Archive of Our Own ^beta

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A Year Later

The Harkness-Vidal household was wrapped in midafternoon quiet.

Not long ago, it had been chaos: Nicky bursting through the door after school with all the volume of a boy who’d remembered something halfway to school in the morning and had talked about it all day until he was home — his coat trailing behind him like a cape, his mismatched socks bunching in his shoes, shouting over his shoulder about an urgent, dire need for a new glue stick “—the big kind, not the regular kind, Moms, it’s important!”

Violet, now a year old, had gone down for her nap almost immediately after, her small weight curling instinctively in her blanket, hugging Yellow Dragon tightly.

But Agatha hadn’t moved.

 She hadn’t moved from the front hallway in the fifteen minutes since, her fingertips pressed gently to the corner of an envelope that just arrived in the mail, as though she were afraid to open it and more afraid not to.

The letter had arrived like any others, tucked in among a flyer for discount groceries and a bland envelope from the electric company. She might have missed it entirely if not for the handwriting.

That alone had made her stop.

It reminded her of her aunt Eugenia. Her mother’s youngest sister. Agatha’s favorite aunt.

But this letter wasn’t from Eugenia—but it was the sort of handwriting Eugenia would have liked. Thin and slanted, neat but not severe. Agatha had stared at the address line, her name in careful blue ink. Mrs. Agatha Harkness-Vidal. Not just “Harkness,” not “Miss.” The correct name. The respectful name.  The name that carried her marriage, her story, her self. The name someone had taken the care to write properly.

So not Eudora either.

Eudora was Evanora and Eugenia’s older sister and, in Agatha’s private opinion, probably the worst of the three.

Not for the same reasons Evanora had been terrible — Eudora had never thrown anything or cut Agatha down with knives disguised as compliments. No, Eudora’s cruelty was a quieter, colder thing. She was the sort who believed in order over kindness, and silence over comfort. She’d always acted as though Agatha were a visitor overstaying her welcome, even when Agatha had been a child with nowhere else to go.

Agatha slid her nail carefully under the seal, peeling it back like one might lift the edge of a scar that had never fully closed. Inside was a letter, neatly typed on thick, cream paper. The folds were sharp, though the edges were yellowed — as if it had been printed weeks ago and only now remembered.

Tucked beneath it was a second sheet — handwritten, this time, in the same loose script that had addressed the envelope.

Her eyes dropped to the typed letter first:

Dear Dr. Harkness,

We regret to inform you that Eugenia Harkness passed peacefully in her sleep on the third of last month. In accordance with her wishes, we are reaching out to all named in her will and cordially invite you to a small memorial service to be held next Saturday in her hometown. Please find attached a personal note of rememebrance.

Agatha stopped reading. Her eyes didn’t even flicker to the details below — the time, the place, the line about tea to follow in the parish garden.

She couldn’t quite move.

There was no shock, not exactly. Eugenia had been old — truly old, an old that had always seemed unbothered by time. Her voice had never lost its steady hush. Her clothes had never changed much. Her garden had remained orderly and overgrown in the same magical balance for what must have been half a century. She was a constant, even from a distance.

But still, it hit Agatha with that strange, specific weight — that grief that isn’t about closeness or tragedy, but about the quietness someone leaves behind. The absence you feel like an echo in your ribs.

It felt like a thread snapping.

Not violently. Not with the sting of something sharp. Just the snap after the fray.

Gently.

Like a lamp being turned off in a room you hadn’t realized was still lit.

She thought of the greenhouse — that impossible summer, that impossible memory — when Evanora had screamed so loud it made the glass rattle, furious over a pair of missing gardening shears Agatha hadn’t even touched.

She’d been small. Ten, maybe. Or eleven. Long-limbed and quiet, too clever in all the ways Evanora hated. She’d braced herself for a slap that hadn’t come — not yet — and instead, Eugenia had appeared. Without fanfare. Without rebuke.

She hadn’t said Evanora’s name. She hadn’t spoken sharply. Hadn’t stopped her sister from screaming at her niece.

She’d simply knelt beside Agath in the dirt, brushing soil from her own skirt, and said softly, “You always did know where to hide the best, clever girl. You’ll survive her. You just have to keep dreaming. Keep thinking. Keep reading.”

That was the only time anyone had said you’ll survive her out loud.

Eugenia hadn’t made it warm. But she had made it true.

Agatha looked down at the second note — the handwritten one — and her fingers shook just slightly as she opened it.

It wasn’t long. It wasn’t even signed.

You were her favorite, you know. Even when she didn’t say it. Especially then. She kept your letters. Every one.

Agatha let out a breath.

Somewhere in the house, the wind shifted — the faint creak of the nursery door, the soft sigh of a sleeping toddler turning in her crib. The house breathed with her. Or for her.

She pressed the note to her chest and closed her eyes.

She hadn’t seen Eugenia in ten years.

Not since before the wedding that Eugenia had been unable to attend due to an health issue. Not since before Nicky. Not since before she’d fully grown into the woman Eugenia had once looked at and said, with an almost-smile, “You’ll be someone nobody sees coming, Agatha. Just promise me you won’t lose your sharpness trying to be softer for them.”

Eugenia had never liked telephones, and Agatha had been too proud—too wounded, too busy, too much like someone trying to outrun something long dead—to write.

They had exchanged cards, occasionally. Thin threads across an ever-widening distance. There had been a quiet note when Nicky was born — Congratulations, my clever girl — and, on his third birthday, a small box wrapped in brown paper that had arrived without fanfare. Inside: five old novels, the spines worn to softness. And tucked into the folds of one, a note, almost hidden, written in that unmistakably fine penmanship:

This one was always your favorite. I thought you might like to read it to someone who listens the way you once did.

Agatha had stared at that note for a long time.

She’d meant to write back.

She’d thought she’d have time.

She even bought the stationery — a pale sage-green set with silver-lined enveloppes, the kind Eugenia would have approved of. She had written the salutation twice and torn the page both times. She had told herself there would be time. After exams. After Rio had moved in. After Rio’s pregnancy. After Violet slept through the night. After things settled. After she felt more like someone worth writing to.

But time had a way of curling backward when you weren’t looking — twisting into a shape too tangled to undo.

Isn’t that always the way?

The other note — the one enclosed in the formal letter — was short, but written in a hand Agatha recognized instantly as older. Worn down. Not Eugenia’s, but someone close. Someone who knew what Eugenia’s hands had looked like when she sewed, or how she kept her sugar cubes in a porcelain tin shaped like a tulip.

Someone who knew. So Agatha read the next lines.

She spoke of you often. She always said you were the cleverest of them all, and the only one with eyes worth trusting. She wanted you to have the silver locket from the library cabinet. And the green-leather notebooks. She said you’d understand.

That last line. She said you’d understand.

Agatha read it once. Then again. And again.

She didn’t cry. She wasn’t even sure she could. There was too much else crowding in — silence that pressed at her ribs, a heaviness in her chest like old dust stirred from a high shelf.

She folded the letter precisely, with careful edges, and slipped it back into the envelope. Then, without fully knowing why, she stood and began to clean.

Not because anything was particularly messy. But because it gave her hands something to do.

She wiped down the kitchen counter, brushing away the toast crumbs Nicky had left like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale no one had quite finished writing. She rinsed Violet’s sippy cup and set it upside down in the drying rack. She straightened a stack of mail, lined up the salt and pepper shakers, pushed in a chair someone had left slightly askew.

She moved like someone afraid to disturb something.

Afraid to wake a ghost.

Her aunt was dead.

Eugenia. The quiet one. The one who never raised her voice. The one who had once handed her The Secret Garden beneath the breakfast table when she was nine and whispered, “Don’t let Evanora see. Hide it between the flower encyclopedias — she never looks there.”

The one who never stopped Agatha from being punished — but who always found a way to remind her afterward that punishment wasn’t the same thing as justice.

“You’re allowed to feel angry,” she had once said, sitting beside Agataha on the back porch after Evanora had left for her afternoon errands. “It means you’re still trying.”

Eugenia had never been loud about her love.

She hadn’t interfered. Hadn’t swept in like a savior. She hadn’t been the aunt who threatened Evanora or carried Agatha away in the night.

She had simply carved out a small, sacred corner of the world. One Agatha could retreat to, quietly, when the storm had passed. A gentle resistance, made of books, warm hands, and knowing looks across the dinner table. A sort of tenderness that didn’t perform itself. It just was.

In a family like theirs, that had meant everything.

Agatha had spent most of her life turning Evanora into a shadow she could fight. A monster she could measure herself against. A shape she had to survive.

But Eugenia… Eugenia had been something else.

Not a shield. Not a sword.

A light. However small.

A single candle kept burning in a house full of locked dooors.

And now she was gone.

Agatha stood in the middle of her kitchen, staring at the light as it filtered through the windowpanes and spilled across the floor. It caught on a forgotten crayon, a droplet of applesauce drying on the corner of the highchair. Violet’s soft toy lay where she’d dropped it, open-mouthed and stitched with joy. Rio’s sweater over the back of a chair.

There was life here.

So much of it.

More than Agatha had once believed she could ever claim for herself.

She looked again at the envelope taunting her from the counter. At the words. She said you’d understand.

Agatha didn’t know if she did.

But she would try.

She owed Eugenia that much.

After everything was spick and span, after the last dish was dried and the counters gleamed, Agatha wandered to the front window like a woman pulled by a tether she didn’t entirely feel until she was already there. She stood still, arms crossed tightly around herself, as if holding herself together were a physical task, something that required intention.

Outside, the world moved on.

The street was quiet, as it always was at this hour—midafternoon lull, the hush that followed the rush. The treesstood full and proud in their heavy greenery, casting patterned shadows across the pavement. Sunlight slanted low over the white picket fence, gilding the grass and the empty sidewalk in honeyed gold. A breeze lifted through the open window, catching the edge of the curtain and making it flutter, soft as a breath.

Agatha watched it all blankly, her face unreadable, her posture unmoving.

And then, all at once, she felt small again.

Like a clever girl hiding in her room with a paperback clutched to her chest, spine creased, words memorized. Like someone waiting for a knock on the door that never came. Like someone hoping—quietly, foolishly—that maybe this time, someone might notice the silence and open the door anyway.

She had always thought—-underneath the decades, beneath the pride and the distance and the noise of motherhood and marriage and everything else—that she might write to Eugenia someday. Just a little note. Nothing grand.

She should have written.

Thank you.

The books mattered.

The listening mattered.

You mattered.

You helped.

You saved me. A little. More than anyone else ever did at the time.

But now it was too late.

And yet… Eugenia had remembered her.

In the end, she had remembered.

Agatha closed her eyes, and for a long moment, she simply stood still.

Then, somewhere down the hall, the floor gave a long, familiar creak.

A moment later came the soft rhythm of footsteps—slow and deliberate, a bounce followed by the gentle scuff of bare feet against hardwood. Then the sound Agatha always felt in her bones: Rio’s voice. Low and warm, tinged with amusement and breathlessness from the stairs.

“She was fighting nap time,” she murmured, a soft smile woven into the words. “Like mother, like daughter.”

Agatha didn’t respond. Didn’t turn.

She stood with her back to them, still wrapped in that strange, aching silence.

Rio stepped into the room a heartbeat later, her silhouette reflected faintly in the window’s glass. She shifted Violet against her hip—the little girl gave a small, questioning hum, blinking up at the still figure by the window.

The letter crinkled softly in Agatha’s hand.

Rio stopped mid-step.

Her smile faded. Her voice gentled.

“Love?” she asked quietly. “What is it?”

Rio’s eyes flicked down to Agatha’s hand—still holding the opened letter, gently, like something fragile that might fall apart if touched. Violet shifted again in her arms and made a small, impatient sound, but Rio’s eyes were only on her wife.

Agatha spoke without turning.

“She died.”

A beat of silence.

Rio blinked, startled. “Who? Eudora?”

Agatha finally turned her head, and Rio’s breath caught.

Her expression was strange—almost peaceful in its stillness, but unmistakably far away. Like someone who had wandered out into the snow and only realized afterward how cold they were.

“No,” Agatha said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Unfortunately, no. Eugenia.”

Rio blinked again. “Wait—Eugenia?” She stepped closer, adjusting Violet on her hip. “Eugenia who sent you The Secret Garden? That Eugenia?”

Agatha nodded once, slow and mechanical, her gaze drifting briefly back toward the window.

“I got a letter. There’s going to be a service. She left me something. Not… not much, just—” She looked down at the envelope, her thumb running lightly across the crease. “Just something to say she thought of me.”

Rio moved before she even realized it. She crossed the room in two quick strides and sat beside her on the couch, Violett balanced across her lap now, one tiny hand gripping Rio’s sweater, one pigtail tickling Rio’s chin.

Agatha didn’t look at her.

“She was…” Agatha’s voice caught, but she forced the breath through. “She was the only adult who ever made me feel… real. Not loved, not really. But—respected. Like I wasn’t just something to fix or scold or mold into whatever Evanora wanted. She didn’t make a show of it. She just… she listened. Quietly. She gave me books. She gave me books without asking why I needed them. Called me clever. She let me feel clever, just for being alive.”

Rio, her heart full to the point of aching, reached up and gently tucked a strand of Agatha’s hair behind her ear. Then, without a word, she stroked it softly, letting her fingers move through the thick, dark strands in that careful rhythm she had always used when Agatha needed to remember where she was. Who she was.

 Agatha leaned into the touch almost imperceptibly—so slightly that anyone else might’ve missed it, but not Rio.

Never Rio.

“She saw you,” Rio murmured after a while. Her voice wasbarly audible over the hum of the house settling. “Maybe she didn’t say it all the time. Maybe she didn’t know how. But she saw you. And I’m so sorry, my love.”

Agatha let out a long breath, one that sounded too much like surrender.

“Sometimes I think I made it all up,” she said. “That maybe I imagined her being kind. That I needed someone to be kind so badly, I just… filled in the silence.”

“You didn’t make it up,” Rio said instantly, and without doubt. “You don’t invent that kind of love. Not when you’ve never seen it. It was real. You were a child. She should’ve done more—but she did something. And that something meant everything.”

Agatha nodded slowly—barely a motion at all—and her hand lowered into her lap, the envelope still held delicately between her fingers. It rested like a pressed flower might, light and preserved, as if part of her still feared crumpling it by holding too tightly.

Violet made a soft, curious noise—half breath, half question—and then, in a sudden spark of toddler energy, patted Agatha’s leg with her open palm.

The touch startled her.

Agatha glanced down, eyes meeting the small, determined face gazing up at her. Violet’s expression held none of the weight that surrounded them. There was no grief in her brow, no memory in her bones. Just the pure, urgent instinct of a child: you look like you need me.

Agatha’s mouth twitched, and a smile flickered there—faint, flickering like candlelight—but unmistakably real. A small concession to the present.

Violet squirmed again, her sock-clad feet pressing into Rio’s thigh in restless rhythm. Rio adjusted her without thinking, instinct and muscle memory guiding her. The little girl shifted, then turned her face toward Agatha again, eyes wide and unblinking. She didn’t know what had changed in the room—but she felt it. She always felt it.

She reached out a chubby hand and found the hem of Agatha’s sleeve.

Just a pinch. Just fabric between tiny fingers.

And that—that—was what undid her.

Agatha inhaled sharply, but the breath stuttered in her throat, catching like a page turning too fast. Her gaze dropped to the hand tugging at her sleeve, the fingers too small to mean anything and yet meaning everything. There was no hesitation in Violet. No caution. No understanding of what Agatha was carrying. Only fierce, unconscious trust.

Clumsy, insistent. Unbothered. Absolute.

Agatha closed her eyes.

Rio still said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her hand kept moving, slow and steady through Agatha’s thick hair—once, twice, again. The same rhythm she used when Violet was teething and wouldn’t settle unless Agata curled beside her and Rio soothed them both. The same touch as when Agatha stared at the ceiling with eyes wide open sometimes, too proud to ask for comfort and too tired not to need it.

“She used to say, ‘clever girl’,” she said eventually, her voice low, nearly swallowed up by the walls. “That was all. Just… clever girl. And I believed her.”

Rio’s heart clenched in that slow, aching way it always did when Agatha spoke of her childhood—not with rage or despair like she herself did sometimes, but with that quiet, resigned grief that came from surviving something and never fully leaving it behind.

“Even when Evanora called me foolish,” Agatha continued, still not opening her eyes. “ Even when the house was cold and I couldn’t breathe. Even when I was punished for asking questions, or hiding in the attic with my books, or—God—for crying… I held onto that. Just that. ‘Clever girl.’ As if it meant I had value.”

Rio rested her cheek against Agatha’s shoulder now, careful not to shift too much with Violet still between them. “You did,” she whispered, lips barely moving. “You do. You were the clever girl. And you still are. She was right.”

Agatha didn’t answer. But she didn’t pull away.

Instead, her hand rose—slowly, as though moving through water—and came to rest on Violet’s small back. Her fingers splayed out over the soft fabric of the little green overalls their daughter wore that day, the corduroy warm beneath her palm. She could feel it there—faint and steady—the tiny heartbeat beneath layers of fabric and skin and bone. A life pulsing forward. A thread tying her to the now.

She kept her hand there, as if the rhythm might tether her to the present. As if it might remind her how to breathe.

They stayed like that for a long time. The house settled again around them. Violet yawned against Rio’s chest and let out a small, contented sigh, not yet sleepy again but comforted, somehow, by the contact.

Grief, when shared, didn’t feel quite so sharp.

Rio didn’t try to fix it. She just stayed. Hand in hair. Body beside body. Stillness wrapped in stillness. And for the first time in a very long while, Agatha allowed herself to be held.

Violet had gone quiet again. Her thumb found her mouth, and her dark lashes fluttered, heavy with the pull of almost-sleep. She didn’t stir, but her tiny hand stayed curled against Agatha’s sleeve, fingers flexing once, then going still again—half-lulled by the weight of her mother’s arm and the silence between her parents.

She didn’t need to understand what was happening.

She just needed to be here.

Then came a thump from the stairs—a familiar, muffled thud followed by the creak of the floorboards. Probably their boy, jumping the last three steps like he always did, especially when he thought no one was listening.

“Mama?” Nicky called out, voice already curious, already attuned to the quiet that didn’t belong. “Mom?”

He rounded the corner a second later, bursting into the archway with all the unfiltered energy of eight years and sunshine. His cheeks were pink from the walk home, his knees dusty, his hair a windblown halo of brown curls that refused to stay tamed no matter how many times Rio tried. A half-eaten energy bar was clutched in one hand, the other still tugging at the strap of his backpack.

He was mid-chew when he stopped cold.

His gaze landed on Agatha, then flicked instinctively to Rio, and back again. Crumbs clung to the sleeve of his hoodie, but his chewing slowed. His eyes sharpened.

He knew this silence. The heavy kind. The one that felt too still, too thick, like walking into a room just after someone had cried.

Agatha looked up—barely. Just enough to meet his eyes across the space. Her expression was soft but distant, her posture too still, too quiet, and Nicky felt that pinch of worry settle low in his chest. Mama never cried in the ways other adults did. No noisy tears, no wild gestures or raised voices. Just a stillness that filled the room like fog. A quiet so heavy it felt like something closing.

He crossed the room without a word.

And in a gesture that was all instinct and nothing learned, he slowed as he neared her. His usual whirlwind energy dimmed into something careful—tender in the way only children can be when they really see you.

“Did someone die?” he asked softly. Blunt, but not cold. Just honest.

Agatha blinked at him, startled more by his clarity than the question itself. Then, with a small, reluctant nod, she answered.

Rio’s voice followed gently behind him, calm and warm. “Come sit with us, bug.” She’d shifted Violet to the couch already, the little girl nestled between a cushion and her mother’s thigh, clutching the hem of Rio’s sleeve with one hand and her thumb in her mouth.

Nicky climbed up beside Agatha without waiting for more. He didn’t throw himself into her lap like he did when he was excited, didn’t jostle or bounce. He just settled close, pressing his shoulder against her side, quiet as a secret. It was the same way he’d once sat beside her when he came home in tears because a kid had called his seaweed snacks “gross.” Or worse when another one had made him doubt the realness of his bond with his Mommy.  He hadn’t wanted to talk that day either. Just wanted to be near.

Agatha let out a long breath through her nose. She laid her hand gently on his knee.

“My aunt,” she said softly. “Eugenia. She passed away.”

Nicky’s brow furrowed as he tried to summon the name from whatever catalog his eight-year-old brain had built. You could see him flipping through the mental files like he was looking for a face in an old photograph.

“She’s not the mean one, right?” he asked finally, seriously.

Agatha gave the smallest huff of a laugh—dry, tired, but real.

“No,” she said, her voice a little stronger now. “That’s Eudora. Eugenia was… different. She was my mother’s sister. The younger one. She never raised her voice. Not once, that I can remember. She was kind. In quiet ways. She gave me books when I was little. She was always very supportive but very discreet too.”

