but minimal, with clean lines and tall windows framed by climbing roses just outside. Briony's suite was right across the hall, close enough to knock — though Eva suspected she wouldn't have to.
They'd barely unpacked when the director, Madame Halberstadt, arrived to welcome them. A tall woman with silvery hair and a silk scarf in pine green, she regarded Eva with an amused curiosity.
"She's seven?" she whispered to Briony.
Briony only nodded. "Seven going on seventy."
The first day, Eva said nothing in E••••••. She moved through the stone corridors in silence, trailing her fingers along frescoes and carved musical emblems. When spoken to, she answered in F••••• or, occasionally, M••••••• — leaving most of the older students and even staff blinking in mild confusion. It didn't bother her. If anything, she enjoyed their startled expressions.
She sat through lectures with the stillness of a cat, eyes sharp, spine straight. When asked to analyze a sonata, she used metaphors they didn't expect: "The phrasing here is like a bird rising through fog, disoriented but deliberate."
Even Briony had to pause sometimes just to stare at her. "Do you… know how strange you are?"
Eva glanced up from her notebook, entirely unbothered. « Tout le monde semble étrange quand ils sont faits pour briller ailleurs. » (Everyone seems strange when they are made to shine elsewhere)
She composed in silence. She read medical journals in F•••••, copied anatomical diagrams in pen, and once startled a guest professor by answering a question about cardiac rhythms with three precise examples — referencing both W•••••• and traditional C•••••• medicine.
At dinner that night, Briony leaned back in her chair, wine glass in hand, and muttered, "What are you made of, little one?"
Eva smiled, just slightly. "Smoke, thunder, and longing."
Two weeks into the program, Eva debuted her new composition: Nocturne pour deux âmes. A nocturne for two souls.
It was performed in the marble hall beneath gold chandeliers, the kind that made her fingers itch to draw something heavenly. Briony accompanied her on the violin. Vivienne had arrived the evening before, filming as always, her long scarf trailing behind her like a comet.
Eva stood at the piano, no taller than its music stand, her shoes barely touching the floor from the bench. She said nothing before playing — only glanced upward, into the lights, and whispered silently: Ina.
It was a masterpiece.
She played with the fluidity of wind and fire, each note shaped like a heartbeat, a memory, a promise. There was sorrow, yes — but joy too. Flight. Return. A crescendo that felt like falling into someone's arms. Her arms.
By the time the final chord faded into the hushed stillness of the room, even Madame Halberstadt dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
Briony was still clutching her bow when she whispered, "She's not real."
Vivienne had not stopped recording. Her voice could be heard behind the lens: "She hasn't said a word in E••••••, but the girl just spoke to a hundred strangers in the only language that ever mattered: music."
After the performance, they headed to a formal dinner in the garden conservatory — now glowing softly with fairy lights and flickering candlelight. Eva wore a sleek midnight - blue dress with delicate glass buttons and a simple ribbon tied at her waist. Her hair was, as always, perfectly styled.
She stood beside Briony, answering questions from professors, journalists, patrons — all in F•••• or M•••••••. Her words were clear, layered, and composed with a sense of grace that startled even Vivienne.
"I swear she just told that man the distinction between post - romantic tonality and emotional modulation in C••••••••," Vivienne whispered to her phone, recording for her wife. "She hasn't said a word of our language since she left, but she's giving a lecture over duck canapés."
Eva floated through conversations with ease. When asked about her composition, she said only:
« Ce n'était pas une œuvre. C'était une lettre. » (It was not a work. It was a letter)
"To whom?" someone asked.
She looked up, small and still, her voice unwavering.
« À l'âme qui me garde vivante. » (To the soul that keeps me alive)
Briony nearly dropped her champagne glass.
Later that evening, as the stars flickered above the garden, Eva and Briony sat at a marble bench beside the fountain. The guests had begun to leave, but the warmth lingered. Briony glanced over and said softly, "You know, I think I'm a little in love with you."
Eva blinked, clearly amused.
Briony smiled. "Not like that. But I mean — how do you exist?"
Eva rested her chin on her knees. "It's a secret."
"Tell me."
She leaned closer, her voice low: « J'ai été fabriquée dans un rêve, et quelqu'un m'a réveillée trop tôt. » (I was made in a dream, and someone woke me up too early)
Briony laughed — startled, delighted. "You're terrible."
Eva, unphased, added, "But you may marry my aunt Vivienne if you like."
Briony blinked. "What?"
"You said you wanted to keep me. Marrying Aunt Vivienne is the only way."
Vivienne, passing by at that exact moment with a tiny dessert plate, burst out laughing. "Oh, I like her logic."
"She offered me to you as dowry," Briony muttered, smirking.
"I'll start drafting the invitation," Vivienne teased.
Eva only folded her hands in her lap. Her gaze was already somewhere else — somewhere the stars didn't quite reach.
That night, Eva lay in bed with the window open, moonlight pooling on the floor like silver water. Her fingers itched to write again.
She pulled out her sketchbook and began, first with a few lines of melody, then with the L•••• she had whispered to herself during the train ride.
A new poem formed.
Umbra Cordis
Dum lucem sequor, te memini,
In nocte, in silentio, in somnio.
Non fugit anima mea, sed manet,
Sub pennis memoriarum, sub corde tuo.
As I follow the light, I remember you,
In night, in silence, in dream.
My soul does not flee, but stays—
Beneath the wings of memories, beneath your heart.
She traced the final line twice, then folded the paper and tucked it into her violin case — not because she played, but because Seraphina once had. Her heart ached quietly, but she did not cry.
Eva was learning how to carry love across distance. How to press it into every measure, every pause, every note.
She closed her eyes, and before sleep claimed her, whispered into the dark:
"Je rentre bientôt, Ina." (I'll be back soon)
And from the stillness beyond, she could almost feel the answer.