Spring came slower that year. Not like the stories told by the older children, where the first blue sky made the trees bloom all at once, or the sun melted the snow in a single afternoon. This spring came shyly, like it wasn't sure if it was allowed in. Like it was being careful. Like it didn't want to wake Evelune too soon. Like it knew she was still mine, for a little while longer.
The snow hadn't melted yet, not fully. The garden was still hidden beneath a thin white crust, the kind that crackled underfoot but no longer numbed your toes. Icicles still clung to the corners of the roof, dripping slowly, drop by drop, like the house itself was tired of holding onto winter.
The stone wall that lined the back of the garden was nearly visible again, its dark gray top peeking through. The cherry tree remained bare, its limbs thin and quiet. But the sun showed more often. It pressed through the windows in long strips that landed on the wooden floors, warming the dust and the bones of the house. Light returned. And with it, so did the cat.
After a long, cold winter, I started seeing him again. At first, only as a flicker. A shape beyond the glass. A pair of glowing eyes resting low in the dark. Then, more clearly. One morning, as I sat by the window with Evelune asleep beside me, her hand curled around my sleeve and her breath steady, I looked up to find him perched on the fence. Tail curled neatly over his paws, ears flicked forward, one golden eye and one green trained on me. He didn't blink. He never blinked first. Just watched. I stared back, quiet, grateful, letting the heat of the sun soak into my neck and shoulders, letting the moment stretch like thread between us.
He was waiting. I didn't know for what. But I felt it, deep in my chest, the sense that time was moving again. The stillness of winter had been broken. Not fully. Not fast. But enough to feel the weight of what was coming.
Soon, the Count would come back for Evelune. He had said he would return in spring. Just for the season, he said, as if seasons were brief things. As if five months could pass like five days. But they hadn't. They had unfolded slowly. Coldly. Softly. And I had held Evelune through all of them.
She had grown. Not taller, not much heavier, but steadier. Her steps were firm now. She no longer needed my hand to balance, though she still reached for it sometimes. She ate without help, learned to fold her clothes, knew how to pull her blanket around her shoulders when the draft slipped through the floorboards at night. She followed simple directions from the caretakers, nodded when spoken to, never made a sound but always understood. They had started noticing her more. Watching her. Wondering if she had always been that capable, or if she had changed without them seeing.
I knew. I had seen every moment. I had watched her fingertips discover what warmth felt like. I had seen her eyes widen at candlelight and close again at the rhythm of my heartbeat. I had felt her chest rise against mine when she slept, and the soft weight of her head settling onto my lap when she was tired.
I had been there when she took her first steps. When she picked up the purple bunny by herself. When she traced a letter with her fingertip for the first time and looked at me as if she knew what it meant. She was still Evelune. Still quiet. Still small. Still mine. But I knew I wouldn't get to keep her. The Count would come back. And we'd have to say our goodbyes.
Sometimes I tried to imagine it. The carriage wheels pulling into the yard. The sound of boots on snow-wet stone. The careful way Matron would wrap Evelune in a clean coat, brush her hair, smooth her ribbon, hold her hand too tightly like she'd always been someone she cared for. The way Evelune would look back. Or not look back. I didn't know which would hurt more.
I didn't know what she remembered of the man. If she remembered his gloves, the sound of his voice, the pressure of being handed over like a package with gold inside. I didn't know if she knew what was waiting for her in his home—a room, maybe, with real curtains and quiet meals and no stairs to sleep under. A name of her own, perhaps. A family name. A new life.
I didn't know if she would miss this one. Miss me. I never asked her. I didn't want to. Instead, I kept each moment like a pebble in my pocket. Soft things. Small things. The way her hair smelled after a warm rinse. The way her fingers tapped the spelling book's corner when she was trying to stay awake. The way she had taken to sitting by the window each morning, watching the frost melt from the sill, the bunny held neatly between her knees.
I watched her, too. Memorizing. Preparing. Failing to prepare. She still didn't talk. Still hadn't made a sound. But her silence had never felt empty. It was rich with knowing. Full of presence. She saw things. She understood things. She noticed even the small changes in me—when I blinked too long, when I held my breath, when I looked away.
She would know. Even if I didn't say anything. She would know when the Count arrived that something was ending. Maybe it had already begun.
I told myself I wouldn't cry. I never had before. Not when I scraped my knees. Not when I was left under the stairs. Not when my food was taken, or when my hands ached from cold, or when the Matron ignored my name. I had kept the tears behind my eyes like a gate.
But now I wasn't sure. The thought of Evelune leaving bent something inside me. Not like a break. More like a slow, steady fold. Something curling in on itself. I didn't know if I would cry. But I knew something in me would change. And I didn't know what I would be afterward.
I looked at the cat again. He hadn't moved. The sun behind him made his fur look softer, more smoke than shadow. He tilted his head, just slightly, as if asking me to hurry up and understand something. As if he already knew what would happen and wanted me to be ready.
I touched the ribbon on my wrist. The one with my name. The stitches were still tight. Still bright. I had kept it clean, careful. I had worn it every day since it arrived. I had slept with it beside me, wrapped it in the blanket with Evelune when she napped against my chest, touched it whenever I felt the air shift in ways I couldn't explain.
Maybe it was a reminder. Maybe a promise. I didn't know. But I held it. Outside, the snow thinned by degrees. The cat blinked, slow and deliberate, and vanished from the window ledge. Inside, Evelune walked toward me from across the hallway, her eyes steady, the light catching the side of her face. And I knew. Spring had come. And the Count would follow.