Nicky nodded slowly, then tilted his head like a bird—thinking. That curious tilt Rio said she recognized as completely Agatha. All solemn observation, no filler.

“She sounds like Grandma Lilia,” he said after a moment. “But stricter? Like the kind of person who doesn’t hug you unless you really need it, but always remembers what book you were reading last time?”

Agatha blinked.

And then—unexpectedly, quietly—she smiled. It was faint, a little uneven, and it barely reached her eyes, but it was there. Honest.

“Yes,” she murmured. “That’s exactly what she was.”

Nicky’s face lit up, pleased by the comparison. “That’s a good kind of grown-up to be,” he said with the simple certainty of someone who’d already decided what kind of grown-up he wanted to become.

Agatha reached out and touched his cheek lightly, brushing a crumb from the corner of his mouth with a tenderness so practiced it was nearly unconscious.

“Yes, clever boy,” she said. “It is.”

Nicky leaned into her touch, small and solid and endlessly sure, and Agatha let her palm linger along his jaw, cupping it gently. Her thumb brushed beneath his cheekbone in a soft arc, grounding herself in the warm, familiar shape of him. Eight years old, sharp-eyed and bright, with a heart like an open book. He had always been good at sensing the shifts in her—even before he had the language to name them. Even now, when he didn’t fully understand the weight she carried, he knew when to press close and stay.

She breathed in the scent of his hair—sun and sweat and schoolyard dust—and held onto the stillness.

“Are you going to go to the thing?” he asked after a beat, his voice soft but clear.

Agatha tilted her head slightly. “The memorial?”

He nodded.

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I… haven’t decided.”

There was a pause.

“Will there be snacks?”

Rio’s laughter burst out before she could contain it, muffled against Agatha’s shoulder. “Nicholas,” she said, half-scolding, half-grinning.

Nicky only blinked innocently, his grin spreading like sunshine. “What? It’s a valid question.”

Agatha shook her head, her smile growing just a little bit brighter, and for the first time all day, the ache in her chest lightened. Just a fraction. Just enough to breathe.

Rio met her eyes over Violet’s soft curls and raised an eyebrow—You okay? it asked.

Agatha nodded. Not quite okay. But steadier now. Anchored.

She looked down at Nicky again. “Thank you, baby,” she murmured.

He blinked. “For what?”

“For being here.”

He looked confused by that—where else would I be?—but he beamed anyway, puffed up by the compliment, and nudged his shoulder against hers.

“You’re welcome, Mama.”

She closed her eyes for a second and let herself feel it: the shape of her family around her, warm and close. Violet’s quiet breaths as she sat on the couch, her thumb still in her mouth, Rio’s hand still in her hair, and Nicky leaning against her like he was proud to hold her together, even just a little.

And somewhere—distant but distinct—she heard it again. The memory came not in words, but in tone, in the warmth of it. Eugenia’s voice, that quiet little smile in it, that steady confidence as she handed her a worn copy of A Little Princess on a rainy afternoon.

Clever girl.

Agatha opened her eyes.

The pain was still there. But it had changed shape.

It had made room.

That night, the house was wrapped in the quiet of after bedtime. The dishwasher hummed low in the background, and the soft clink of the last mugs being put away echoed gently through the kitchen. The scent of lemon dish soap lingered faintly in the air, mixed with the woody warmth of the candle burning low on the table in a glass jar.

Rio had lit it earlier—she always did after long days. She said good scent made a house feel safe. Like it could hold things for you.

Agatha stood at the sink, drying her hands on a tea towel that had long since softened from too many washings. She moved slowly. Methodically. Like someone folding a memory in half before tucking it away. She didn’t speak.

Rio watched her from across the room as she took the kettle off the stove, her body calm, steady, but… remote. Not in an angry way. Just in that subtle way that meant her mind was far, far away—like a lantern still glowing, but no longer lighting the same room as everyone else.

It was that particular kind of quiet that worried Rio most. Not grief with sharp edges or words spoken too fast. But this—this absence. This pulling inward. The way Agatha sometimes disappeared into her own silence and didn’t always find her way out.

The kids had gone down easily for once, as if sensing the day had asked too much already. Violet had fallen asleep still babbling to Yellow Dragon, her small hands patting her plush head before going still. Nicky had curled beneath his blankets with a book he swore he didn’t need to finish but read anyway, thumb tucked absently under his cheek the way he always denied. There had been soft giggles, warm kisses, the shuffling of small feet down the hall—and then, blessed stillness.

Just the two of them now.

Agatha sat down at the kitchen table, her hair still damp from the shower she had taken earlier. She was holding the mug Rio handed her with both hands, not drinking from it. Just… holding.

Rio took the seat beside her. She didn’t ask. Just waited.

Finally, Agatha broke the silence.

“The memorial is this weekend.” Her voice was flat—not cold, not bitter, just distant. Like she was reading the words off a paper someone else had written. “It’s being held in a little town outside of Providence. She retired back to her hometown a few years ago. Quiet place. She always liked quiet.”

Rio nodded softly. “Saturday?”

“Yes. Afternoon.” Agatha’s eyes flicked briefly to the candle between them, then away. “I’ll take the early train. Be there for the service. Come back that night. There’s no reason to stay.”

And then, after another moment, added with quiet finality “I don’t want to bother anyone else with it.”

The words hung there.

Rio didn’t speak right away.

She just looked at her wife. Really looked at her. The slope of her shoulders, the careful way she kept her back straight, her eyes trained not on Rio but somewhere just over her shoulder—like if she did she might unravel.

Agatha had always had a way of distancing herself from her own pain, tucking it into boxes, making it clean and organized and no one else’s problem. She’d done it with her loneliness before she met Rio, with the letters from her mother’s lawyer, even with her grief over Evanora—the grief that hadn’t been about loss so much as it had been about the sheer weight of damage. And now this—this quiet mourning for the only adult who had ever made her feel respected.

Rio reached across the table and touched her hand.

“We’re coming with you.”

Agatha’s eyes flicked up, startled. “No, love, you don’t—there’s no need—”

“There’s every need,” Rio said quietly, and though her voice was calm, there was no mistaking the steel beneath it. “We’re going. All of us. As a family.”

Agatha opened her mouth again, but Rio kept going, calm and certain, the way she only ever got when something mattered.

“You don’t have to do this alone. And the kids—our kids—they should know where their Mama comes from. Not just the strength and the brilliance and the fire, but the grief too.  The hard parts. Especially the hard parts. They should know someone like Eugenia existed. That you weren’t invisible to everyone back then.”

Agatha stared at her.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the mug, and for a moment, she didn’t speak.

Then—

“You’re sure?” Her voice was small. Not hesitant—just soft in a way that betrayed how badly she wanted to believe it. “It’s going to be quiet. Formal. There’ll be people who—who knew her in ways I didn’t. It might be boring for the children. Or strange. And you know how my family is.”

Rio smiled, and it was all affection.

“Our son once spent an hour reading headstones at the Church for Lilia’s friend’s daughter’s wedding and then gave a historically inaccurate but very passionate reenactment of a duel over a slice of lemon pie,” she said dryly. “He’ll be fine.”

Agatha huffed a quiet, almost-laugh. But her hand didn’t pull away.

“And Violet?” Agatha asked, her voice gentler now, the faintest tremor of concern woven beneath it—concern not just for logistics, but for disruption, for the unpredictability of bringing something so soft and new into a space filled with the old weight of grief.

“She’ll nap in the stroller for twenty minutes tops, then wake up right in the middle of the eulogy and try to eat your hair like she’s a tiny grief therapy gremlin. She’ll wave at every person in a three-row radius like she’s campaigning for office, yell at someone trying to cry quietly, and babble at full volume about whatever random object she’s currently obsessed with. Today it was Nicky’s pirate boat,” Rio said with the tone of someone who had already accepted that their baby was a one-woman chaos parade.

“And then,” Rio continued, raising an eyebrow like a warning but still grinning, “she’ll remember she can’t walk unassisted yet, and she’ll throw her signature dramatic flop tantrum on the church floor while everyone politely pretends not to look. Possibly while holding a breadstick. She’ll be a hit.”

That startled an actual laugh out of Agatha—a real one this time. Small and fleeting, but unmistakable in its sincerity. A flash of something unburdened, something grateful.

“She is… a force,” Agatha murmured, smiling down into her mug as if the very idea of their daughter’s chaos softened something in her chest.

Rio leaned in gently, closing the small space between them, and rested her forehead lightly against Agatha’s temple. The gesture was tender, anchoring. Familiar.

“We’ll be there,” she whispered, her voice low but steady. “All of us. You don’t have to explain anything. You don’t have to be anything but present. If you want to sit in the back and not talk to a soul, we’ll do that. If you want to slip out early, we’ll slip out together. You don’t owe anyone more than what you have to give. But you’re not doing it alone.”

Agatha nodded slowly, her eyes falling closed at the warmth of the gesture.

“Okay,” she said, voice barely more than a breath. “Okay.”

And in that tiny word, Rio could hear the thread of relief that Agatha didn’t know how to say out loud.

Agatha let her head drop to Rio’s shoulder, and Rio turned her face to press a kiss into her hair.

They sat like that, in the low light of the kitchen, the children asleep down the hall, the past quietly stirring between them—but in the open, now. Not hidden. Not boxed away. Shared.

And for the first time since the letter arrived, Agatha didn’t feel like she had to carry it all on her own.

The grief hadn’t vanished. But it had changed shape.

Now, it lived in the light.

Now, it was witnessed.

*

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Chapter Text

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Saturday morning arrived soft and grey, the sky low and heavy with pale clouds that threatened to rain but never quite committed. It was early enough to make everything feel a little gentler, like the world hadn’t fully woken up yet.

But inside their house, the lull was short-lived.

The usual pre-departure chaos unfurled in full: a mismatched flurry of miniature socks, half-eaten bananas, forgotten jackets, toothbrush standoffs, and the ongoing debate over whether a toddler needed two stuffed animals for a train ride or six. Nicky argued he needed exactly four books for the journey, then changed his mind mid-pack and started over. Violet refused shoes entirely for a solid five minutes and then insisted on wearing mismatched ones, which Rio had ended up allowing but packing the corresponding shoes as well to rectify before the memorial. Rio moved through it all with her usual morning energy and quiet focus, while Agatha… drifted.

By the time they reached the train station, Agatha’s nerves had settled, but still clang to her skin and wove into her thoughts. She felt them in her breathing, shallower than usual, and in the tension coiled between her shoulders.

They stood on the platform, waiting. The tracks shimmered in the cool light, steel lines leading somewhere she wasn’t sure she was ready to go.

Agatha kept one hand on the folded stroller, clipped shut and propped neatly beside her, and the other gripped the thick strap of the canvas tote slung over her shoulder. It was too heavy for a one day trip—stuffed with snacks, wet wipes, spare clothes, and well-worn picture books, as if preparing for every possible disaster might help ease the one she couldn’t plan for.

She was dressed carefully, thoughtfully—long black coat buttoned to her collarbone, a soft black blouse beneath it, tailored dark trousers that matched the muted elegance of the occasion. Nothing flashy, nothing loud. Just… quiet dignity. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun, sleek this morning but already starting to come undone in places, loose wisps curling around her temples and neck as if trying to soften her sharp edges, or pulled by one certain little girl’s very determined hands.

Beside her, Rio—also in her dark outfit— adjusted Violet on her hip like it was second nature, her arms strong and easy around the weight of their daughter. Violet was still drowsy from the early wake-up, her cheek pressed against Rio’s shoulder, thumb in her mouth and half-lidded eyes blinking at the world with slow confusion.

Agatha’s heart softened at the sight.

Violet wore a soft cotton dress the color of dusky twilight—a deep plum dotted with tiny, barely visible white stars. It had been Agatha’s choice, after some quiet thought the night before. A quiet nod to mourning that didn’t feel too harsh, too stark for a baby. And Rio had drawn the line at black tights –-saying black didn’t belong on a baby— and gently substituted them for frilly white socks. Violet’s curls had been swept up into two tiny pigtails, though one was already beginning to droop a little. She clutched both Yellow Dragon and her blanket in one small hand—an impressive feat of toddler multitasking—and occasionally waved them vaguely at nothing in particular.

Agatha watched her for a moment, feeling the ache bloom in her chest again. She was bringing her daughter into a room where people might not speak kindly of her family, all for a woman Agatha still didn’t know how to mourn. A woman who hadn’t raised her, hadn’t saved her, but had once seen her—and left a door open.

She wasn’t sure what to do with that kind of grief. It didn’t fit neatly into her boxes.

Nicky hovered nearby, perched on the edge of a weathered bench with his backpack hugged tight to his chest, his legs swinging beneath him in a steady rhythm of anticipation. His dark sneakers scuffed the platform edge with every pass, and his eyes were locked on the tracks like they might blink and summon the train by sheer force of will.

He’d dutifully worn the midnight blue button-down Agatha had set out for him—crisp, clean, just formal enough without cramping his style—but the buttons were already uneven, and his collar was flipped up on one side. His hair, freshly combed only an hour earlier, had somehow returned to its usual tousled chaos, and the energy rolling off him in waves had entirely obliterated any hope of solemnity.

“Are we gonna go fast?” he asked for the third time, practically vibrating as he popped off the bench to stand on his toes, hands cupped around his eyes as he peered dramatically down the track. “Like really fast? Zoom fast? I wanna feel it. Are there gonna be tunnels? Or bridges? Or bridges with tunnels? Do we get snacks on the train? Can I have the window seat? Please, please—”

“The window seat is yours,” Rio said, reaching out to give his shoulder a gentle squeeze, balancing Violet on her opposite hip. “But only if you promise not to give a spontaneous lecture on 18th-century duels to anyone trapped next to you this time.”

Nicky groaned, scandalized. “That wasn’t a lecture. It was a fun fact. She said she learned something new!”

“She also moved seats,” Agatha murmured under her breath, dry as dust. Her lips twitched, but her expression held steady—calm on the outside, though Rio could feel the tightness just beneath.

Rio pressed a kiss to the top of Violet’s sleepy curls, trying not to laugh. “It’s an adventure, right, baby girl?”

Violet, thumb firmly in her mouth and cheek squished against Rio’s shoulder, gave a soft, noncommittal grunt—the universal baby response to being awake too early. Her curls bounced slightly as Rio shifted her weight, and Yellow Dragon’s tail trailed from her grip like a flag of surrender.

Then—behind them—a low roar began to hum through the steel tracks, and the platform seemed to hold its breath. The train rounded the bend with a screech of brakes and a gust of wind that tugged at coat hems and tousled hair. Violet blinked awake at the sudden shift in pressure and sound. Agatha’s coat flared briefly around her thighs, and she instinctively stepped closer to the edge, her hand tightening on the stroller.

Nicky gasped, eyes wide as the silver blur of the train pulled into view. He reached instinctively for Agatha’s hand and clutched it tight. “Is this it?” he whispered, his voice reverent now.

“This is it,” Agatha said, and her voice was calm—but tight. She smoothed her coat as the doors opened, casting a quick glance at the already-seated passengers beyond the glass. Adults, mostly. Quiet, neat, half-asleep with their coffee cups and headphones and books. She swallowed. Adjusted her coat again. Lifted the tote higher on her shoulder.

“Come on,” Rio said softly, brushing her arm. “We’ve done harder things.”

Agatha nodded, a bit too quickly. “Yes. Of course.”

Boarding with a toddler was always an operation—Violet had to be shifted from Rio to Agatha while Rio hefted the folded stroller in ahead of her, keeping it tucked close so it wouldn’t snag on the door frame. Agatha balanced the tote, Violet, and her own quiet storm of nerves as she stepped aboard. Nicky bounded up the steps behind her, chattering nonstop about how fast they were going to go and how he hoped the whistle would be loud.

They made their way down the narrow aisle, and Agatha’s eyes flicked quickly across the faces of the passengers. She didn’t recognize anyone—of course not—but that didn’t calm her. She felt…watched. Or maybe just visible, and that was almost worse.

She’d spent years cultivating a life of control, a carefully composed exterior. And now here she was, marching down a train aisle with a sleepy toddler half-asleep against her chest, a snack bag slipping off her shoulder, and an eight-year-old already asking if he could “maybe draw the train in his journal once we’re on it, because this is an important historical experience” as if they were aboard the Titanic.

Rio found four free seats facing each other around a table and quickly unloaded the stroller, flipping it flat and sliding it into the storage rack. Agatha slipped into the seat, settling Violet against her shoulder and exhaling, only to find herself fiddling with the edge of her coat again.

Rio noticed.

She slid into the seat across from her and reached across the table, placing her hand over Agatha’s twitching fingers. “Hey.”

Agatha looked up, startled.

Rio gave her a soft smile. “You’re okay.”

Agatha glanced down at the toddler curled in her arms with her little legs draped across her lap and the boy now pressing his face eagerly against the window in front of her, already rambling about the comparative speeds of trains and rollercoasters.

“Am I?” she asked softly. Not defensive. Just… exposed. Like she didn’t know the answer and hated that she needed one.

Rio’s smile didn’t falter. “You’ve got your family with you. That counts for a lot.”

Agatha held her gaze for a moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

Outside, the whistle blew. The train lurched, then glided forward, smooth and steady.

Nicky let out a delighted shriek, practically bouncing in his seat. “We’re moving! Oh, we’re moving! Mama, look! We’re actually going! We’re going so fast already—did you feel that? Can we count how many bridges we go over? Can I write it down?”

He pressed both hands against the window now, nose leaving a foggy oval on the glass, eyes huge and bright, already cataloguing the flickers of platform and track and graffiti-covered walls outside.

Agatha turned to the window, her gaze following the blur of steel and concrete as it melted into trees and rooftops and telephone poles. Her reflection moved with her, faint and ghostlike against the glass. And for the first time that morning, she let herself breathe.

The station disappeared behind them. The city began to fall away in patches, replaced by open fields and little fences and sleepy houses that looked like they’d been plucked from another decade. She could feel the low vibration of the tracks beneath the soles of her shoes, steady and constant. The soft, familiar ache of motion. The sound of Violet breathing quietly against her chest. The hum of conversation around them—muffled and benign, strangers slipping into their own Saturdays.

Across from her, Rio had leaned her elbows on the table, chin in her hands, watching both Agatha and the children with the quiet alertness she always carried when she sensed a day might demand more from them than it should.

Nicky leaned over again, this time nudging Agatha’s arm. “Do you think they had trains like this when you were little?” he asked, purely curious, not teasing.

Agatha blinked, startled. Then she smiled faintly. “Some things never change,” she said, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Like you talking nonstop. And you calling me old.”

“Hey!” he laughed, but didn’t object. He went back to his window, cheeks pink with pleasure.

She let her hand drop to Violet’s small back, stroking it gently in rhythm with the train’s sway. The toddler was more awake now, blinking slowly, babbling softly to herself in little vowel-heavy syllables. Her thumb was still in her mouth, but her other hand had crept up to toy with Agatha’s necklace chain.

Agatha looked down at her—this impossibly tiny person who had never met the woman they were going to mourn, who would never know the full story. And maybe that was all right. Maybe it was enough that she existed. That they all existed. That Agatha’s family—the real one—was here.

Then, without a word, she reached across the table and took Rio’s hand.

The train had barely cleared the outskirts of the city before Nicky began humming.

It started quietly enough—barely more than a murmur under his breath—but within seconds, the melody had found its legs and was trotting confidently into full performance territory. He was halfway through “Be Our Guest” when he began to accentuate each note with dramatic gestures, first with a cracker in one hand, then with the entire box tilted at a questionable angle.

“…Be our guest! Be our guest! Put our service to the test—”

“Hey—Nicky,” Rio hissed gently, reaching across the table to right the now-precarious crackers. “You can hum, but not loud enough to summon the enchanted cutlery, okay?”

Nicky looked at her with wide, guileless eyes. “But Mama always says I should express myself.”

“Quietly,” Agatha murmured, carefully taking Violet’s soft shoes off. “In places where people have chosen not to pay for a Broadway matinée.”

Nicky plopped down with a huff, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed no real disappointment. “You people don’t understand drama.”

“On the contrary,” Agatha said dryly, “I married it.”

Rio gave a mock-offended gasp just as Violet dropped her toy.

Again.

It clattered under the seat, bumping softly against the metal bar. She looked down at it, then up at her Mama, lip quivering dramatically in that way she’d already learned got results.

Agatha looked down. Violet stared back, eyes wide and imploring, as if to say I have been robbed of my dragon and I will not stand for this injustice. Her tiny fingers gripped at the air in longing. Her bottom lip wobbled ominously.

Agatha sighed and leaned down, carefully fishing the toy back up with the edge of her boot.

“I swear she’s testing gravity,” Rio muttered as she handed Violet a rice cracker from the tote bag in hopes of distraction and told her daughter softly. “That’s the third time, Vivi Girl.”

“She’s one,” Agatha said dryly. “We’re lucky she isn’t eating the window latches.”

