The day came. No thunder. No trumpet. No grand carriage drawn by silk-draped horses. No polished shoes or guards in silver. Just silence. The Count arrived the same way Evelune had—quietly, like weather.
He didn't knock loudly, only once, firm and short. No one noticed at first. A few children playing in the hall paused, but the moment passed. No footsteps hurried. No announcement was made. It felt like a regular morning. But it wasn't. I knew it wasn't.
The Matron answered the door wearing the black shawl. Not the red one with gold trim. That was for dukes, for real nobles with pride heavy in their mouths. This one was simple, respectful, the one she used when she wanted to appear thoughtful but not beholden. It was pressed perfectly, folded over her shoulders, the brooch centered.
She had been expecting him. So had I. Evelune's bag was already ready. It sat near the stairwell—small, neatly tied with cloth and string. I recognized the shirt I had folded for her, the one with the wooden buttons she liked to chew when she was sleepy. The scarf with the soft edge. The hat she wore when the wind got sharp.
I had added the purple plush bunny. And my spelling book. I didn't tell anyone I was giving it away. No one asked. It was mine, but it had already given me everything I needed. I knew the letters now. I had traced them a hundred times, read them in the dark, drawn them on the wall with chalk and breath. I didn't need the book anymore. But Evelune might. Not for the letters, maybe, but for me. So I placed it beside the bunny, tucked safely under the flap of her blanket. She didn't know yet.
The Count stepped into the entryway without saying much. His coat was dark, lined with travel dust. His gloves were clean, but worn. His hair had streaks of silver that hadn't been there last year. His eyes were tired, but calm—gray, like mine.
He looked at Evelune and said a name I didn't recognize. It was long. Elegant. Probably something passed down through generations. The kind of name people hang portraits under. The kind they stitch into tapestries and write in family records. But Evelune didn't answer.
She just stood beside me, holding my hand. Her head tilted slightly, her thumb pressed to my wrist like it always was. Her eyes stayed on the Count, but there was no recognition. No movement. Just stillness.
I looked at him. And said, quietly, "Her name is Evelune."
He paused. He didn't argue. He didn't say that wasn't her name. He didn't raise a brow, or laugh, or correct me like I was a child pretending to know better. He didn't tell me I was wrong. He accepted it. He looked at her again and nodded, like the name had settled into place. Evelune.
She still didn't move. She clung to me tighter, her fingers curling against my side. I could feel the small tremble in her hand, just beneath the skin. Not fear. Not panic. Just resistance. Refusal. She wasn't ready. So I carried her. I didn't ask permission.
I bent down, lifted her into my arms like I had done a hundred times before, and stepped forward. The plush bunny dangled from her fingers. Her forehead pressed to my neck. Her knees tucked into my hip. She didn't cry. She just held on.
The Count watched me, then placed his hand on my head and patted it gently. Not awkward. Not dismissive. Like he meant it. "Thank you," he said, voice low but clear. "For taking care of my daughter."
My chest tightened. My arms held her closer.
He didn't try to take her from me right away. He let me stand there, still holding her, her breath warm against my neck. He looked down at her, then back at me, and something shifted in his eyes. He crouched a little so we were level. Not with her. With me.
"My name is Lucien De Viremond," he said. I didn't ask. But he told me anyway.
He looked older than I remembered. Not in the face. In the way he moved. Slower. Measured. Like every word he said had been weighed before he let it go.
"I didn't leave her here because I didn't want her," he said. "My house—our house—had problems. Things I couldn't fix fast enough. People I couldn't trust. I was worried it would hurt her. And I couldn't take that risk."
I didn't say anything. He didn't expect me to.
"But it's safe now. Clean. Whole. There's a place for her. And I'll never let her be alone again."
He looked at her again. She hadn't lifted her head. But she was listening. I could feel it in the way her hand stopped trembling.
"I'll take care of her," he said. "Not just feed and clothe her. Really take care of her."
I looked into his face. There was no lie in it. Still, I didn't let go right away. He waited. Then, slowly, carefully, I shifted her weight. She stirred, just a little, and looked at me. Her eyes met mine. I pressed the ribbon on my wrist to her fingers. She touched it gently.
I kissed her forehead. Then her temple. Then the soft place behind her ear where she always curled when she slept. She didn't flinch. She leaned forward, slowly, and let herself be passed into Lucien's arms. She didn't reach back. But her eyes stayed on mine. Even as he held her close.
Even as the plush bunny dropped between us and I bent to pick it up, brushing dirt from the stitched ear. I handed it to her. She took it without looking. But she didn't let go of my eyes. Lucien adjusted her in his arms. The Matron stood in the hallway, silent. The black shawl draped like a shadow. No one else came to see them off. No one else needed to. Lucien turned and walked out.
The door didn't slam. It didn't creak. It just shut. Softly. Finally. And then the house was quiet. Not empty. Just quiet. Like Evelune's silence, filled with meaning. I stood in the hallway for a long time. My wrist felt cold where the ribbon had touched hers. I returned to the space under the stairs, now too wide, too quiet, too still.
The spelling book was gone. But the letters were still inside me. I traced her name on the blanket with one finger. I sat there, in the hush, and remembered the weight of her against my chest. The small sound of her breath. The soft press of her fingers into mine. And I waited for the quiet to stop hurting.