Violet, reunited with her Yellow Dragon, gave a happy grunt and shoved its face into her mouth as if to confirm Agatha’s point.

Nicky, meanwhile, had opened the crackers with all the delicacy of a man launching confetti into a crowded square. A loud pop of plastic, followed by a small cascade of crumbs onto the table and the floor, punctuated the next line of his humming.

Agatha flinched. Not visibly, but in that tiny way Rio could always sense. A tightening around the eyes, a little wince in her voice.

“We are absolutely going to get death glares by the second stop,” she whispered.

Rio grimaced as she bent down to pick up every dropped cracker and sweep the floor with a napkin. “Maybe we can bribe them with fruit snacks.”

“I don’t think that works on adults.”

“You’ve clearly never tried the berry ones. They’re transformative. People have cried.”

“Because their toddler’s melted them into the lining of their handbag,” Agatha replied under her breath, though the edge in her voice had softened, just a little.

Across the aisle, a woman in a gray scarf glanced over with mild amusement but said nothing. An older man behind her leaned back into his headphones, unfazed. No one glared. No one scoffed. Just the usual symphony of quiet public tolerance and the occasional sympathetic smile.

Rio slid her foot over and nudged Agatha’s ankle gently beneath the table.

“You’re doing great,” she said, softly. Just for her.

Agatha looked over, startled, but then—just for a moment—her eyes flicked to the rice cracker in Violet’s hand now and her lips twitched upward. Not a full smile. But close.

“…Be our guest! Oui, our guest! Beef ragout, cheese soufflé—!”

“Nicky.”

“Sorry.”

But he didn’t stop smiling.

Neither did Rio.

And Violet dropped her toy again.

This time she grunted in open betrayal, tossing her head back dramatically like a she was this close to throwing a tantrum.

Agatha groaned under her breath, rising slightly to retrieve it—but before she could reach, a warm voice came from across the aisle.

“Don’t worry, love,” said an older woman, smiling kindly at them. “We raised four. This is nothing.”

Agatha froze, her hand hovering mid-reach. She turned slowly.

Across the aisle sat a couple in their early seventies, dressed comfortably for the trip—he in a soft cardigan and slacks, she in a floral scarf and sneakers. Both of them wore the well-earned lines of people who had seen a great many long car rides and early mornings and sticky hands.

“Four?” Rio echoed, eyebrows raised in impressed solidarity.

The woman nodded sagely. “One of them once threw an entire shoe into a stranger’s coffee cup on a flight to Madrid.”

Her husband gave a long-suffering groan and added, “We don’t talk about Madrid.”

Agatha, who had visibly tensed with every cracker crumb and toy drop since they boarded, finally let out a small, sheepish breath. “I’m sorry. We’re trying.”

“You’re doing great,” the man said warmly. “Honestly, they’re lovely.”

Violet, as if proving his point, beamed at him through a full mouth of rice cracker, cheeks puffed like a squirrel. Then she sneezed explosively and, with all the grace of someone who had just discovered cause and effect, wiped her nose directly onto Agatha’s sleeve.

Agatha didn’t even flinch. Just sighed in long-suffering silence and reached for the wipes. “Charming,” she said dryly, though the deadpan was gentler than usual.

The older woman burst out laughing. “Oh, sweetheart. At that age, everything’s charming. Even the disasters. Especially the disasters. You’ll miss it someday.”

“I already miss the quiet,” Agatha muttered.

Rio smiled sideways at her. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” Agatha admitted, lips quirking.

The woman tilted her head toward Nicky, who had now started quietly humming “Under the Sea” and was lightly tapping out a rhythm on the window with the heel of his hand. “And he’s got a wonderful voice,” she said with a smile.

“I tell him that all the time,” Rio said proudly, resting her chin briefly on top of Violet’s curls. “He’s got perfect pitch and a flair for the dramatic.”

Nicky beamed like someone had just pinned a medal to his chest. He brought one hand to his heart and mouthed “Thank you” with exaggerated grandeur, like he was taking a final bow at curtain call.

The older man gave him a little golf clap. “If I had snacks, I’d throw them at your feet.”

Nicky lit up. “We do have snacks! Want one?”

Agatha snorted softly and shook her head, already reaching across to discreetly keep him from opening the bag again.

The woman leaned back into her seat and offered Agatha a knowing look. “You’re not alone in this, you know. Parenthood is loud. Messy. Beautiful. Sometimes you feel like you’re failing the whole train car. But to the rest of us who’ve done it—this just looks like love.”

Agatha blinked at her. Something caught in her throat.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

The woman nodded, then turned to her husband and whispered something that made him chuckle and they both turned back to their books, not intruding, not lingering—just offering a brief flash of kindness into a morning that could have easily slipped into worry.

Agatha adjusted Violet’s dress again. Rio leaned back in her seat and fished out a small container of grapes , the lid cracking with that soft suctioned pop that somehow always made Violet perk up.

Nicky looked at them both and whispered loudly, “This is so fun. Can we take the train every time someone dies?”

Agatha choked.

Rio choked harder, nearly dropped the grapes, and then began to laugh—helpless, silent, tears-in-her-eyes laughter as she covered her face.

Across the aisle, the older couple—who had already grown fond of this very vocal, deeply theatrical child—erupted into warm, belly-deep chuckles of their own. The woman wheezed out a muffled “Oh my god” into her scarf.

Agatha had both hands over her face, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was physically holding back the spiraling absurdity. “My God,” she muttered. “My God.”

Rio, wiping her eyes, whispered through her laughter, “We need to put him in theater.”

“No,” Agatha said at once, shaking her head slowly, eyes still closed. “Because then he’ll start projecting.”

Rio giggled helplessly again, one hand now braced against the table for stability. “He’s already projecting, love.”

Agatha gave her a long-suffering look that didn’t hold. Her shoulders began to shake, and she turned her head into Rio’s side to stifle a laugh of her own.

Still chuckling, Rio reached into the grape container and picked the plumpest one, then leaned in and gently popped it into Agatha’s mouth without asking. Agatha gave her a look of both betrayal and fondness, but she chewed it obediently.

“I’m not going to survive this trip,” she said around the grape.

“You say that every time we leave the house,” Rio replied, grinning. “And yet. Here you are.”

By the time they’d passed the second station, the novelty of the train had begun to wear off for Nicky—at least temporarily. The motion had settled into a soft, rolling rhythm that lulled the entire carriage into a quiet kind of stupor. Even the baby was beginning to slow, blinking more than babbling now.

Rio had shifted seats and was now pressed lightly against Agatha’s side, their knees touching. She was flipping through a battered picture book with Violet perched in her lap, guiding her finger slowly across the pages as she whispered names of animals—duck, sheep, tree, duck again, oh look, a squirrel. Violet clapped at the squirrel, then demanded to turn back three pages to see it again.

Agatha sipped cautiously from a lukewarm paper cup of weak tea she’d gotten from the cart, her hands finally steady. The tea wasn’t particularly good—slightly bitter and a little watery—but it was warm, and she clung to that small comfort like a lifeline. Her posture had relaxed by degrees, the lines around her mouth not quite as tense, her eyes no longer darting constantly toward every sound or shadow. 

The older couple across the aisle had dozed off, shoulder to shoulder, their hands still loosely clasped between them.

Nicky, true to form, was now curled against the window, his chin resting on the back of one hand as he stared dreamily out into the blur of passing countryside. He had gone through nearly every snack in Rio’s bag, attempted to teach himself rudimentary French through a child-friendly app (“Bonjour! Je m’appelle Nicky et j’ai huit ans!”), and tried unsuccessfully to write a song about trains and ghosts. He had finally resigned himself to his true calling: announcing every cow he saw like a nature documentary narrator.

“Another one,” he said softly. “Brown. Very brown. Majestic. Possibly named Flora.”

Rio didn’t even look up. “Is Flora friends with the other one you named Stella?”

“They’re married,” Nicky whispered seriously.

Agatha covered her smile with her tea cup.

And that was when a voice piped up from behind them—bright, tentative, and friendly.

“Hi—sorry, um,” a feminine voice said, a little breathless, like she’d been waiting for the right moment and nearly missed it. “Would she maybe want to play with this?”

Rio turned in her seat, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

A girl—young woman, really—was leaning slightly over the back of the seat behind them. Early twenties, maybe. A student, judging by the stack of flashcards tucked into her hoodie pocket and the edge of a well-loved campus lanyard sticking out of her bag. Her hoodie was two sizes too big, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and she wore thick-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down her nose. The strap of her backpack was dotted with colorful enamel pins: a little red mushroom, a sleepy cartoon cat, a quote from Coraline, a glittering planet.

In her outstretched hand dangled a keychain—a rainbow-colored plush butterfly with soft, puffy wings, tiny beads for eyes, and a jingling bell that sparkled faintly in the overhead light. It bobbed gently as she held it out, catching Violet’s full attention.

Violet froze, utterly transfixed. Then, with a gasp of pure toddler-level awe, she reached both arms out in the most dramatic display of longing—tiny fingers spread wide, face lit with awe.

“Ba!!”

The girl laughed, eyes bright behind her glasses. “You want it? Yeah? You like the jinglies, huh?”

Violet bounced in Rio’s lap, hands flapping with excitement as she pointed at the butterfly with the intensity of someone discovering a treasure. Her whole body was vibrating with the need to grab it—no, to possess it.

Rio chuckled, both amused and touched. “Only if you’re okay with it being thoroughly drooled on. She’s in a very… oral exploration phase.”

The girl waved off the warning with a grin. “She can have it. It’s already been baptized in energy drinks and library carpet fuzz. This is probably an upgrade. I’ve washed it though, don’t worry.”

“She’s adorable,” the girl added, already a little enchanted. “What’s her name?”

“Violet,” Rio replied.

At the sound of her name, Violet paused just long enough to glance up at her Mom—her new trick this month, reacting to her name like she might understand the social contract—before resuming her laser focus on the butterfly. She clapped again, legs kicking.

“Oh, that’s such a cute name,” the girl cooed, delighted. “Hi, Violet. You’ve got excellent taste in jinglies.”

Agatha, who had gone still at the stranger’s voice—instincts still too old and too honed—relaxed by degrees. She turned, taking in the scene. Her daughter, animated and reaching. The student, all warmth and generosity. There was no judgment in her posture. No polite curiosity veiling disapproval. No long look at the rings on Rio and Agatha’s hands. Just warmth. Just generosity. Just someone who’d noticed a baby getting fussy and wanted to help.

The student passed the butterfly keychain to Rio, who accepted it with a grateful nod and lowered it gently into Violet’s open hands.

Violet squealed in triumph and immediately began shaking it like a maraca, the bell jingling with reckless joy.

The sound rang out like a pocket of light in the train’s quiet. A few passengers looked over—not annoyed, but smiling. The butterfly jingled again, and Violet let out a soft, satisfied grunt, as if she’d won the world.

Rio glanced at Agatha. Agatha, still watching their daughter, smiled faintly and murmured, “Well. That’s her entire day made.”

“The girl’s got taste,” the student behind them said with a wink, settling back into her seat. “Butterflies make everything better.”

“She likes you,” Rio said to the student with a smile.

“Well, I like her too,” the girl replied with mock solemnity, giving Violet a little wave.

And Violet—sweet, baby Violet—waved back with her free hand. A real wave. Not the half-accidental hand flop she sometimes did when distracted. No, this was intentional. Eager. Tiny fingers curling and opening, curls bouncing as she grinned.

Agatha blinked.

It was such a simple thing. A wave. A child delighted by color and jingle. A stranger being kind just because she could be.

But it pierced something. Not in a painful way. More like in the way sunlight sometimes cuts through the fog without asking for permission.

She found herself smiling. Not the practiced, polite smile she wore at work, or the stiff one that said thank you, now let’s move on. This one was small. Soft. Honest.

“Thank you,” Agatha said, and it came out quieter than she expected.

The student blinked, then smiled right back—pleased but not overly sentimental “Any time. Seriously. She’s the best thing I’ve seen all morning. I’ve got a job interview in like, forty minutes, and I kinda needed that.”

Rio gave her a wink. “You’ve got this.”

The girl laughed, caught off-guard, and blushed slightly. “Thanks.”

Rio smiled and leaned towards her wife to whisper “She looks like a mix of Sophia, Emma, and Nina all rolled into one. It’s uncanny.”

Agatha’s smile deepened, something amused sparking behind her eyes. “She kind of does,” she murmured. “But less likely to spontaneously set something on fire.”

“We hope.”

Violet banged the butterfly against the tray table with determination. It jingled again. The student laughed. “Total rockstar,” she said. “I actually made that keychain myself. I do crafts when I get overwhelmed. Beads, felt, glitter glue… it’s kind of my therapy.”

“It’s beautiful,” Agatha said. And she meant it—not just the keychain, but the whole moment. The care behind it. The unexpected connection. The generosity that asked for nothing in return.

Agatha turned back in her seat and settled a little deeper into it. And Rio, sensing that shift—that exhale in her wife’s bones—pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

Agatha closed her eyes for a second.

She’d expected this trip to pull her under. Drown her in old ghosts and sharp memories. But here, now, on a gently rocking train with a child jingling her borrowed butterfly, a boy softly whispering about distant hills, and her wife’s lips resting against her shoulder, it didn’t feel like drowning.

It felt like being carried.

Carried through it. Carried forward. Carried home, somehow, even while traveling somewhere else.

She opened her eyes again, just in time to see Violet triumphantly try to eat the butterfly.

“We’ll be buying you one of those,” Rio muttered with a smirk, gently redirecting the toy before it could disappear entirely into Violet’s mouth. “Or ten.”

The girl chuckled. “She can have that one. Honestly. I can make more.”

Agatha looked at her, something caught between amusement and awe flickering behind her eyes. “You may have just changed the course of this trip.”

The student grinned. “Honestly? Glad to be part of the journey.”

Agatha hummed, her hand drifting down to rest on Violet’s little foot, giving it a gentle squeeze. Violet responded with a happy kick and a fresh jingle.

The landscape outside the train window was still rolling farmland, dotted with sleepy barns and rows of sunflowers waving lazily in the morning breeze. Violet was now comfortably nestled against Agatha’s chest, still holding the jingly butterfly keychain –- her latest and most prized treasure-- dozing with her mouth slightly open and her fingers twitching from dreamland activity.

Agatha hadn’t let her go since the baby fell asleep, arms circled protectively around her little body like a fortress. She was no longer checking the carriage with the same haunted nerves as earlier. The stiffness had worn off, and a kind of thoughtful stillness settled around her now—like someone halfway between past and present, watching both with care.

And across from her, Nicky was growing antsy again.

“Are we there yet?” he asked.

Rio leaned over and gently tapped his nose. “You haven’t asked that in at least thirty minutes. I was starting to worry. Are you okay?”

Nicky sighed. “I think I used all my cows.”

Agatha blinked. “Used them?”

“They’re starting to repeat. I’ve already counted that one. And that one. And the one with the spot that looks like a banana? She’s back again.”

Rio snorted. “Tragic.”

“I’m bored.”

“Lucky for you,” Rio said, reaching into the ever-mysterious tote bag, “I anticipated this emergency.”

She pulled out a slim, dog-eared book, its spine barely holding together. The title was simple: Riddles for Clever Kids.

Nicky’s eyes lit up like a light switch. “Yes!!”

“Oh god,” Agatha murmured from her seat, adjusting Violet slightly so the baby’s warm head still rested comfortably against her collarbone. “We’re doing riddles?”

“Oh yes,” Rio said with mock gravity. “It’s time. Stretch your brain, Harkness”

“I’m holding a sleeping baby. I shouldn’t be subjected to mental gymnastics.”

“You’re holding a sleeping baby,” Rio replied cheerfully, already flipping through pages. “Which means you’re perfectly stationary. No excuses.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “This feels suspiciously like hazing.”

“It’s enrichment,” Rio said, winking. “For young minds and cranky wives.”

“You’re both monsters.”

Nicky was already bouncing in his seat. “Okay, okay! I’ll go first!”

He flipped rapidly through the pages, then paused dramatically. “Okay—what has hands but can’t clap?”

Agatha arched an eyebrow, lips twitching. “That one’s easy. A clock.”

“Correct!” Nicky beamed. “Okay next—um…what has a neck but no head?”

Rio leaned forward. “A bottle.”

“Dang. You guys are too good. Okay okay—this one’s harder. You’re going down, moms.” He turned a few more pages. “Alright. I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?”

Agatha and Rio exchanged a look.

“Hmm,” Rio said, narrowing her eyes. “I know this one.”

“So do I,” Agatha muttered, though her gaze had sharpened, now fully engaged. “Give me a moment.”

Nicky grinned like he was holding a treasure map. “You’re both going to get it wrong.”

“Excuse me,” Agatha said, lifting a brow with the air of a woman presented with a dissertation topic. “Do you know who you’re dealing with? I once translated a 14th-century Latin manuscript of medieval poetry while breastfeeding you, young man.”

Rio looked at her starry-eyes. “I bet it was super hot.”

Agatha sniffed. “Flattery will not earn you a clue.”

Nicky, completely unfazed, tapped the book like a game show host. “Your final answer, contestants?”

Agatha inhaled. “An echo.”

Nicky’s mouth fell open. “WHAT? How did you know?”

Rio laughed and pointed at Agatha. “See? I told you Mama’s brain is scary.”

Agatha tilted her head with exaggerated seriousness. “We have a genius on board,” she said, nodding to Nicky. “He made us both think.”

“I did!” Nicky said proudly, puffing up like a balloon. “That was one of the hard ones.”

“You’re getting better at choosing them,” Rio said, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Now you’ve got to find one that even Mama can’t answer.”

“That’s impossible,” Nicky said, pointing at Agatha as if she were a mythological creature. “She’s like… a brain dragon.”

Agatha tilted her head in approval. “Acceptable title.”

Violet stirred a little, mumbling in her sleep, and Agatha gently rubbed her back in slow, calming circles.

“Okay, my turn!” Rio said, taking the book and flipping through. “Hmm… What has one eye but can’t see?”

Nicky thought hard, squinting like a detective. “Ummm…” He tapped his fingers against the edge of the table, deep in thought. “One eye but can’t… see…”

“You’ve got this,” Rio said, pointing at him encouragingly, bouncing her brows like a gameshow host hyping up a contestant.

“Is it… a needle?” Nicky said, uncertain but hopeful.

“YES!!” Rio declared triumphantly, slapping the table like she’d just announced a bingo.

Nicky fist-pumped the air, utterly victorious. “Let’s GO!”

Agatha rolled her eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “You two are going to riddle me all the way through grief, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Rio said immediately. “It’s called balance. Coping through nonsense.”

Agatha snorted softly. “Truly the most sophisticated grief strategy.”

Rio leaned closer to her, her voice softening just a bit. “You’d be surprised how far a good fruit snack and a bad pun can carry you.

Nicky, still high on riddle glory, dove into the snack bag and pulled out a pouch with dramatic flair. “Balance tastes like fruit snacks,” he declared, tearing it open with exaggerated intensity.

The train lulled into a rhythmic hush again, the countryside now blurring past in quiet green-gold streaks. Violet stirred once, whimpered in her sleep, then resettled herself with her head tucked against Agatha’s collarbone and the jingly butterfly still clenched tightly in her chubby fist.

Nicky was bouncing lightly in his seat again.

“Okay, okay,” he said, leaning across to Agatha. “Now you teach me something cool.”

Agatha quirked a brow. “Cool?”

“Yeah! Something impressive. Like, something I can say at school and everyone will go ‘woah.’”

Rio laughed. “You want Mama to arm you with dramatic knowledge.”

Nicky nodded solemnly. “Yes. I want to sound like a mysterious wizard.”

Agatha let out a thoughtful hum, then shifted Violet slightly to free one hand and tapped two fingers against Nicky’s knee. “Very well, young scribe. Let’s start with Latin.”

Nicky gasped. “Latin?! Is that what wizards speak?!”

“It’s what old wizards speak,” Agatha said, her mouth twitching. “Also priests, philosophers, and every self-important academic I’ve ever debated at a conference.”

Rio snorted. “She’s not kidding. There was one guy from Oxford who started quoting Virgil at her and she just—obliterated him.”

“He opened with ‘Vox populi, vox Dei’,” Agatha muttered with disdain. “Like I wouldn’t notice it wasn’t from Virgil at all.”

Nicky blinked like he was hearing prophecies. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Then pay attention.” Agatha leaned closer, keeping her voice smooth and measured, almost like a spell. “Repeat after me. Mater dulcissima.”

Nicky tilted his head. “Mater… dool…?”

“Dul-cis-si-ma,” she said again, slower. “Let each syllable roll off your tongue.”

“Mater dulcissima,” Nicky repeated, more carefully this time.

“Again.”

“Mater dulcissima!”

Agatha nodded once, regal. “Very good. It means… ‘sweetest mother.’”

Nicky turned immediately, beaming, and looked at Rio.

“MATER DULCISSIMA!!”

Rio froze mid-sip from her water bottle, eyes going wide—then she lit up, grinning so wide her cheeks ached. “Ohhh, I like that one.”

He flung his arms around her with the chaos of a puppy. “Sweetest mother!! That’s you!!”

“Oh my god,” she laughed, ruffling his hair. “Flatter me more, my son.”

Agatha shook her head, though there was clear amusement in her eyes. “That was far too easy.”

“I’m a sucker for languages,” Rio said. “Especially when they come with enthusiastic hugs and my wife speaking them.”

“Teach me more!” Nicky said. “More Latin!”

Rio adjusted her seat so she was shoulder-to-shoulder with Agatha now, leaning in as well. “Wait, my turn. If he’s going to be bilingual, he’s going to be bifabulous.”

Nicky let out a gleeful giggle. “Is that a real word?”

“It is now,” Rio declared, with the authority of someone who rewrites dictionaries on vibes alone. “Language is a living thing, darling. And fabulousness is mandatory in this family.”

Agatha shook her head faintly, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “I swear, you two are a chaotic spellbook.”

Rio cleared her throat. “Repeat after me, young apprentice: Draco numquam dormit.”

Nicky squinted, trying to imitate her tone. “Draco… num…qum…?”

“Num- quam,” Rio corrected gently, stretching the syllables. “Like a dragon humming and then quacking.”

“That’s not how Latin works,” Agatha murmured.

“It’s mnemonic wizardry,” Rio shot back. “Let me have this.”

Nicky tried again, slower this time. “Draco… numquam… dormit.”

Rio clapped. “Perfect. 10/10 pronunciation. I award you your first honorary School of Classics diploma.”

“Yesss,” Nicky whispered, pumping his fist. “What does it mean?”

Rio grinned. “The dragon never sleeps.”

Nicky’s eyes grew round. “That’s… so cool.”

Agatha side-eyed Rio, amused. “That one was purely for dramatic effect, wasn’t it?”

“Obviously. I’m trying to raise a bilingual and bitheatrical child.”

Nicky was practically vibrating. “Give me another! Something intense!”

Rio nodded, steepling her fingers like the professor she was, or an impression of her dear wife. “Alright. Repeat after me again. This one’s English, but it’s sacred.” She paused, voice low and ominous. “Fear is the mind-killer.”

Nicky sat up straight, eyes glowing with seriousness. “Fear is the mind-killer!”

Agatha narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “Did you just quote Dune at him?”

Rio didn’t even blink. “He’s my child. He must be trained.”

Agatha sighed like a woman who had expected this exact moment since the day Rio first held their son in a library. “Dear god.”

“I’m instilling the classics,” Rio said proudly. “You teach him Latin. I teach him spice philosophy and resistance tactics.”

“He’s eight.”

“Exactly. Prime age.”

Nicky looked between them, delighted. “Can I say fear is the mind-killer at school?”

“No,” Agatha said firmly.

“Yes,” Rio said at the same time.

They paused. Then looked at each other.

“He can say it if he only calls you mater dulcissima when you go pick him up,” Agatha amended, regal and unbothered. “Nothing else from now on.”

“I accept those terms,” Rio said, sticking out her pinky.

They sealed it with a solemn pinky shake over Violet’s sleeping head.

Nicky, meanwhile, repeated both phrases under his breath like spells he needed to memorize before going into battle. “Draco numquam dormit… Fear is the mind-killer… Mater dulcissima…”

Then  Rio grinned. “Now it’s your turn again, Dr. Harkness.”

Agatha considered for a moment, her fingers slowly trailing patterns against Violet’s soft back, until she spoke again—gently now. “I think,” she said at last, “it’s time we taught him a poem.”

Nicky immediately sat up straighter, crumbs of fruit snack dust on his hoodie. “Ooh. Like a real one?”

“A short one,” Rio clarified, already turning toward Agatha, her elbow brushing hers. “We’ll all learn it together.”

She held Agatha’s gaze for a beat longer. “One of ours?”

Agatha’s nod was almost imperceptible, but entirely sure. “Yes,” she murmured. “One of ours.”

Rio started, her voice soft and rhythmic:

“The world is full of magic things,”

Agatha followed without missing a beat:

“Patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

Nicky blinked. “Who wrote that?”

“W.B. Yeats,” Agatha said simply, as though his name were an old friend she still wrote letters to.

“But you can pretend it’s from a spellbook,” Rio added, giving Nicky’s side a little nudge. “It sounds like one, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he said in a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell.

He closed his eyes dramatically and raised one finger in the air like a stage magician. “Again. Wait—let me try.”

He scrunched up his entire face like he was doing math in his head, then said carefully:

“The world is full of… magic things…”

“Good.” Rio murmured.

“…patiently waiting for… our senses… to grow… sharper!”

He looked up at them, triumphant.

Agatha smiled slowly and proudly. “Fast learner. It took Josh three weeks to remember it.”

“Josh has a lot going on in his head,” Rio added diplomatically, trying not to laugh.

Nicky puffed up with pride, his whole body swaying side to side with the force of his smile.

Rio leaned over and kissed the crown of his head, fingers threading through his curls then tapping his lips. “Your brain is a sponge, and your tongue is a sword. You’re unstoppable.”

Nicky beamed even harder, nearly falling sideways into her lap. “Can we do more poetry?”

“Later,” Agatha said, smoothing Violet’s back again. “We’ll teach you one more when we’re almost there.”

“Why not now?” he asked, blinking innocently.

“Because good words need space,” Agatha answered. “Like seeds in a garden. Let these grow roots first. Let the meaning settle.”

Nicky nodded seriously like she’d just given him ancient wisdom, then tucked himself against Rio’s side and murmured the poem to himself again, over and over. Like it was a charm he didn’t want to forget.

And Agatha sat there, Violet breathing softly against her chest, Nicky whispering Yeats into the folds of Rio’s sweater, and thought—not for the first time—how strange and marvelous it was to live a life she once thought impossible.

To raise children who asked to learn her languages. Who asked to know. Who carried her grief in the lightest way possible—by making room for it without fear.

For a while, there was only quiet. Nicky was now leaning fully against Rio, his legs over her lap, thumbing through his riddle book with a half-full mouth of fruit snacks, and Agatha kept one hand curled protectively over Violet’s back from across them. The little one had shifted once or twice in her sleep, letting out sleepy sighs, but she hadn’t woken—

Until the train took a subtle jolt.

Violet blinked awake with a tiny sound—something between a question and a whine—and lifted her head groggily, pigtails tousled like little horns. Her cheeks were flushed from sleep, and her lashes fluttered against her skin like she’d been dreaming of faraway things. She blinked at Agatha, then at the window, and finally at her own hand, still tightly gripping the jingly butterfly.

“Maaaa,” she mumbled, poking Agatha’s collarbone.

Agatha smiled softly, brushing her hair back. “Hello, little one.”

Violet blinked at her, expression serious—like she was deciding whether to forgive the world for waking her.

Then, in true toddler fashion, she straightened abruptly with all the coordination of a startled duck, limbs wobbly and wild, nearly bonking her head into Agatha’s chin in the process.

“Vivi’s up,” Rio announced cheerfully, kissing the top of Nicky’s head as she reached for the tote bag. “Which means… it’s time for the train picnic.”

“Train picnic!” Nicky whooped.

Agatha exhaled a small laugh. “It’s hardly a picnic,” she said as Violet climbed awkwardly into her lap, her butterfly now dangling from two fingers 

“It’s exactly a picnic,” Rio replied as she began unpacking their little stash: quartered sandwiches, sliced apples in a beeswax wrap, cucumber sticks, two tiny wheels of cheese, pretzels, and Violet’s personal snack pouch of mashed avocado in a spill-proof container that had never actually lived up to the promise.

They spread everything out on the fold-down tray between the four facing seats, napkins and snack packs and little folded spoons laid out with ridiculous care. Violet’s eyes grew wide at the sight of her container, and she made a delighted squeal.

“She’s going to make a mess,” Agatha warned.

“She’s going to live her truth,” Rio corrected, digging out a wipe preemptively.

Violet immediately reached for the avocado, stuck her fingers into the container, and smeared a generous amount across the front of Agatha’s charcoal blazer.

“Ah,” Agatha said mildly, not even flinching. “There it is.”

“Well… that was fast,” Rio laughed, grabbing the wipe. “You’ve been marked.”

“Marked for death by guacamole.”

Nicky howled with laughter. “Mama’s got slime on her shoulder!!”

Agatha looked down at her sleeve, then calmly raised her eyes to Rio. “I am going to a funeral. With a green shoulder.”

Rio was still laughing, blotting ineffectively at the mess while Violet attempted to help by smearing more onto the tray table.

“It’s avant-garde mourning,” Rio said between giggles. “You’re a trendsetter. The fashion world is shaking.”

“I’m going to smell like lime and humiliation.”

“You smell like motherhood,” Rio said fondly, dabbing at the green blotch. “Besides, no one’s going to care what you’re wearing.”

“I was aiming for restrained dignity.”

“And now you’re bringing color to grief,” Rio replied with a wink. “You’re adding dimension.”

Violet made a pleased gurgle and held up her fist triumphantly, a single triangle of sandwich sticking to her fingers.

“Dulcissima minae, dulcissima filia,” Agatha muttered, giving Violet a dry look. “My sweetest menace, my sweetest daughter.”

Rio grinned. “Now that’s Latin I can get behind.”

They ate together, with too many crumbs and too many napkins and Violet absolutely dropping her cheese on the floor twice, but it was perfect in the strange way family things are perfect. Imperfect. Warm. A mess you’d never trade for anything.

At one point, Nicky reached across the table and offered Agatha an apple slice like a cartoon waiter. “For you, my lady,” he said, voice going high and fancy.

Agatha didn’t even blink. She accepted the slice with a nod that would’ve made the late Queen Elizabeth proud. “Thank you, kind sir,” she said, biting into it—her shoulder still streaked in green.

Rio leaned back and watched them with a quiet contentment.

There was something about this scene—this tiny table, this mess of snacks and elbows and baby food, all of it enclosed in a humming train car slicing across the countryside—that made the whole day feel more bearable.

After snack time, the little train picnic gradually dissolved into crumbs and crumpled napkins, and Rio made a quiet show of packing everything back into the tote with one hand while keeping the other arm around Violet’s waist. The baby was now content again, full and sticky, and leaning lazily against her mommy with the satisfying heaviness of a well-fed toddler.

The train rocked gently. Outside, the scenery had changed—open fields and stone fences gave way to low hills, blurred tree lines, sleepy towns stitched together by telephone wires and wildflowers.

Nicky, sitting upright for the last half hour narrating every interesting tree and bridge, had gone quiet. His hand drifted to his lap, and his legs—getting longer by the month—stretched across the floor. There was a flicker of hesitation on his face, the kind that often passed over him now in this in-between age, torn between growing up and still wanting to be small sometimes.

Agatha looked up from the window just in time to see him shift. Without a word, he leaned over and climbed into her lap, legs curling sideways awkwardly, head resting gently against her chest.

He was almost too tall now. She had to angle her body just slightly to hold him the way she used to. But she didn’t protest. She only gathered him into her arms with a familiarity so deep it bypassed language. Her chin found the top of his curls.

For a long moment, they just breathed together.

Then, softly, from somewhere in the space between the window and her coat, Nicky murmured, “How was Aunt Eugenia nice to you?”

Agatha stilled.

Then she kissed his hair, her lips lingering longer than they needed to.

“She’s the one who taught me to read when I was very little,” she said quietly. “Before school. Before I knew what reading even really was.”

Nicky looked up a little, just his eyes. “Like, with books?”

“Yes,” she said. “But not the ones my mother approved of. Not religious books, or anything with rules. Eugenia had this old, creaky shelf full of mysteries, and poems, and history books, and stories about women with swords. She said they were the kind of books that made her feel something, and she thought I deserved to feel something too.”

Nicky blinked, listening hard.

“She used to sit me in the sunniest chair by the window,” Agatha continued, her voice lower now, like the memory still lived close to her skin. “And she’d let me pick any book I wanted. She never told me I was too young. She never said it was too complicated. She’d just read it to me. Until one day, I started reading aloud with her. And she smiled.”

Clever girl.

Rio, seated across from them, had gone very still.

She was gently brushing out Violet’s dark tufts of hair with her fingers, redoing the tiny, slightly crooked pigtails that had survived lunch. Violet’s body was already relaxing into her again, eyelids drooping in time with Rio’s rhythm, her thumb back in her mouth. But Rio’s eyes were on Agatha.

On the softness that had taken over her wife’s face. The way her hand kept smoothing over Nicky’s back with absent-minded devotion. The way her voice had gone quieter, as if brushing up against something tender and old.

Rio swallowed gently.

“I didn’t think much of it then,” Agatha went on. “Not really. I just knew that with her, I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to be a version of myself that pleased anyone.”

“Like… you could be loud or weird and she didn’t care?”

“Exactly,” Agatha said. “I could be loud. I could ask questions. I could want things. She didn’t look at me like I was too much or not enough. She just listened. That alone… that was kindness. But she was stern and strict too. In a good way.”

Nicky pressed his face into her sweater again.

“I think I would’ve liked her,” he said softly.

Agatha’s throat ached, but she nodded. “I think she would’ve liked you very much.”

Beside them, Rio tied the last loop of Violet’s hair tie and gave the soft crown of her daughter’s head a kiss. The baby, warm from food and sun and steady motion, blinked sleepily once—then slumped peacefully into Rio’s arms, cheek against her chest, breath, not asleep but Rio could feel it coming. Rio curled her arms around her gently, swaying with the movement of the train, her eyes still on her wife and son.

Agatha rested her cheek against Nicky’s curls.

The moment was still. Whole. A memory in the making.

A still point.

Eventually, Nicky stirred again.

His legs had gone a little numb, and though he didn’t want to move from Agatha’s arms, he gave a reluctant sigh and slowly peeled himself off her lap, pressing a quick kiss to her shoulder like he had seen Mom do so many times, before slipping back into his seat.

“I’m gonna read now,” he said, like it was an announcement, and grabbed his riddle book as if rejoining an important mission.

“Good plan,” Rio murmured, smiling after him.

He flopped back against the window, his fingers already flipping pages, lips moving in silent rhythm to whatever puzzle held his mind this time. Outside, the countryside slid by like a dream — open skies, blurred trees, the occasional farmhouse nestled against hills that looked half-asleep.

As he read, Violet, who had been half-dreaming against Rio’s chest like a koala, began to stir again with soft whines and clumsy movements.

Then, like a tiny determined creature on a mission, she stretched herself sideways—half-rolling, half-flopping—until she ended up sprawled across both her mothers’ laps. Her cheek pressed against Agatha’s thigh, her feet kicking softly against Rio’s hip.

It was, as always, a very precise and very chaotic form of nap math: not one lap, not the other—both. Because why choose, when you were allowed to belong to two people at once?

Agatha adjusted instantly, her arms curving around Violet’s body without a word. One hand cradled the back of her daughter’s head, guiding it gently into the crook of her thigh, while the other stroked her small shoulder tenderly. Violet let out a breathy hum of approval and promptly went limp again, one sticky hand gripping the edge of Agatha’s blouse like a security blanket.

“She’s back under,” Rio whispered, smiling softly, her fingers brushing the chubby curve of Violet’s calf. The baby’s frilly sock had slipped halfway down, revealing a dimpled ankle. Rio tugged it gently back into place, then let her hand stay there, resting lightly over her daughter’s legs. With her other hand free, she reached for Agatha’s arm and leaned into her side, letting her head rest gently against her wife’s shoulder.

Agatha’s fingers found one of Violet’s soft little pigtails and slowly began twirling it around her finger, absentmindedly, like a ribbon she couldn’t quite put down.

Rio’s hand remained gently wrapped around Violet’s calves, thumb making slow, reassuring circles against her socked foot.

Their daughter gave a sigh in her sleep—small, instinctive—and flexed her toes, nestling deeper into the space between them.

Across from them, Nicky was entirely in his world. His little brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth curling into a silent “aha!” every now and then when he solved something. His legs swung occasionally against the seat. He didn’t notice them watching.

Agatha watched him anyway, something soft and unreadable in her eyes.

Rio didn’t speak. She just pressed her cheek closer to Agatha’s shoulder, letting the motion of the train lull them into a shared quiet. Their bodies touched at every place they could — hip to hip, shoulder to cheek, hands linked on the resting weight of Violet between them.

There was grief still to come. A room full of memories and strangers, a church that might still smell like dust and tea, a woman who lived in their lives like a shadow of kindness in a long dark corridor.

But that wasn’t now.

Now was this: the soft weight of a toddler asleep across their laps, the glow of their boy with his head in a book, the golden hush of a train car full of quiet travelers.

A moment of warmth. Of stillness. A pause before everything.

“I’m glad we all came,” Rio murmured, not needing a reply.

Agatha didn’t answer with words. She just tilted her head, rested it gently on top of Rio’s, and let herself breathe.

*

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Chapter Text

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The train began to slow.

It was subtle at first — just the quiet groan of metal on metal, the way the scenery outside began to settle into more recognizable shapes: roads, houses, lampposts, a faded playground.

Nicky looked up from his book, blinking, his mouth still slightly open mid-riddle. Rio gently shifted Violet upright against her shoulder, murmuring softly to keep her from startling or waking up too fast. The toddler blinked once, then closed her eyes again, nestled in close.

Agatha had not spoken in several minutes.

She sat straighter now, spine taut, blazer rebuttoned where Violet’s avocado had been scrubbed away earlier. Her gaze was fixed on the window, but not on what passed beyond it. She wasn’t seeing the station platform, or the line of cabs, or the flower shop at the corner where a boy in a red cap arranged sunflowers in a bucket.

She was somewhere else.

The train hissed as it came to a final halt. Passengers stirred. There was the soft rustle of bags lifted from racks, of jackets pulled on, shoes scuffing to stand. Agatha reached for her bag first, silent and efficient. Nicky followed her movements, clutching his book under one arm like a treasure. Rio kissed Violet’s temple and stood too, adjusting the toddler’s weight on her hip. Their girl was awake but quiet, content to watch the world with big dark eyes and the occasional sleepy babble.

It didn’t take them long to disembark. The platform wasn’t crowded — just a few people heading in different directions, some to cars, others toward the quiet town nestled behind the station. The air smelled of earth and brick and something faintly metallic, like rain was still lurking in the corners of the sky.

Behind them, Nicky looked around with open curiosity. “It’s small,” he whispered.

“It’s quiet,” Rio agreed, rubbing Violet’s back. “Some towns like to whisper instead of shout.”

Violet made a soft hiccupping sound and pressed her face into Rio’s jacket.

Agatha looked out beyond the parking lot, past the crooked lampposts and the uneven sidewalk. Beyond the bakery with its familiar faded sign. Toward the street she’d once walked down a thousand times and sworn she never would again.

And yet—here she was.

She didn’t speak. But she did take one small step forward.

Just one.

And her family moved with her.

They made their way down the street.

It wasn’t a long walk—maybe three blocks—but time seemed to stretch with each step. The road narrowed as they went, flanked by houses that had long since given up trying to look new. Paint peeled like sunburnt skin. Yards were patchy, fences leaning in exhaustion, and telephone lines sagged between poles like string caught in the wind. A single red tricycle sat abandoned on a porch with a missing step.

They passed a corner store with fogged windows and a hand-painted sign that read OPEN in letters that hadn’t been repainted in years. A bell chimed faintly from within. Just beyond it stood a secondhand bookstore with books stacked in the windows like forgotten treasures. The front door was warped at the bottom, and the display hadn’t changed in what looked like decades—Dickens, Frost, a cookbook from 1974.

Nicky spotted a black cat curled in a windowsill and tugged gently on Agatha’s hand. “Mama, look,” he whispered, pointing. “It’s watching us.”

Agatha didn’t answer.

She was walking just slightly ahead now, her steps quiet but precise, like each footfall had already been decided. Her back was straight, jaw set, coat closed tightly around her. She held Nicky’s hand still—but not in a way that pulled. Just a tether. A silent stay close. A quiet instruction not to break the moment with noise.

Rio saw it all. Every small signal. Every practiced breath.

They turned a corner—and there it was.

The old church.

It stood exactly as Agatha remembered it—weatherworn, solemn, with whitewashed wood that had grayed at the edges from time and storms. The front steps stretched wide and low, worn down by decades of hesitant feet. Agatha imagined she could still hear the creak of every board—each one remembering the weight of her as a child.

The pointed windows were tall and narrow, stained glass muted by dust and rain. They stared out like old eyes. Watchful. Unforgiving. The heavy wooden doors loomed at the top of the stairs, thick and sealed tight, as if they remembered the secrets locked behind them.

Agatha stopped.

Her hand, still clasped with Nicky’s, tightened.

She said nothing. Her face was unreadable—calm, but only on the surface honed by years of practice, from schooling every reaction, from learning as a girl that emotion had consequences.

Rio watched her carefully.

She came to stand just beside her, shifting Violet slightly so she could reach out and rest a hand—gently, quietly—on Agatha’s back. Not pushing. Just there. A steady presence, soft and grounding.

Violet, nestled in the crook of Rio’s arm, stared up at the church too, oblivious to the quiet current between the adults. Her little purple dress fluttered faintly with the breeze, and the white stars stitched into the fabric seemed to catch what little light there was. She pointed at one of the windows and chirped, “Da!” with delighted curiosity, tugging on Rio’s necklace with her free hand.

She didn’t know what this place was.

She didn’t know the weight of its walls, or what it had taken for Agatha to come back.

But Agatha knew.

She looked up at the doors again, her jaw tightening, breath steadying in her chest.

Rio shifted ever so slightly, aligning her steps with Agatha’s without making a show of it. She didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just matched her wife’s rhythm like she always did—without needing to be told how.

And then, slowly, Agatha took a step forward toward the church that had once held her silence like a cage.

They hadn’t even reached the church steps before the first figure emerged from the doorway.

Margaret. Eudora’s daughter. Agatha’s cousin.

Agatha spotted her before she said a word—before the voice, before the greeting, before the brittle civility. She recognized the tilt of her head, that unmistakable cocktail of curiosity and disdain. The same expression she’d worn as a girl when inspecting a stain on someone else’s dress. Her pearl earrings swung slightly with her movement, catching the overcast light like they were trying too hard, and she wore a long black coat buttoned all the way to her throat, as if unfastening it would be some moral compromise.

She stood just inside the threshold like she’d been waiting there for hours, perfectly framed by the door. Her husband—tall, stiff, and upholstered in a forgettable black suit—hovered a step behind her. Her children were fanned out in a neat line beside them, four of them, ascending in height like a set of Russian dolls: boy, girl, boy, girl. Perfect hair. Polished shoes. Blank, well-mannered faces. Unsettlingly quiet for their ages.

Agatha stopped walking.

So did Rio.

Violet, still in her arms, blinked once and let out a quiet “Uh oh,” like a small animal sensing a coming storm.

Then Margaret moved—slowly, gracefully, like she had practiced every step of this descent. She came down the church steps as though she owned the building, or the memory it contained, or the rights to the grief inside it.

“Agatha,” she said, voice crisp and bone-dry, like a white napkin folded too tightly. “You made it.”

Agatha’s back straightened almost imperceptibly. Her grip on Nicky’s hand tightened. The reply she gave was cool, polished, perfect. Not a greeting--an assertion.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” she said, her tone deceptively even. “Aunt Eugenia meant a great deal to me. I’m sure she did to you as well.”

Margaret smiled, thin as a paper cut. “Naturally,” she said.

A silence bloomed between them. Not awkward. Worse: intentional.

Margaret’s eyes traveled — not warmly, not with welcome — but with that scanning judgment that had been honed across generations.

Her gaze landed on Rio first.

Rio, beautiful and unbothered, stood steady with Violet on one hip, her dark braid messy from the wind and her jacket maybe a little too informal for such an event. Her eyes were calm, unreadable—but the curve of her mouth held just the faintest, deliberate smile. She shifted her weight slightly, protectively, and her fingers curled around Violet’s back like she might need to draw her closer at a moment’s notice.

Then came Nicky.

He stood at Agatha’s side, curls wind-swept and a little wild, one shoe untied, holding his riddle book like it might shield him from adult discomfort. But his eyes were sharp, curious. Unafraid. He looked straight at Margaret, then past her, toward the church, and back again, as though measuring whether any of this was worth the chill in the air.

And finally—Margaret looked at Agatha again.

But not as if seeing her.

As if comparing her to some mental list of rumors, half-truths, and things overheard at dinner parties over the years. Looking for evidence. Looking for proof that Agatha had, indeed, become exactly the person they whispered about in kitchens after she’d left.

Agatha didn’t flinch. She gestured calmly.

“This is my wife, Rio. And our children, Nicholas and Violet.”

Margaret’s mouth twitched.

Not a smile. Something else.

“Ah. Of course. I’ve heard… things.”

Her voice hung in the air like the faint trace of a sour smell.

Before Agatha could reply, Rio beat her to it.

Her smile widened—charming, serene, the perfect weapon of a woman who had long since mastered the art of disarming with grace.

“Probably true,” she said warmly.

Violet burbled something bright and curious, her chubby finger pointing toward the brooch fastened to Margaret’s coat. A flower, maybe? A bird? Whatever it was, it glittered faintly in the gray morning light, and Violet made a delighted sound like she’d just discovered a new treasure.

Margaret did not smile at her.

She didn’t even soften.

Instead, she tilted her head. Her eyes flicked from Violet’s face to her purple dress to the little bow around one of her pigtails. Then she said, voice clipped and cool, “So this is the baby. Such a… modern arrangement.”

The pause around modern held the weight of several generations of disapproval.

Violet blinked up at her, unbothered. She yawned and let her head drop against Rio’s chest, thumb moving toward her mouth in quiet retreat.

Margaret’s gaze shifted next to Nicky again.

She looked too long. Not like an aunt seeing a beloved nephew. Like a scientist trying to identify the origin of something unfamiliar. Like a woman trying to calculate what part of the past had bled into the present.

“And he must be from… before,” she said, the word landing like a nail dropped on glass.

Before.

Not before you met Rio. Not before the wedding. Not before you fell too far to be saved. Just before—as if Nicky were a leftover. A relic. Something held over. An accident not erased.

A footnote.

Agatha’s fingers, still clasped around his, tensed—barely—but enough that Nicky looked up at her. She moved instinctively, stepping slightly in front of him, placing both hands on his shoulders. Protective. Possessive. Certain.

Her voice came low and clean. A polished blade.

“He’s ours.”

Not yours. Not mine. Not the past.

Ours.

Nicky, oblivious to the undercurrent, looked up at his Mama with that trust only children have and leaned his head briefly against her arm.

Rio adjusted Violet in her arms, hand on her back. Her gaze on Margaret was calm. Steady. Dangerous, if one knew how to read it.

Margaret blinked. Her expression faltered for half a second — just a flicker — before snapping back into something polished and brittle. “Well,” she said, turning slightly toward the church door, “I’m sure everyone will be glad you’re here.”

Agatha didn’t answer.

Just as they reached the top step, Margaret turned with rehearsed grace, her voice a little too bright, like brittle glass held up to the light.

“Children,” she said crisply, without looking to see if they were paying attention. “Come introduce yourselves to your cousin Agatha and her… family.”

The children shifted forward as one, trained and silent. Four of them, stair-stepped in height like someone had lined them up according to birth order with a ruler. They were dressed identically in stiff, joyless formality—charcoal-gray coats, neat pleats and polished shoes, hair pulled back or parted with mechanical precision. Even their accessories matched: small silver pins shaped like crosses or anchors, pinned like badges of institutional belonging that looked like they came from the same catalogue of Funerals & Repression, Volume I… The kind of matching that didn’t say “family picture day” so much as “we expect someone important to die regularly.”

They looked like chess pieces. Pawns. Or witnesses. Or warnings.

Margaret rested a carefully manicured hand on the shoulder of the tallest boy.

“This is Archibald,” she announced, as though reading from a program. “He’s fifteen. He’ll be applying to St. Augustine’s next year.”

Archibald nodded—once, shallowly. It was a movement so practiced it may as well have come from muscle memory rather than will. His posture was impeccable, his expression unreadable in that dull, elite-school-boy way that said I am above this, but I will endure it for credit. His tie was knotted too tightly against his throat, and his eyes flicked over Agatha’s family without interest, already halfway back to his internal monologue about classical rhetoric or rowing schedules.

Agatha inclined her head back, matching his reserve with quiet diplomacy. She knew that look. She had been that look once.

Margaret turned to the next child.

“And Grace. She’s thirteen. Very active in the choir.”

Grace stepped forward with a ghost of a smile, more polite than personal. Her features were sharp—cheekbones inherited from Margaret, and eyes that didn’t quite look at anyone. She held her hands neatly clasped in front of her and said, “Pleased to meet you,” in a voice that might as well have been dubbed in post-production.

Agatha offered a small, warm smile anyway, one that was genuine even if unreciprocated. She saw the brittleness there—the performance, the subtle hunger to be right, correct, accepted. She recognized it. She pitied it.

Behind her, Rio adjusted Violet’s dress for what felt like the sixth time, brushing crumbs from her sleeve and smoothing her skirt down with automatic gentleness. “Nice to meet you too,” she said kindly. Violet, oblivious, waved a hand and murmured “Ayy!” with the soft enthusiasm of a child who’d just woken up from a nap and found herself in a museum.

Margaret moved on.

“And this is Edmund. Ten. Top of his class.”

Edmund gave a very solemn, very precise little bow—so serious that it nearly tipped him off balance. His shoes squeaked faintly against the church steps.

Nicky, standing beside Agatha, blinked. Then his brows went up, and the corners of his mouth quirked like he was this close to laughing. He caught Agatha’s glance, and she squeezed his shoulder gently—a silent warning. Not here. Not yet.

They were on sacred ground—not just the church steps, but the deeper terrain of Her Family. That cold-blooded space where hierarchy was spoken in glances and disappointment had its own dialect.

Agatha could already feel the air growing tighter around them. Like lace pulled too snug.

Finally, Margaret’s perfectly manicured hand landed on the shoulder of the smallest girl, standing just slightly apart from the tidy row of her siblings — not enough to provoke a correction, but enough to register. There was something in the set of her jaw that said she knew she didn’t belong in the lineup, and maybe didn’t want to.

“And this is Theodora,” Margaret said, the name pronounced with clipped finality. “Eight years old.”

“Thea,” the girl muttered under her breath, chin tucked slightly down, not quite under her mother’s radar.

Margaret’s eyes narrowed. The air dropped a degree.

“What was that?” she asked, voice soft but sharp, the way one only gets good at by practicing it behind closed doors.

Theodora blinked slowly, then straightened like a soldier about to be inspected. “Theodora,” she repeated louder, but her tone was unmistakably edged with this is dumb and I know it. It wasn’t rebellion, exactly. Just boredom with the whole charade. Her sleeves were too tight, and the collar of her dress was tugging at her neck. She itched. It was obvious in the tiny twitch of her fingers, in the resigned way her toes curled inside her shiny black shoes. Her blonde hair had been scraped into a tight braid that was already beginning to fuzz at the temples, flyaways popping up like they were staging a quiet revolt. And just near her left temple—faint but visible—were the silvery streaks of dried tears. She’d cried earlier. And now she looked like she had absolutely no intention of crying again.

She was past caring. But not past resisting.

Margaret’s jaw twitched. She leaned slightly down, placed two fingers at the base of Theodora’s spine, and whispered, just audible enough, “And stop slouching.”

Theodora obeyed—but not like a child cowed into good behavior. She snapped upright dramatically, thrusting her shoulders back and puffing her chest out like a cartoon soldier, chin lifted almost mockingly. Then, with the smallest movement—quick and invisible to her mother—she rolled her eyes, very subtly, just to the side.

Not enough to draw a scolding.

But enough that Rio saw it. And smirked.

She liked her immediately.

Still holding Violet steady on her hip, Rio shifted her stance just a bit and offered Theodora a slow, approving wink, like they were already in on the same joke. Violet, picking up the change in mood, let out a little chirp of laughter and reached for Theodora’s braid like it was the most interesting thing on the planet.

Theodora blinked, startled—then smiled. Just a little. Just with one corner of her mouth. But it was the only real smile anyone had seen on that step so far.

Agatha, standing beside them, caught the whole thing too. She didn’t smile outright—her expression remained neutral, carefully unreadable. But there was the faintest flicker of something in her eyes: amusement, perhaps. Recognition.

She dipped her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment that was far more sincere than Margaret’s entire introduction.

“It’s good to meet all of you,” she said, calm and clear, her voice carrying just enough warmth to reach the children—and only them.

Theodora didn’t reply. But her eyes stayed on Agatha’s for a second longer than necessary. Just long enough to say I see you too.

And then she stepped back in line—just barely. Not enough to please her mother.

Just enough not to be corrected again.

Margaret exhaled slowly, visibly restraining herself from adjusting Theodora’s posture again.

Rio glanced at her sideways, all gentleness and knives.

Nicky stepped forward, still clutching Agatha’s hand, his curls tousled from the wind and his coat slightly crooked where it hadn’t been zipped all the way. But he stood tall, steady in the way only Nicky could be—shoulders back, heart open, absolutely himself.

With that quiet, earnest charm that somehow never felt rehearsed, he offered, “Hi. I’m Nicky. I’m eight too. I like trains and riddles and science. And sandwiches.”

He gave Theodora a small, hopeful smile at the end, like maybe sandwiches might be common ground.

Theodora glanced sideways at him—cool, unimpressed, expression unreadable. But there was a flicker of something behind her eyes. Not delight, exactly. But interest. Curiosity. Recognition. The sortt that comes when a kid who’s learned to be wary suddenly meets someone who just… doesn’t seem to be trying too hard.

She nodded once. The tiniest acknowledgment. And that was enough for Nicky, who took it in stride with a quiet sort of pride and shifted slightly closer to his mama. None of the other children seemed to acknwoledge him.

“This is Violet,” Rio said then, voice warm, tilting her arm just enough to let the toddler peek out properly from her shoulder. Violet was still holding onto her necklace like it was a lifeline, but she looked up, blinking her big eyes, suddenly realizing she was being introduced.

“She’s one,” Rio added, with a soft grin. “She likes bananas, dancing—even though she mostly falls over and can’t walk yet—and pointing at birds.”

“Bir!” Violet chirped proudly, completely unbothered that there were no birds in sight. She grinned at Theodora like they’d known each other for years, her tiny fingers reaching out vaguely toward the girl’s silver pin, fascinated by the way it caught the light.

Theodora watched her for a beat.

And then, without quite meaning to, she cracked another smile.

Not a big one. Not even a real one, maybe. Just the corner of her mouth twitching upward, like her face had momentarily forgotten to stay composed.

It lasted all of two seconds.

Margaret did not smile.

She cleared her throat—a crisp, paper-thin sound that somehow felt louder than it should—and smoothed the front of her blazer like she was wiping off something unseen. Her gaze slid across the group like a hand brushing crumbs off a table.

“Well,” she said, tone clipped and final, “I’m sure the children can… mingle later. It’s nearly time.”

She turned back toward the doors, expecting them all to follow like ducklings.

Rio leaned ever so slightly toward Agatha and whispered, “I like the little rebel. She’s got spirit.”

Agatha didn’t reply, but the edge of her mouth curved slightly, a quiet concession.

They were only a few steps from the threshold when Margaret turned again—graceful as ever, like a well-trained actress remembering her cue. The move was slow and deliberate, timed just so, as if something had just occurred to her. But it hadn’t. Not really. Not with that kind of polish in her posture. Not with that practiced lift of the chin or the smile that followed—a pristine mask, all shimmer and no sincerity.

Her gaze swept over them again, slow and appraising. Over Rio’s dark curls, now wind-tousled and spilling loose from her braid. Over the warm olive of her skin, the effortless steadiness with which she held Violet, now beginning to squirm against her shoulder with the distracted restlessness of a toddler who’d been good too long. Over Agatha’s pale, composed profile, and the way her hand hadn’t left Nicky’s for even a second.

Margaret’s smile widened. A little too bright. A little too sharp at the edges.

“I suppose it’s no surprise we weren’t invited to your wedding,” she said breezily, the words wrapped in a tone meant to sound casual—but brittle enough to snap with the wrong kind of touch. “But I imagine it must have been… very small. Intimate. No church, I suppose?”

There was a pause. A beat just long enough to let the words land where she wanted them to.

Agatha didn’t flinch.

“We wanted something peaceful,” Agatha said evenly, brushing a hand over Nicky’s curls. “And private.”

“Of course,” Margaret replied with a sigh and that same too-sweet tone. “No sense in drawing attention. I imagine it wouldn’t have been… easy for the older relatives. Seeing all of that.”

“All of that,” Rio repeated softly, almost like it was a new phrase she was trying out for the first time. Her eyes didn’t waver. She shifted Violet higher on her hip, the toddler now absently chewing on a corner of her dress. And then Rio smiled.

Slow. Gentle. Devastating.

“Oh, it was very easy,” she said, with warmth that glinted like the edge of a polished knife. “We were surrounded by people who love us. My mother was there, standing proudly at our side. Our closest friends, too. It was a real celebration. Joyful. Sacred. You’d be amazed how beautiful a wedding can be when everyone attending is genuinely happy for you.”

Margaret blinked.

Just once. A quick, subtle flutter of her lashes, as if unsure how to respond. Or perhaps surprised anyone had dared say something she hadn’t anticipated. She recovered quickly, of course—decades of social training smoothing her features like pressed linen. And then, in that familiar forward tilt of hers—never quite a confrontation, never quite an apology—she pressed on.

“Well,” she said, brushing a phantom speck from her blazer sleeve with a delicacy that implied something dirtier than lint, “I suppose that also explains why you weren’t at cousin Jackson’s wedding.”

Agatha raised a brow, slow and measured. “I wasn’t aware I needed an explanation.”

Margaret smiled again, thin as a reed. “It was… complicated. We weren’t sure if it would be comfortable.” She said, gesturing between the two women in front of her. “You know, for the rest of the family. With… everything. It just didn’t seem prudent to cause a stir.”

“A stir?” Rio repeated, amused.

“You know how older people can be,” Margaret said quickly, glancing at the children as if they might absorb the wrongness through osmosis. “We didn’t want any… scenes.”

Scenes. As if Agatha had ever caused a scene in her life that hadn’t been earned.

But before Agatha could open her mouth, Rio answered.

Still smiling. Still radiant.

“Oh, no worries at all,” she said sweetly, adjusting Violet from one hip to the other with the effortless grace of someone used to multitasking during passive-aggressive encounters. The toddler giggled, grabbing for the end of Rio’s braid like it was the most fascinating object in the worldl. “We were extremely comfortable that day.”

Margaret blinked again, confused. Rio went on.

“Nicky had ballet that morning — did the whole class in rainbow leg warmers. He insisted on wearing the sparkly ones. The teacher -- that's me by the way-- said he looked like a starburst on two legs.”

Nicky, still holding Agatha’s hand, beamed at the memory and added proudly, “I was a starburst.”

“And Violet,” Rio continued, kissing the top of the toddler’s head, “had just learned how to sit up all by herself. We were very impressed. She clapped every time someone danced, like a tiny queen approving a court performance.”

Violet, hearing her name, clapped her hands once on cue and said, “Bir!” though there were still no birds in sight.

“After class,” Rio went on, her voice still soft and pleasant but now unmistakably gleaming with something steel-bright beneath it, “we picked up sandwiches and went to the park. Nicky danced on the grass. Agatha read us poetry. We laid out a blanket. The sun was out. It was one of those perfect days that leaves no room for anything bitter.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

The silence wasn’t awkward—not for Rio, not for Agatha, and certainly not for Nicky, who had begun to hum softly under his breath, unconcerned. But Margaret stood in it, frozen just a little too long, the way someone might if they realized too late they’d stepped into the wrong conversation.

Agatha’s voice came next, quiet and composed as ever. “So no,” she said simply. “We weren’t at Jackson’s wedding.”

And for the first time, Margaret had nothing to say.

Not yet, at least.

Nicky tugged on Agatha’s sleeve twice — their unspoken signal — and leaned in, his voice barely above a breath.

“Mama…” he whispered, eyes wide, confused in the way only children could be. “Is that lady mean?”

Agatha didn’t stiffen. She didn’t glance toward Margaret. She only bent down slightly, not enough to make a scene, just enough to bring her face closer to his, her voice low and steady. Her hand stayed warm and firm around his, grounding him.

“She’s not our kind of kind, love.”

Nicky blinked, thinking that over. He nodded once, like a scholar pondering a newly learned term.

Rio raised an eyebrow, clearly catching that, and added with a little wink, “We’ll explain over cookies later.”

Nicky nodded seriously, apparently satisfied with this response, and went back to holding Agatha’s hand with a trust that didn’t need any further explanation, like nothing bad could ever happen if he was tethered to her.

Violet, meanwhile, had entirely tuned out the adult drama. She let out a third, triumphant “Bir!” — louder this time — as her eyes finally spotted a tiny decorative bird etched into the stone archway above the church doors. She pointed furiously with one sticky finger.

“Bir,” she repeated, just to be sure everyone understood she knew.

Agatha looked up to where she pointed and smiled softly, almost absently. Then she reached over and brushed the toddler’s shoe with two fingers, just a graze — a small gesture, but it helped. Just the contact. Just the reminder of hers. Her daughter. Her family.

Margaret, who had clearly expected to maintain control of the conversation, was now visibly off-rhythm. She gave a brisk little huff, like someone recovering from a stumble. “Well,” she said, sharper now, her voice snapping back into its rehearsed tone, “we should all be heading in.”

Agatha nodded once, cool and composed. “After you.”

And as Margaret turned back toward the church doors, with her husband and four solemn children trailing behind her like formal shadows, Rio leaned in slightly to whisper in Agatha’s ear.

“I’m proud of you.”

Agatha didn’t respond right away.

But her fingers found Rio’s for the briefest second — a quiet squeeze.

Then she let go, gathered herself tall, and walked inside.

Inside the church, the air was still and cool, a stillness that felt almost too complete — as if sound itself had been banished out of reverence or memory. Stained-glass windows lined the high stone walls, filtering the light into long ribbons of softened blue, amber, and pink that moved slowly across the floor like something living. The sunlight didn’t warm the space. It only dressed it up.

The scent hit her first. That same mix of old beeswax polish, dried lilies, dust, and the faintest trace of incense — just enough to summon memories whether she wanted them or not. Agatha stood still for a beat. Absorbing. The ghosts here were quiet now, but familiar. Ghosts that didn’t have to rattle chains to be felt.

The pews were gone — replaced now with rows of pale wooden chairs meant to “modernize the space,” though to Agatha, it felt like dressing a relic in department store clothes. The soul of the room hadn’t changed. The hush was still heavy, breathless. 

She guided them toward the middle rows, careful — not too close to the front, not too far back. Just far enough to avoid commentary. Too far back, and someone might assume they had something to hide. Too close, and it would seem like a performance. This was where one sat if they understood both strategy and survival.

She lowered herself into the chair slowly, back straight without thinking, like some old phantom of discipline had tugged at her spine. A flicker of her mother’s voice echoed uninvited: Don’t slouch, Agatha. Are you trying to disappear? Her jaw tightened reflexively — and then, just as reflexively, she exhaled, long and quiet, through her nose. She wasn’t that girl anymore.

Nicky slid into the chair beside her without hesitation, pressing close until their shoulders touched, his small hand already slipping into hers like it belonged there. Violet fussed in Rio’s arms, restless from being carried too long, so Rio gently passed her over.

Agatha took the toddler onto her lap, one arm curving around her with a familiar gesture, and Violet immediately reached for her mama’s hair — burying her fingers in the soft length, tugging with sleepy curiosity and rubbing a strand across her nose like a comfort blanket.

The small anchor of her daughter’s weight. The soft thump of Nicky’s head against her shoulder for a moment. The warmth of Rio settling on Nicky’s other side, close and calm.

Agatha reached out and found Rio’s hand again over Nicky’s lap without looking. Her fingers threaded through her wife’s, and her thumb brushed softly over the smooth circle of Rio’s  wedding band over and over— grounding herself in the tactile proof of everything they had built. Everything that had grown in defiance of everything she came from.

For a long moment, Agatha just sat there — breathing in the presence of her family. Looking down at Violet’s dark lashes as they fluttered against her cheek. At Nicky’s scuffed shoes swinging just above the floor. At Rio—her Rio— regal even in quiet moments, whose presence had always felt like something fierce and steady wrapped in something soft.

Then Agatha spoke, almost absently. Almost like she hadn’t realized she was saying it aloud.

“She can say what she wants.”

Her thumb continued to move, slow and steady, over the gold band. Her gaze didn’t leave her children.

“I won.”

Rio turned to her, and with no fanfare, kissed her cheek — just below the temple, just where her hair curled near the ear.

“Yes,” she murmured. “You did.”

Agatha’s mouth tugged into the smallest smile.

Not victorious. Not smug.

Just… at peace.

*

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Chapter Text

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The hush that settled over the church wasn’t gentle. It dropped like a velvet curtain : thick, inescapable, full of the reverence that had nothing to do with peace. It was  more like the hush of performance. Of ritual. Of something cold and polished and practiced.

People filed into their seats with the subdued clumsiness of mourning, their movements stiff with expectation. The rustle of dark fabric, the soft squeak of polished shoes on wood, the papery whisper of programs unfolding — all of it gradually gave way to silence. A silence that expected your hands folded, your shoulders squared, your grief shaped into something clean.

A few rows ahead, Margaret sat perfectly upright, spine like a steel rod, chin lifted half an inch too high. Her family formed a neat row beside her, their posture impeccable — more like a choir in waiting or a battalion than a grieving household. Obedient. Ordered.

Except for Theodora.

The youngest girl slouched noticeably, elbows on her knees, chin slightly tucked on her hands in quiet rebellion. Rio noticed it immediately and couldn’t help the subtle grin that tugged at her lips. Good. Let her slouch.

Agatha, however, didn’t look toward them again.

The moment they’d sat down, something had shifted in her. Her expression settled into that serene stillness that masked so much more — a mask she had perfected in this very place, in these very pews. Every part of her remembered this: the polished wood beneath her palms as a child, the faint sting of cold in the air that never left the old stone walls, the subtle but suffocating pressure that made even breathing feel like a disruption.

The organ hummed in the background, low and slow. At the altar, the priest stepped up to the podium and cleared his throat. He was unfamiliar: a man in a crisp black robe with a stiff white collar, with eyes seemed to flatten everything he looked at. She didn’t need to know his name. She knew the type.

She was back. In this place. With these people. And yet everything that mattered was beside her now.

Agatha folded one hand over her knee, keeping the other tucked protectively around Violet’s waist. Her daughter sat on her lap, alert but calm, her little hands tugging absently at the front of Agatha’s blazer before shifting to something shinier — the silver bracelet Agatha had worn without thinking that morning. Something bright, something hers.

Violet tapped at it with her chubby fingers, enthralled by the quiet jingle it made. Her wide eyes focused on the delicate charm — the tiny violet-shaped pendant that Jen had gifted her for her last birthday— and she gave a pleased little hum, like a cat discovering something shiny.

Nicky, who sat between his mothers with the quiet stillness of a kid used to large emotions being folded into small rooms, leaned closer and gently reached out. His fingers closed around the bracelet too , not yanking or fiddling, just holding. He turned the charm over slowly between his thumb and finger, brushing against his sister’s hand as he did so, his expression thoughtful.

He wasn’t distracting himself.

He wasn’t bored.

He was grounding them — the way Agatha used to clutch the hem of her own skirt when she was little, needing something to feel.

He looked up at her, and when their eyes met, he smiled. Small. Steady. So open and unafraid that it knocked the breath from her for just a moment. There was something in that gaze that said I know.

Agatha looked down, at her two children’s little hands playing with her bracelet

She gave his hand a little squeeze.

Rio, quiet as ever in her grief-for-what-isn’t-hers, shifted just close enough for their arms to brush. She was steady warmth pressed against Agatha’s side, her presence as dependable as breath. She never asked Agatha to talk about this side of her life unless she wanted to. And now, here she was, bearing it with her, exactly the way Agatha had always secretly hoped someone might.

At the front, the priest finally began.

“We gather here today,” he said, voice carefully measured, “to celebrate and mourn the life of Eugenia Harkness. A woman of extraordinary intellect, devotion, and discipline. A woman who served her community, her scholarship, and her faith with quiet strength and unshakable principle.”

Agatha’s spine stiffened slightly at the phrasing. Discipline. Principle. It was the soort of praise her family preferred — the convenable (NAMM à vérifier traduction à “palatable”?) approval that buried softness beneath vocabulary.

“She was a woman of few words,” the priest continued, “but those who truly knew her understood the depth of her care… a care not always shown in expected ways, but no less present. She lived her life with purpose. She expected much — of herself, and others.”

Agatha could feel the edges of her breath snag in her chest. It was all true. And yet… it didn’t touch the realness of Eugenia. Not to Agatha. Not the way she remembered her — slipping worn books into Agatha’s school bag when Evanora wasn’t looking and then pasign the butter the next morning like nothing had happened.

Calling her clever — never as a compliment, never coated in praise. Just a fact. A truth. As if naming it might protect her, in a world that demanded she dim.

And the silence. Those long afternoons sitting in adjacent seats, not speaking, not intruding. Just existing together. Pretending not to need each other. And maybe they didn’t know how to — but it had been something.

Beside her, Rio’s fingers brushed gently against hers  again— hidden beneath the soft weight of Violet’s legs, resting in her lap. The smallest touch. But enough. A quiet reminder of I’m here. Come back to now.

Agatha blinked once. Breathed deeper.

Nicky leaned against her, watching the priest with curious eyes, still twirling the bracelet between his fingers.

Violet turned her face toward the sunlight streaming in through the stained windows, then pointed quietly upward, whispering, “kay…”

Agatha looked down at her — this small, growing person, full of instinct and wonder — and her throat thickened. 

Sky. Yes baby. The sky. Always there. Gray when sad, blue when happy.

Agatha bowed her head. Just a little.

And listened.

Not to the priest, not anymore. But to her daughter’s breath. To her son’s quiet trust. To the warmth of her wife’s hand against her own.

To the unshakable presence of the family she had built — not out of discipline or principle or duty — but out of love. Out of softness chosen again and again.

Then, the room shifted.

A chair scraped back too loudly, drawing every head around as Margaret rose from her seat near the front and stepped purposefully up to the lectern. She moved like someone on a stage, her every gesture rehearsed — the dramatic sweep of her shawl around her shoulders, the pause before speaking as if waiting for the room to regard her with admiration.

Margaret cleared her throat delicately.

“Aunt Eugenia,” she began, her voice laced with affected grief, “was a woman of tradition. Of structure… and decency. She believed in doing things the right way. Quietly. Properly.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched.

The cadence in Margaret’s voice was unmistakable;  that slippery wave of sanctimony that always sounded like it was aimed at someone else. A hidden judgment in every beat.

“She, along with her dear sisters — Eudora, my own mother, and Evanora — held firm to the values that shaped our family.”

That was when Rio shifted beside Agatha.

It was barely perceptible, but Agatha felt it immediately: the shift in posture, the breath Rio took through her teeth — sharp and shallow — like someone bracing for impakt. One hand found Agatha’s leg, fingers pressing down just enough to say Don’t let her take this moment from you. I’ve got you.

Agatha didn’t blink. But her body went still in a different way now, her face unreadable, her eyes pinned to the lectern as if looking through it.

She hadn’t heard her mother’s name spoken aloud in years by a voice that wasn’t hers.

The reverent tone in Margaret’s voice made something inside her tighten — not just from grief, but from the falseness of it. The gall (nerve?) of painting all three sisters with the same brush, as though Evanora had been simply another woman of “structure and decency”, a well-meaning matriarch. As though they had all been stern and holy and blameless. A s if all three sisters had walked the same narrow line of virtue and tradition. As if they hadn’t been entirely different worlds housed in identical last names, when in truth they had not all been the same.

Eudora and Evanora… they had loved rules, yes. But Eugenia had understood why Agatha had broken them.

She could still remember how Eugenia used to sigh — exhausted but sincere — when Agatha asked too many questions at once, how she’d wordlessly press a hard candy into her palm as a peace offering before answering every single one od them. She could remember how Eugenia had whispered the answers to Latin conjugations when Evanora wasn’t in the room.

So different from her sisters.

Eudora, the oldest, the coldest, the indifferent one.

Evanora, who had expected. Who had demanded. Who had loved obedience and feared difference. Who had believed correction was a form of care — that shame was a tool. That silence was love.

She wasn’t just stern. She wasn’t just “proper.” She had been cruel. Maybe the cruelest.

And now Margaret was speaking their names like an hymn.

Nicky, bless him, blinked up at Margaret like she was a puzzle missing too many pieces. Violet let out a small coo and squirmed in Agatha’s lap, twisting one fist in the collar of her shirt.

And somehow, that tiny tug was the thing that steadied her.

Agatha exhaled slowly. Her eyes stayed forward.

Let Margaret speak.

Let her rewrite it all if she needed to — let her eulogize the architecture of their family instead of its cracks. Let her wrap the truth in lace and call it legacy.

Agatha didn’t need this room to understand.

She had her truth sitting right beside her.

And no one could sanctify the past enough to make her forget it.

Margaret continued, the tremble in her voice carefully calibrated — just enough to suggest heartfelt grief without smudging the elegance of her delivery.

“We live in trying times that test our values,” she intoned. “But Aunt Eugenia never faltered. She was a beacon of grace. A reminder of what our family once was… what it should still strive to be.”

Agatha’s mouth tightened.

Nicky squinted up toward the lectern. He leaned against Rio, cupping his small hand around his mouth like he was about to tell a very important secret. His voice was a whisper, barely audible against the fabric of her blazer.

“…Mama doesn’t like that lady’s story.”

Margaret reached the climax of her speech, her voice high and full of her own importance a she loftily declared, “And let us not forget that traditional family values have always been the cornerstone of a moral life. That it is—”

She never finished the sentence.

Because just then, Violet, who had been quiet until then in Agatha’s lap, gave a small, warning huff. The preemptive sound babies make right before they decide the world is no longer to their liking.

It started as a grumble. A sigh of displeasure. Barely a note of dissent.

And then — the full aria.

A sudden, full-throated wail erupted from the tiny body in Agatha’s lap, slicing through the chapel like a battle cry. Violet’s fury was immediate and operatic, her tiny lungs summoning a protest from the depths of baby outrage that bounced off every pillar, stained-glass window, and vaulted curve of the ceiling.

More a statement than a cry.

Heads turned in waves. A few startled gasps. Some nervous chuckles. One older woman near the back clutched her pearls and murmured something about “the acoustics and bad parenting.”

Margaret faltered midsentence, blinking like someone had just thrown a glass of cold water in her face. Her mouth opened and closed twice — like a trout in pearls — but no words emerged.

She looked mildly offended, as though Violet’s existence had personally trespassed on the sanctity of her eulogy.

Agatha didn’t apologize.

She didn’t even pretend to look sorry.

With the unflinching grace of someone who had carried screaming infants through lectures, bookstores, and crowded trams, she stood in one fluid movement, lifting Violet gently into her arms. The baby immediately clung to her neck like an angry koala, still fussing and protesting but now more indignant than inconsolable.

Agatha murmured low against her hair, “Okay, little star, let’s go. I’ve got you.”

Rio, still seated beside Nicky, reached out and gave Agatha’s wrist a soft, subtle squeeze as she passed. Her eyes sparkled despite herself, and she leaned in just enough to whisper, “I owe Vivi cookies for this.”

Agatha didn’t smile. Not visibly. But something shifted in her eyes — the smallest flicker of satisfaction as she adjusted Violet in her arms and walked deliberately down the center aisle.

Her heels clicked smartly against the tile floor. Each step was clean, unhurried, echoing louder than they should’ve. And despite the baby pressed against her shoulder, despite the eyes she felt tracking her every move, Agatha’s posture was effortlessly elegant.

She didn’t look back. Not at Margaret. Not at the frozen front pews. Not at the priest or the pinched aunts or the over-dressed cousins.

She didn’t need to.

The heat of Margaret’s disapproval burned against her back like a spotlight, but Agatha had grown used to that heat long ago — and she had stopped caring long before Violet or Nicky were ever born.

The farther she walked from it, the more certain she became she was headed in the right direction.

The baby made a small snuffling noise against her shoulder, a hiccup breath that quieted into a grumpy sigh as they neared the back of the chapel. Agatha’s hand smoothed down Violet’s back in gentle circles.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice meant only for her daughter. “You don’t like liars either.”

And as the doors swung open for a breath of fresh air, the light spilled across the floor — and Agatha walked into it without fear.

The chapel doors closed gently behind her, muffling Margaret’s syrupy voice and sealing Agatha into a quieter world.

She drew in a deep breath of cool air, inhlaning the faint scent of damp stone and old hydrangeas. The garden behind the church was small and carefully tended, with a few benches tucked beneath ancient trees and gravel crunching softly underfoot. It was the same garden she’d been ushered through in leather shoes as a child, told to “sit quietly” after services by the very people she now fled.

Now, she paced it freely.

Violet gave another sniff against her collarbone, her small fingers curled into the fabric of Agatha’s black blouse. Her little shoes kicked against Agatha’s waist with the energy of someone who wasn’t quite done voicing protest, but hadn’t found a new reason to scream yet.

Agatha shifted her gently, swaying as she bounced her, soft and steady.

“There, there, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Breathe. I know. Thank you for the editorial, my darling, that speech was unbearable.”

She kissed the crown of Violet’s dark head, warm beneath her lips, the fine baby hairs of her pigtails still wispy and wild from her nap in the train. Violet wriggled once more, let out a disgruntled hum like she was considering another wail — then let it go in a sigh. Her head settled more firmly on Agatha’s shoulder.

Agatha smiled to herself.

“That’s my girl,” she whispered. “No tolerance for hypocrisy. Not even from blood. Well not yours but it’s all the same. Good thing you have Mommy’s blood.”

She slowed her steps, letting the garden path carry her gently toward one of the low stone benches shaded beneath an old tree. The bark had cracked and warped over decades, but the canopy above was thick and still, dappled with soft green light. Agatha sat slowly, adjusting Violet in her arms until the little girl was tucked safely against her chest, one fist still holding a loop of Agatha’s necklace.

Her hand rubbed soft, slow circles across Violet’s back.

“I knew you’d be good company today,” she said quietly. “Not just because you’re the only one brave enough to scream at horrible cousin Margaret, but that certainly helped.”

Violet made a soft noise in response, almost approving. Her body was relaxing bit by bit, melting back into safety.

Agatha’s voice dropped even softer. “You and I, Violet Harkness-Vidal, are never clapping for bigotry in disguise. Not even out of politeness. Not even when it wears pearls and quotes Scripture. Espeically not then.

Violet shifted, letting out another tiny sigh, her cheek smushed against Agatha’s shoulder.

Agatha leaned her head back against the tree, holding her daughter close, her fingers tracing a slow rhythm along her back.

For the first time that day, she allowed herself a moment of peace. Not because the grief had passed. Not because Margaret wasn’t still talking, not because this place didn’t still sting. But because in this sliver of sunlight, with a child in her arms and no one’s judgment hanging over her, she remembered: She had already built a different kind of life. A better one.

Once Violet was fully soothed — her tiny body limp in that content, post-cry toddler state-- Agatha adjusted her hold, pressing one last kiss to her daughter’s temple.

“Feeling better now, Baby Moon?” she murmured. Violet grunted softly, an agreeable sort of sound, and nuzzled her face into the collar of Agatha’s blouse before pulling back, blinking up at her with wide, curious eyes.

“Alright then,” Agatha said with a quiet breath, shifting on the stone bench. “Let’s stretch those little legs.”

She gently lowered Violet to the soft grass of the garden and crouched beside her, slipping both hands into Violet’s chubby ones. “Okay,” she whispered, smiling despite herself, “let’s see what we’ve got today.”

Violet wobbled immediately — feet planted slightly too wide apart, knees bouncing as she tried to get her balance. Her face was pure concentration, her brows furrowed just like Agatha’s used to do as a child when she tried something new she was determined to master. That expression was entirely inherited. It was her own childhood glare, repurposed on this wild, unbothered little thing with Rio’s stubborn eyes and Agatha’s fire.

Her pigtails bounced as she shifted her weight back and forth, back and forth, trying to decide what to do next.

Agatha held on, steady and patient. “That’s it. Good girl.”

For a few long seconds, Violet stood upright on her own, her small hands tight in Agatha’s but her posture just barely her own. Then she shrieked joyfully — one of those strange, delighted sounds, half laugh, half victory cry — and bounced slightly, completely unbothered when she plopped down on her bottom with a huff.

Agatha let out a soft chuckle, the sound unguarded, entirely genuine. She leaned forward and smoothed the grass off Violet’s skirt. “Not yet,” she said gently. “But soon.”

Violet looked up at her, grinning wide — all baby teeth and unbothered joy — and clapped once, as if to declare the attempt a rousing success regardless of the outcome.

That grin was unmistakable. Rio’s.

Agatha’s fingers lingered on Violet’s little knee. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?” Her voice was low, more to herself now. “That’s good. You’re supposed to.”

The breeze stirred the leaves above them, catching threads of Agatha’s hair and lifting them gently away from her neck. She didn’t brush them back. Her eyes stayed on Violet, who had now discovered a beetle nearby and was watching it with rapt fascination, her chubby hand hovering over it like she might bless it or squash it or simply learn from it.

Agatha smiled again, this time wider.

“You’re going to walk right past Margaret one day,” she said, almost a promise. “Cookie in each hand. Smirk just like your mommy’s. And no one will dare stop you.”

She wasnt speaking in hope — she was speaking in inevitabiltity.

Violet glanced back at her briefly, as if she understood everything. Then returned to the beetle.

The names Evanora and Eudora no longer echoed quite so sharply inside her head. Only Eugenia’s mattered. And Eugenia was good.

The garden felt larger now. Brighter.

Violet, thrilled with her own bravery, pulled herself upright again, clinging to Agatha’s fingers, and gave a determined grunt.

“Alright, alright,” Agatha said with a small smile, “one more go, sunny girl.”

They stood there together, under the leafy arch of the tree — the dignified woman in mourning black, and the starry-dressed toddler with grass on her knees — swaying back and forth on unsteady feet and steady love.

It was a strange, perfect tableau: elegance and chaos. Grief and joy. The old and the brand new.

A lesson passed from mother to daughter without a word. Or maybe from daughter to mother this time.

Fall. Get up. Try again.

After maybe twenty minutes, the old church bell tolled once — low and somber — marking the end of the ceremony.

Agatha didn’t stir from the bench beneath the tree. Violet sat between her mother’s legs in the grass, her little legs folded underneath her like a duckling, hands busy with whatever her toddler mind deemed important — gathering blades of grass, plucking clover heads, stacking fallen leaves in uneven piles. Her small brow was furrowed in deep concentration, her voice issuing the occasional wordless hum of focus. One of her shoes was half off, dangling absurdly from her toes, but she didn’t seem to care.

Agatha’s hand rested absently on the crown of her head, her fingers tangled lightly in her soft hair. Her other hand sat relaxed across her lap, palm open, as if she’d been halfway through a thought and then simply… let it go.

The sound of footsteps on gravel brought her head up.

She glanced up just as Rio rounded the garden path — flushed, windswept, and visibly weighed down.

Not emotionally. Physically.

Nicky was draped across her back like an oversized scarf, legs swinging, arms slung around Rio’s neck as though he’d grown there. His chin was parked atop her head, and despite his eight years of life and clear ability to walk, he looked blissfully content to be carried like a particularly smug koala.

Rio’s eyes met Agatha’s as she approached, exasperation and affection mingling effortlessly. “I tried to put him down twice,” she announced. “But apparently my spine is ‘the only appropriate throne’ for royalty.”

Agatha chuckled softly, moving Violet just enough to make room as Rio sank onto the bench. “You’ll regret that tomorrow.”

“I already regret it now,” Rio deadpanned. “My lower back has filed for emancipation and my knees are threatening revolution.”

Nicky, thoroughly unbothered, was already half-dozing where he was slumped against her, and let out a content little sigh.

Violet blinked up at them and gave a curious wave in Rio’s general direction, which was mostly just her flinging a blade of grass. Rio caught it midair, flicked it back at her, and got a delighted squeal in return.

Rio gave Agatha a sideways look, smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “You missed the best part. Margaret got all weepy over ‘the decline of good families.’ Said it with the same dramatic sorrow people usually reserve for, like, the burning of ancient libraries.”

Agatha let out a slow breath and rolled her eyes. “I can only imagine.”

“She invoked the ‘sanctity of marriage’ like it was a curse,” Rio went on, stretching her legs out with a groan. “Got a few self-righteous nods — you know the ones. From people who have never been happy a day in their lives but still think gay weddings cause droughts and vaccines cause autism.”

Agatha let out a small, real laugh. “Did she say it before or after she tried to canonize Evanora and Eudora again?”

“Oh, before,” Rio said, grinning. “She was still riding the high of her own sanctimony when she turned dramatically to descend the steps, misjudged her heel, and almost ate marble.”

That earned a wicked smile from Agatha. “Poetic justice.”

Rio nudged her knee. “It was practically Shakespearean. Honestly, I almost clapped.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the weight of the service lifting with each gust of wind and quiet laughter.

The bell had stopped ringing.

Margaret was finished speaking.

And Agatha was no longer listening.

Violet, having lost interest in the slightly crushed flower she’d snatched from the grass, let it fall from her hand with a sigh. She turned her full attention back to her parents and lifted her arms with purpose, letting out a small, expectant grunt — the universal toddler signal for I am done with this nonsense, carry me at once.

Agatha responded without hesitation. She leaned forward with the ease of a thousand repetitions, scooping Violet up with tender arms and settling her securely on her lap. Violet immediately wrapped both arms around her neck like a sleepy octopus and tucked her head beneath Agatha’s chin, sighing in satisfaction.

“Thank God,” Agatha murmured, brushing fine strands of hair from Violet’s cheek, “for this child’s good instincts.”

Rio let her head tip against Agatha’s shoulder, her eyes on the small tangle of limbs and softness nestled between them. “Vivi’s got better taste than most adults here,” she said dryly. “And a sharper sense for bullshit.”

Agatha huffed a quiet laugh. “She’s her mother’s daughter.”

“Which one?” Rio asked, teasing, though her voice was still gentle, still watching.

Agatha tilted her head, kissed the top of Violet’s head. “Both,” she replied simply. “Poor thing never stood a chance.”

Rio’s smile softened at that, a slow curve tugging at her mouth. “No,” she murmured. “But she did get lucky.”

The light shifted above, filtered through the rustling canopy. The lingering noise of post-service chatter was muted by distance and stone.

Behind them, the church loomed — grand and cold in its memories — but it no longer felt like the center of gravity.

In Agatha’s lap, Violet began to stir again, now more alert than sleepy, and Nicky, still comfortably sprawled against Rio’s back like a very dignified barnacle, reached forward over Agatha’s shoulder with one arm, dangling a freshly plucked flower just out of Violet’s reach.

“Catch it, Vivi,” he whispered, giggling as Violet swatted at the air with chubby fingers, growing increasingly indignant as he pulled it away every time she came close.

Agatha gave him a warning glance — not serious — and Violet let out a squeal that ended in a hiccuping laugh. The game continued, more clumsy than competitive, and somehow it all felt louder than Margaret’s speech had ever managed to be.

“You okay?” Rio finally asked, voice quiet, drawing one leg up on the bench.

Agatha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted toward the shadow of the church behind them, then back to the warm weight of their daughter in her arms. She took a breath.

Violet, triumphant, finally trapped the flower between her hands and let out a victorious noise that startled a laugh out of all four of them.

“I am” she simply said.

And for once, it felt true.

*

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Chapter Text

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The garden reception after the memorial was a stiff affair. Folding tables stood rigid under draped lace, their surfaces lined with sweating pitchers of lemonade, dainty stacks of crustless sandwiches, and towers of biscuits arranged with such mechanical precision it felt vaguely ominous.

Everything had doilies. Under the plates, under the napkins — even beneath the lemon wedges in the water jug. Someone had clearly spent hours at war with spontaneity.

The air was thick with the scent of wilting hydrangeas and polite disappointment.

Agatha stood near one of the tables, Violet perched on her hip and gnawing on a soggy corner of a cucumber sandwich she had taken a particular interest in, chewing it with solemn, focused delight — as though she were the first to discover its culinary potential.

Rio was beside her, leaning on the table with a posture of full-body resignation, holding a single cracker between two fingers as though contemplating how it might betray her. Her brow furrowed in suspicion.

“I can feel the mayonnaise judging me,” she muttered. “Is there anything here that doesn’t taste like regret and 1954?”

Agatha arched a brow, scanning the spread with something between fatigue and academic detachment. “Not unless you count the cheese cubes with toothpicks shaped like crosses.”

“Blasphemous dairy. Excellent.”

She popped the cracker in her mouth and immediately made a face. “It’s stale.”

Agatha gestured vaguely to a tiered tray near the lemonade. “Miniature quiches.”

Rio looked. Her expression was something that belonged in a museum under ‘portrait of a woman betrayed.’

“You know I hate miniature quiches.”

“That’s why I pointed them out.”

“Perfect,” Rio said, with mock solemnity. “Something I can resent and eat. It’s called balance.”

Agatha smirked, glancing down at Violet, who now held her cucumber sandwich like it was something special, eyes narrowed in deep toddler judgment at anyone who passed too close. A smudge of mayonnaise had found its way into her curls.

Rio reached over and gently tucked the sandwich further into Violet’s grip to prevent a drop from falling.

“I hope one day she doesn’t tell a therapist about this,” she whispered. “How we took her to a wake that smelled like boiled egg and white guilt.”

“She’ll be fine,” Agatha murmured. “She’s already the most composed one here.”

They stood together for a moment, watching a distant cousin awkwardly attempt small talk with a woman who was clearly trying to retreat into a hedge.

A bee hovered near the lemonade. Someone dropped a spoon. Someone else whispered too loudly about estate plans.

Rio sighed. “Do you think everyone here knows we’re married?”

Agatha glanced over at her, considering. “I think most of them know and the others suspect. But they’re too afraid to ask. Or too polite. Or too invested in the idea that I am the devil incarnate.”

Rio looked at her, eyes searching, but Agatha was already turning back toward the table, adjusting Violet’s position on her hip.

“I left,” she said softly. “Years ago. This is just… debris.”

Rio touched her hand lightly, slipping her fingers between Agatha’s for a brief second. “Still proud of you,” she said, and then, with a wicked smile, added “Even if you married into the no-mayonnaise crowd.”

Agatha gave her a look, dry and amused. “I’m not the one who ate the cracker.”

“Touché.”

Violet grunted, indeed dropping her sandwich. She had apparently moved on.

Agatha bent to retrieve it, but Violet had already reached for a biscuit, snatched it with great ceremony, and held it aloft like it was a weapon forged from flour and vengeance.

Rio grinned. “See? She gets it.”

Across the lawn, beneath the dappled shade of an ornamental pear tree, a small group of children stood arranged like figurines in a particularly joyless nativity scene. At their helm sat Eudora’s husband — a narrow-faced man with a stern mouth and a brow permanently furrowed in divine contemplation. He was perched on a wrought-iron garden chair, reading from a leather-bound Bible so reverently it looked as if he expected it to part the hedges and reveal the secrets of heaven at any moment.

He didn’t glance up once. Not at the children. Not at the reception. Not even when a bee buzzed alarmingly close to his earlobe. His devotion was total, theatrical, and eerily self-contained — as if his presence alone might elevate the event from “memorial” to “biblical parabole.”

Clustered in a careful line beneath his non-supervision were Archibald, Grace, Edmund, and Theodora — the unfortunate quartet born of Margaret and her equally humorless husband. They stood in a rigid formation, their small hands clasped before them like penitent little choir ghosts.

The boys were dressed in tiny suits so stark and severe they seemed tailor-made not for children but for ancient lawyers. Starched collars bit into their necks, and their black dress shoes gleamed like accusations in the sun. Archibald, the eldest, stared dead ahead as though focused on some inner moral battlefield. Edmund, slightly younger, blinked rapidly like he was trying not to cry at the sun in his eye.

The girls, meanwhile, were clad in high-collared mourning dresses with lace bibs and long sleeves, as though they’d been transported from a Victorian family portrait no one had asked to recreate. Grace’s hair was parted with unsettling precision and tied into two limp braids. Theodora kept tugging at her collar in silent desperation, mumbling under her breath.

They weren’t playing. They weren’t whispering. They weren’t even fidgeting. It was the stillness of performance — not obedience born of respect, but a deep and practiced fear of correction.

From a distance, one might have mistaken them for polite. Up close, the effort was visible: the clenched jaws, the held breath, the itchy limbs denied relief. Even the grass around their polished shoes seemed afraid to move too much.

Rio caught sight of them and made a soft noise in her throat — something between pity and a suppressed snort. “God,” she muttered, “they look like they’ve just come from testifying in court.”

Agatha followed her gaze, then said dryly, “Well, Margaret always said discipline builds character.”

“Yeah,” Rio said. “And I say no child should have to stand that still without snacks or entertainment.”

Violet, with biscuit crumbs on her cheek and a flower petal stuck to her forehead, gave a content little grunt — a stark contrast to the black-clad statues across the lawn.

Agatha kissed the top of her head and murmured, “That’s my girl. A rebel by birth.”

And across the garden, Archibald blinked in slow despair while Edmund looked longingly at a lemonade pitcher he would never be allowed to approach without an adult’s permission. Grace swatted Theodora’s hand away from her own neckline. Theodora tried to bite her in retaliation. The entire scene lasted three seconds, and not one adult noticed — except Agatha, who watched it unfold with a small, knowing smirk. She didn’t intervene.

There were many things she no longer tolerated. Margaret’s version of parenting was one of them.

Nicky, half behind Rio’s leg, had been watching them for several minutes. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, adjusted his sleeves once, then stood up a little taller. “I’m gonna go say hi.”

Agatha and Rio both turned toward him.

“You sure?” Rio asked gently, crouching a little to brush the curls from his forehead. Her voice was low and nonintrusive. “You don’t have to.”

Nicky nodded. “Yeah. I mean… we’re cousins. It’s what people do at family things, right?” He glanced up, seeking reassurance more than confirmation.

Agatha’s eyes softened. Her fingers, still curled protectively around Violet’s plump little leg, gave the tiniest squeeze. “Yes, love. Just be yourself.”

“Be brave,” Rio added, giving him a wink and tapping his knuckles once — their private little signal.

Nicky took a breath, squared his little shoulders, and padded across the lawn toward them.

He stopped just in front of the four of them and offered a hopeful smile.

“Hi! I’m Nicky,” he said brightly, waving once. “We met earlier, remember? I’m your cousin. Do you wanna play?”

For a second — just a beat — there was silence.

Archibald, all fifteen years of practiced disdain, gave him a look so flat it might’ve been weaponized in some emotionally repressed boarding school. His lip curled with aristocratic distaste. “We don’t play.”

Nicky blinked, confused. “Oh. Okay, but—”

“We’re not babies,” Grace interrupted, thirteen and devastatingly poised, her braids pulled so tight it looked painful. She eyed Nicky’s mismatched shirt and sneakers with the casual cruelty of someone who had been raised to equate neatness with worth. “And your shirt doesn’t even match.”

Edmund — ten, impressionable, and already learning the art of the withering stare — added, “You don’t look like a Harkness anyway.”

The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t even said with anger. Just matter-of-fact. Like reading off a grocery list of reasons why he didn’t belong.

Nicky’s smile faltered. It was subtle — a tiny emotional withdrawal most adults would miss. But from across the garden, Rio’s spine stiffened. Agatha’s hand tensed on Violet’s leg.

His arms dropped slowly to his sides, a quiet retreat from optimism. His face didn’t crumple. He didn’t cry. But his voice, when it came, was too soft — feather-light, paper-thin.

“O—okay. Sorry,” he mumbled. “I just thought… never mind.”

He turned away, blinking too fast, his lashes catching tears he wasn’t quite ready to let fall. The heat of embarrassment crawled up the back of his neck, prickling at his ears, tightening his throat. His shoulders hunched slightly, like he was trying to fold himself smaller. The wide lawn he’d crossed so bravely just moments ago now felt three times the size.

His steps back were slower. He dragged one foot a little, scuffed the toe of his sneaker in the grass. He didn’t look up.

By the time he reached the edge of the garden again, Rio was already on her feet. She simply opened her arms like she’d been saving the space for him all along.

Nicky walked straight into her without hesitation, like a wave retreating to shore. He buried his face against her shoulder and held tight, his hands fisting in the fabric of her sleeves. His breath came in a few sharp little huffs as he tried not to cry.

“They said I don’t look like a Harkness,” he mumbled into her collarbone. His voice was thick and flat — not angry, just bruised.

Rio didn’t rush to fix it, didn’t offer sunny words or gentle lies. She just wrapped her arms around him and held him tighter, steady and sure.

“Well, good,” she whispered into his hair, her tone warm but firm, protective as a shield. “That’s the nicest thing they could’ve said.”

She drew back just far enough to tilt his chin up and meet his eyes, her thumb brushing across his cheek to catch the tear he didn’t want to admit was there.

“Listen to me, baby,” she said softly, clearly. “The only Harkness you need to look like is Mama. And you’ve got her smile when she’s pretending not to be proud of herself, and her exact frown when people are mean.”

Agatha, still seated with Violet on her lap, reached out and placed a hand gently against the small of Nicky’s back. She leaned in and kissed his curls, resting her cheek against the crown of his head.

“You look exactly like you’re meant to,” she said. “Like our son. You’re a Harkness-Vidal.”

Nicky sniffled and nodded, still pressed between them, and then a small, sheepish sound escaped him — not quite a laugh, but close. “I told them I was their cousin,” he said. “And they looked at me like I was a chicken that had walked into a library.”

Rio huffed. “That’s probably how they look at most things.”

That made him snort quietly. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Agatha gave his back a gentle rub. “You were kind. That matters more than anything they said.”

“I wasn’t brave though,” Nicky mumbled.

Rio leaned her forehead against his. “Sweetheart, you were brave. You walked across a field to talk to a pack of tiny judges in matching outfits. That’s practically a folk tale and you’re the brave dragon.”

That got a real laugh — quiet and cracked, but real.

And beside them, Violet looked up and clapped her hands once, like she knew her brother had just done something important. She held out the last, slightly crushed piece of her cucumber sandwich in offering.

Nicky took it, smiling now, and sat between his mothers again, safe in the shelter of their arms. And whatever those other kids thought they saw — whatever names or categories they wanted to sort him into — didn’t seem to matter quite so much anymore.

Not when he belonged exactly where he was.

But then—

“I like your name,” a voice piped up from beside them, unexpected and clear.

Theodora — the last of Margaret’s brood and, crucially, eight years old like Nicky — had stepped a little away from her siblings. Her bow was slipping out of her braid, one sock had lost its battle with gravity, and there was a suspicious smudge of dirt on her cuff. She looked like a child just barely holding together the expectations placed on her — and just as ready to unravel them.

She pointed at him, not rudely but with the straightforward sincerity of kids. “Nicky. That’s a cool name.”

Nicky stopped mid-sulk, mid-thought. He froze like someone had hit pause. His fingers hovered near the hem of his shirt again, but this time not out of nerves — more like disbelief.

He turned slightly. Blinked. “…Huh?”

Theodora beamed at him, all gap-toothed boldness. “Wanna see how fast I can run?”

There was no judgment in her tone. No edge. Just the casual, confident offer of shared chaos.

Nicky stared at her like the sun had cracked through a thick cloud, blinking into the sudden light.

“…Yeah?” he said, his voice uncertain, but hopeful. “Yeah, okay.”

Without waiting for further confirmation, Theodora took off across the garden like a rocket, black dress flapping, shoes barely touching the ground.

Nicky lit up. Like a switch flipped inside him.

He bolted after her with a grin that nearly split his face in half, yelling, “Wait up! You didn’t even count down!”

Agatha and Rio watched from a distance. Violet pointed and squealed at the sight of her brother running. Rio leaned toward her wife, nudging her arm.

“Well,” she said. “One decent cousin out of four. That’s not a terrible ratio.”

Agatha exhaled slowly, watching Nicky chase Theodora across the grass. “Not terrible at all.”

Then she looked down at Violet and smiled. “You’re next, you know. First steps and then we’ll never catch up.”

Violet let out a triumphant babble and smacked her fist against Agatha’s chest like it was a battle drum.

Rio laughed and stole a kiss to her wife’s temple. “We’re gonna need better shoes.”

“We’re going to need helmets,” Agatha said dryly.

The garden was full of prim doilies and rigid traditions — but out there, her children were writing their own story. And that, she thought, was a kind victory all its own.

This is the version that matters. This is the inheritance I want them to keep.

Not the bloodlines. Not the names.

From where they stood by the flowerbeds, Agatha shifted Violet in her arms, the toddler now full of renewed post-snack energy and nibbling her fingers with vague curiosity at the social scene around her. But Rio’s gaze was sharper again now. Her jaw had set the moment she spotted Archibald and Grace off to the side, watching Nicky and Theodora run laps around a stone fountain.

They were whispering. Smirking. The quiet, rehearsed superiority that Rio had seen too many times as a teacher and once too often as a kid.

Her eyes narrowed.

Agatha, still focused on her daughter’s flyaway hair, didn’t even need to follow Rio’s line of sight. She felt the change in the air beside her. Rio had stilled. That silence of coiled energy before a storm.

“Don’t,” Agatha murmured, calm as rain but unmistakably firm.

“I’m not going to say anything,” Rio replied, her voice low, almost musical in its restraint. But her eyes never wavered from the children across the lawn. “I’m just going to stare until they spontaneously combust from shame.”

Agatha turned slightly and gave her a long, sidelong glance. “That’ll do it.”

There was a beat of quiet as both of them watched Archibald glance over and quickly look away, as if he’d felt the weight of Rio’s unflinching gaze. Grace followed his lead, fixing her headband like it could shield her from accountability.

Rio exhaled through her nose. “I swear,” she said under her breath, “if I had a dollar for every tight-lipped teenager who thought they’d invented smugness…”

“You’d have paid off our mortgage in silent glares alone,” Agatha murmured, brushing a bit of grass off Violet’s sock. There was a glimmer of appreciation in her tone. “You’re terrifying when you’re elegant.”

“I’m always elegant.”

“You’re usually less homicidal.”

Rio gave a small, crooked smile. Her posture loosened just slightly, her arm brushing against Agatha’s as she shifted her weight. Violet, oblivious to all of it, grabbed a fistful of Agatha’s hair and yanked gently — as if to remind them both that in toddler time, attention spans were measured in snack cycles.

“Don’t eat Mama’s hair, love,” Agatha said absently, untangling her hair with a wince.

And then, Nicky’s laughter rang out again.

He was darting behind the hydrangea bushes, Theodora hot on his heels, both of them laughing breathlessly as they looped around a stone bench and back again. Their outfits had grass stains now, and Nicky’s carefully tucked shirt was flapping half out, but his face was radiant.

“Faster! You’ll never catch me!” he shrieked gleefully.

“Will too!” Theodora yelled, sprinting past a group of startled adults and nearly knocking over a pitcher of lemonade.

Agatha let out a quiet, involuntary laugh, and Rio softened, just a touch. Violet clapped her hands once, as if applauding their joy.

“They’re good together,” Rio said, watching Nicky and Theodora fly by again, cheeks flushed, arms pumping.

Agatha nodded. “That one might just break the mold.”

Rio snorted. “Good. The mold sucks.”

She tilted her head, eyes still on Theodora as she barreled toward the fountain and skidded in the grass. “I like her. It’s exactly how I imagine you at that age. Sharp. Ready to set the whole structure on fire if it got in her way.”

Agatha’s lips curved a little further, but she didn’t deny it. “Well,” she said, brushing Violet’s hair back behind her ear, “she did tell Nicky his name was cool and then immediately challenged him to a race. That’s pretty close to how you won me over too.”

Rio looked over, grinning sidelong. “I wasn’t racing you.”

“No?”

“I was trying to get your attention.”

Agatha turned slightly to meet her eyes. “Well. You got it,” she said, voice quiet and certain. “And you never lost it.”

Rio’s expression melted just a little, and she leaned in to kiss Violet’s head, who was too busy trying to eat her own sleeve to notice.

Let the others whisper, Agatha thought. Let them smirk and bristle. Her son was running free, her daughter was watching with joy, and her wife stood beside her like a storm wrapped in sunlight.

And that was all she needed.

But, of course, it couldn’t last forever.

Joy, especially the loud and unfiltered kind, had a way of drawing out the killjoys.

The children’s gleeful shrieks must have cut too sharply through the soft chamber music playing from a speaker on the reception table, because Margaret’s heels clicked decisively across the lawn. Her stiff black skirt barely rustled, but her presence arrived like a thundercloud.

“Theodora,” she called, her tone cutting the air like glass. “That’s quite enough. This is not how we behave at a memorial.”

Theodora, caught mid-laugh with her braid half undone and her socks slouching traitorously around her ankles, skidded to a halt in the grass. Nicky collided into her back and bounced off like a startled pinball, his grin faltering as he looked up at the approaching figure — all straight lines and tight lips — like she might issue a pop quiz on propriety.

“But we’re outside,” Theodora said, breathless but unbowed. “And we’re being quiet-ish—”

“Now,” Margaret repeated, sharp and final. “Come sit. You’re a young lady. The same goes for you, Nicholas.”

The reprimand hit like a slap.

Nicky’s face twitched and he frowned. Theodora stiffened.

But before either child could utter a word — or worse, apologize — another voice, calm and unmistakable, entered the conversation.

“Margaret,” Agatha said evenly, stepping forward, having just passed Violet to Rio’s hip. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell my child what to do.”

Margaret turned toward her cousin, her mouth pinched into something between a smile and a sneer. “They were being disruptive.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “They’re eight. And they’re playing. Outside. After sitting through a one-hour sermon in a room without ventilation. I think they’ve more than earned the air and the joy.”

Margaret scoffed quietly. “Well, some of us believe in raising children with restraint. Discipline. Respect for occasions like this.”

“And some of us believe in raising children who don’t associate grief with guilt,” Agatha replied coolly. “We want Nicky to know that funerals are about remembering with love. Not performing shame.”

Margaret’s husband, a tall man in a perfectly dull gray suit, joined his wife’s side like he’d been summoned. “We teach our children to honor tradition,” he said with careful emphasis, “because structure builds character.”

Rio, now holding Violet and watching with the calm patience of a lioness sunbathing, finally stepped forward. “We teach ours to question it when it doesn’t make room for kindness,” she said, sweet and level. “Also, hi. Still gay.”

Agatha’s mouth twitched. A breath away from a smirk.

Margaret looked like she had bitten into a lemon and discovered it was also political.

“You let your children run wild,” she snapped, the last syllable brittle with accusation.

Agatha tilted her head. “We let them run free. There’s a difference.”

“And what happens when the world doesn’t accept that freedom?” Margaret snapped. “Not everyone is going to indulge their… individuality.”

“Then we teach them to stand taller,” Agatha said. “And if they fall, we catch them.”

Rio gave a slow nod but decided it was time to switch subject. “So,” she said, bouncing Violet slightly as the toddler began to hum to herself, “what do you recommend for dessert, Margaret? Something mild and repressed, or are we allowed to eat cake like people? Although maybe we’re too sapphic for that too.”

Agatha let out a tiny sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just enough to let Rio know she’d scored a direct hit.

Margaret didn’t dignify her cousin-in-law with a response.

She looked between Agatha and Rio, eyes lingering just a second too long on Violet’s mismatched hair clips and Rio’s green-painted nails. Her gaze wasn’t hateful, exactly. It was worse—pitying, as if she couldn’t comprehend a life outside her narrow definitions.

Then she spotted the priest heading toward the buffet table, and just like that, her spine straightened. “Excuse me,” she said primly. “Father Willoughby might need help with the seating for the reading. He was very close to Eugenia, you know.”

And without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, her husband in toe.

Agatha exhaled, slow and deep. She didn’t look angry. She looked exhausted.

Rio brushed her fingers against the back of her wife’s hand. “You did good.”

Agatha’s eyes followed Nicky and Theodora as they tore off again around the fountain, laughter already resuming, full and real. “So did he,” she murmured. “He didn’t let her get to him.”

“He’s got your spine,” Rio said softly.

Agatha looked at her. “No. He’s got our love.”

They didn’t get far before another relative cornered them near the lemonade table — an old  woman from Eudora’s side this time, with overly penciled eyebrows and the eager, nervous energy of someone who genuinely wanted to say the right thing but had no idea what that was.

“Oh my goodness,” she gushed, crouching slightly to peer at Violet, who blinked up from Rio’s hip with a suspicious little squint. “Well aren’t you just a little cherub! Look at those pigtails—like a doll! Is she…” Her smile faltered slightly. “Is she yours or your—uh—your wife’s? Or did you… um… adopt?”

There was a beat of silence.

Rio smiled brightly, almost dazzlingly, through her clenched teeth. “We grew her ourselves, thanks!”

The cousin blinked. “Oh! Oh—”

Rio helpfully pointed at her own midsection. “Right there. This belly. That baby. Real modern science stuff. Absolutely wild.”

The woman’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a startled fish. “Oh, I… I didn’t mean to imply—of course—she looks just like—oh dear.”

Agatha, who had been watching with the faintest hint of a smirk, smoothly stepped in. “Thank you for the compliment,” she said, her tone calm and cool as she slipped her hand onto Rio’s back. “Violet is a delight.”

Rio’s lips twitched.

Agatha leaned in to her wife’s ear and murmured, “Come on before you start explaining IVF to half the family over finger sandwiches.”

Rio barely managed to stifle a laugh as Agatha steered them away. Violet, meanwhile, had found an abandoned napkin and was trying to chew it with a lot of determination.

Rio took it away from her mouth. “I was this close to drawing diagrams with cocktail straws.”

They moved away in graceful retreat, leaving the woman blinking after them with the shellshocked expression of someone who had just complimented a lion and gotten bitten with a thank-you note.

“I’m just saying,” Rio whispered, voice still laughing around the edges, “people don’t grow more polite when you give them doilies. They just get bolder with their weird questions.”

Agatha made a rare sound — a low snort of genuine amusement, half-caught under her breath. “Let’s go sit before you start giving TED Talks about uteruses in the garden of remembrance.”

Rio wiggled her eyebrows. “There’d be slides. Charts. Possibly a Q&A.”

“God help us all.”

They strolled off toward the fountain and a bench, Violet babbling nonsense against Rio’s neck, and Agatha letting her fingers drift softly along the curve of Rio’s .

Soon, Theodora strolled up to where Agatha and Rio were sitting on a wrought-iron garden bench, Violet perched contentedly in Rio’s lap playing with a plastic spoon. Theodora’s hands were smudged with grass, her braid a little looser than before, and Nicky was right behind her, pink-cheeked and beaming, as if they’d both run a hundred miles and liked it.

“Aunt Agatha,” Theodora said, very evenly, brushing her skirt with her hands, “is it okay if I sit here with Nicky and Violet? Grace says it’s weird but I don’t care.”

Rio blinked, caught between admiration and amusement. “It’s more than okay.”

Agatha, eyes sharp, studied her niece for a moment. “Are you sure your mother won’t mind?”

Theodora tilted her head with mild condescension. “Mother minds a lot of things. I stopped listening around Christmas.”

Rio made a sharp sound that might’ve been a laugh and immediately turned it into a cough, pressing her fist against her mouth and biting back a grin.

Agatha, still watching Theodora with something unreadable flickering in her gaze, only said, “Fair enough. I used to do the same when I was your age.”

With a casual shrug, Theodora plopped herself down on the grass in front of them, tugging Nicky with her. “Do you think the lemonade here is real or powdery?” she asked him.

“Definitely powdery,” Nicky said with authority. “But I still drank four cups.”

“You’ll regret that later,” Rio murmured.

Agatha didn’t speak for a while, just watched the three of them — Nicky and Theodora making up an elaborate game with leaves and stones, and Violet watching them both like they were television. She seemed momentarily lighter.

Rio glanced sideways at her. “She reminds you of you, huh?” she said softly.

Agatha hummed low in her throat. “Maybe. Less scared, though. More… defiant.” Her voice was part wistful, part amazed. “Like she already knows how to push back.”

“That’s because Eugenia cracked the door open,” Rio said, resting her cheek lightly on Agatha’s shoulder. “We’re just here to keep it open long enough for the next ones to walk through it like it’s always been that way.”

Agatha didn’t answer for a long time, but her hand crept to Rio’s knee, fingers curling there in quiet gratitude.

Down on the grass, Theodora declared with great seriousness, “Violet is the Queen and we are her loyal vegetable knights.”

“I’m a carrot!” Nicky announced proudly.

“Fine,” Theodora said, poking him with a stick, “but I’m the sweet potatoe.”

“You’re more like the broccoli,” Nicky muttered. “Bossy and weird but kind of important.”

“Thank you,” she replied grandly.

Rio snorted and leaned toward Agatha’s ear. “Tell me again why we’re not stealing that child.”

Agatha smirked, subtle and small. “Because we already have one vegetable queen.”

Violet, oblivious to her newfound sovereignty, dropped her spoon and attempted to climb Rio’s shoulder like it was a mountain.

“One rebellion at a time, my love,” Agatha murmured, brushing her fingers lightly against Rio’s back. “But if she asks to move in, I’m not saying no.”

Rio grinned. “We’ll clear a drawer.”

Theodora and Nicky, now an inseparable pair, darted off together across the garden, their laughter trailing behind them like ribbon streamers in the wind. Moments later, they returned with their hands full of freshly picked daisies, buttercups, and a few suspiciously stubby twigs.

Rio sat Violet down on the grass at Agatha’s feet and gave her a breadstick. Violet happily gnawed on it — her cheeks round, her hands crumb-dusted. She blinked up as the two older kids approached, Nicky kneeling dramatically.

“Your Majesty Vivi, we bring gifts from the Flower Fields of Petalonia,” he declared with all the solemnity of a knight in a bedtime story. “Please accept these in honor of your reign!”

Theodora gave an exaggerated curtsy and added, “Queen Violet the Brave. Defender of Breadsticks. Ruler of Petalonia and all grass patches west of the lemonade table.”

Rio, now crouching next to Violet to help wipe her fingers, looked up with a grin. “I didn’t realize we were sitting on royal soil.”

“Shh,” Nicky whispered. “It’s sacred ground.”

With great care, the two children began to tuck the daisies into Violet’s dark pigtails, threading them between tiny elastics and curls. Violet squealed with delight and clapped, knocking one flower loose, which Nicky solemnly replaced. Theodora was remarkably gentle, tilting Violet’s head with the skill of a seasoned big sister—even if she herself was the baby of her family.

“Do you think the Queen will knight us?” Theodora asked in a whisper.

“She might,” Nicky said, “if we bring her another breadstick.”

Violet blinked at them, then babbled something approvingly around a mouthful of crumbs. Whatever it was, the children clearly took it seriously.

From the bench, Agatha and Rio watched the scene — Violet seated among the blooms, crowned by her brother and cousin, adored and loud and sticky, the three of them wrapped in pretend kingdoms and sunlit joy.

Theodora shuffled to sit cross-legged in the grass, her black dress bunching slightly around her knees, as she plucked each petal from a daisy with meticulous focus. Her voice came out steady and grave — the seriousness only a child with big thoughts could pull off.

“By the way,” she announced, “I don’t like being called Theodora.”

Agatha, seated nearby, looked over, one brow arching in quiet interest. Rio leaned forward, curiosity blooming across her face.

“Oh?” Agatha said gently. “What would you like to be called, then?”

Theodora didn’t look up from the daisy in her fingers, but her tone left no room for argument. “Thea. Just Thea. Theodora sounds like a statue or an old lady or something. I’m not a statue. I want to be a spy. Or a bird.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, then Nicky, sitting beside her with grass in his hair and dirt streaked across both elbows, gasped in admiration. “You would be a really cool bird. Like one of those sleek black ones that lives in a tower and watches everything.”

Thea looked sideways at him, clearly pleased. “Or a hawk. A fast one.”

“I’d still call you Thea if you were a hawk,” Nicky added loyally. “I’m Nicholas, but everyone calls me Nicky. Except when Mama uses my full name and middle name at the same time. That’s when I know I’m about to die.”

Agatha chuckled quietly and reached over to give Nicky a little side hug, her hand smoothing over his back with that instinctive tenderness she never quite grew out of, no matter how old he got.

Rio, always ready to tease with warmth, raised a brow and asked, “And do you like being called Nicky?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, without hesitation. “And I like Nicholas too. It sounds like I could be in a book.”

“You do sound like a book,” Theodora agreed thoughtfully. “Like a knight who knows secret things. But I still want to be Thea.”

Agatha smiled. “Then Thea it is.” She knew the weight of names. The way identity could be both a shield and a reclamation.

Rio smiled, a slow, proud curve of her mouth. “We take that stuff seriously around here,” she said. “Once you tell us who you are, that’s who we love.”

Thea glanced up, brow lifted in challenge. “Even if I change my mind again later?”

“Even then,” Agatha said simply.

“Absolutely,” Rio nodded, lifting a pinky in mock oath. “Name it and claim it. You want to be Thea today, you’re Thea. You want to be a hawk tomorrow, we’ll get you feathers.”

Thea grinned, suddenly luminous, the daisy forgotten in her lap. “Okay. But you have to promise to listen if I ever change again.”

Agatha lifted one hand solemnly, crossing her heart with her index finger. “Promise.”

Nicky immediately mimicked the gesture and reached across the grass to tap her hand like sealing a pact. “Me too,” he whispered.

Violet, with her hair still crowned in flower petals, blinked at all of them and let out a delighted babble, slapping her palms against her legs like she was also making a solemn vow. One of the petals in her hair drifted down over her eye, and she sneezed in response, which only made the others laugh more.

On the grass below, Thea picked a new daisy and handed it to Violet with great ceremony. “For Her Royal Highness, Queen Baby of the Flower Kingdom.”

Violet screeched in approval and immediately tried to eat it.

Nicky bowed deeply. “I pledge my sword to the Queen.”

“I pledge my wings,” Thea declared, standing and striking a dramatic pose.

Rio grinned into her wife’s shoulder. “They’re all going to start a rebellion one day, aren’t they?”

Agatha nodded slowly, watching them with eyes gone soft and thoughtful. “Let’s hope so.”

After a while, Thea scooted over to where Agatha sat with Violet. Agatha noticed the girl’s approach from the corner of her eye, and turned slightly to face her. Thea folded her knees under herself and tilted her head with that sharp, inquisitive expression that Agatha recognized with a little jolt—like a mirror held up to her own childhood.

“Is it true you teach at a university?” Thea asked.

Agatha’s mouth curved into a soft smile. “It is,” she said, her tone warm but measured, always careful not to condescend to children who asked real questions.

She nodded toward Rio, who was a few feet away on the grass, her legs stretched out in front of her, palms braced behind her, face tipped toward the sun like a cat on a windowsill.

“We both do,” Agatha added.

Thea’s eyes widened with visible awe. “You’re professors?”

“Guilty as charged,” Rio said, flashing her a grin. “English Lit. Poetry. Between us, we could probably bore a room of adults to death.”

Thea didn’t laugh. Instead, her brow furrowed. “Can I ask you something weird?”

Agatha blinked. “You absolutely can.”

Thea leaned in a little, whisper-serious. “Why do people say ‘the good old days’ when so much was worse? I read that in a book.”

Agatha paused. That… was not the question she’d been expecting. She blinked again, then looked at Rio. Rio was already watching, wide-eyed with interest. The wind stirred the daisies Nicky had dropped.

“Well,” Agatha said slowly, “some people say that because remembering is easier than understanding. Especially when you don’t want to look too closely at what was wrong. You just… remember how it felt to you, not how it really was for everyone.”

Thea chewed on her lower lip. “So they miss something that wasn’t really good?”

“Sometimes,” Rio said gently, “they miss how simple it felt, even if it wasn’t right. Even if people were hurting. Sometimes pretending everything was good is easier than admitting you didn’t notice who was suffering.”

“And sometimes,” Agatha added, “they just miss being young. That kind of rose-colored memory—it’s often more about time than truth.”

Thea plucked a blade of grass, frowning with all the weight of the world on her little shoulders. “But I think it’s better now. Because people get to be who they are more. Like you and Rio. And Nicky’s not sad to be different. He’s proud. He gets to be soft and fast and smart and weird, and nobody tells him to stop.”

Agatha looked at her niece carefully. This girl… she saw too much. Just like Agatha had. Just like she’d learned to tuck things into her pockets for later and turn them over like stones. Her mind always clicking ahead of her age, trying to make sense of what adults couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say out loud.

“It is better now,” Agatha said, after a beat. “Not perfect. But better. And it keeps getting better, because of kids like you.”

Thea looked down at the grass again, as if trying to press that sentence into her memory. “I want to be part of the better. Not the remembering part. The fixing part.”

Agatha smiled slowly. “You already are, Thea.”

Rio reached out, brushing a bit of leaf from Thea’s knee. “You ask very good questions, Thea.”

Thea shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “I just think a lot.”

There was no self-consciousness in the admission. No need to explain. It was simply true, and she said it the way one might say I like oranges or I breathe air—a fact of her existence.

Agatha smiled, full and quiet and warm. “ And I hope you never stop.”

She didn’t say you remind me of me, but she thought it. She felt it. The sharp mind. The quiet bravery. The resistance to dullness and injustice. And it startled her how much hope that filled her with, how fiercely she wanted to protect this thoughtful little girl.

From across the garden, a familiar voice rang out.

“Thea! I found a huge beetle!”

It was Nicky, crouched near the edge of the flower beds, dirt on his palms, grinning like he’d unearthed buried treasure. His face lit up when he saw her turn, already waving her over.

He was used to these kinds of conversations with his moms—the slow, winding ones full of questions and complicated feelings—and was usually right in the middle of them. But even he knew when to make space.

Thea stood, brushing off her skirt, as if shifting gears between existential musings and beetle inspections was the most natural thing in the world. “Cool. I’m gonna go look at it.”

As she ran off, Rio leaned toward Agatha and murmured, “That one’s going to break a lot of cycles.”

Agatha let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “God, I hope so.”

And Rio, feeling the weight of it, slid her hand over Agatha’s, lacing their fingers together in the grass with a silent promise. Not that they could fix everything. But that they could try. That they were trying. That they’d keep the door open wide for girls like Thea—and boys like Nicky—and babies like Violet who hadn’t yet learned what the world might try to take from them.

A few minutes later, Thea came scampering back, cradling something delicately between her cupped hands. Her expression was gleeful and utterly serious at the same time.

“Look!” she said to Rio, holding out her palms to reveal a shiny black beetle crawling over her fingers. “Nicky says it’s an explorer beetle. It might be looking for a treasure.”

Rio leaned in with great genuine interest, Violet now cruising peacefully around them. “That beetle clearly has a very important mission. Are you its translator?”

Thea’s grin lit her whole face. She glanced at the beetle, then nodded with seriousness. “I speak fluent beetle now. I learned it in… twenty minutes.”

“Gifted,” Rio said, nodding. 

Thea grinned, then went quiet for a second. She glanced over her shoulder, then looked back at Rio. “Um. Can I say something kind of weird again?”

“Always,” Rio said, leaning forward toward the girl.

Thea hesitated, her thumb absently stroking the back of the beetle’s shell. “Mother says…” She paused, picked her words with the precision of someone who’d already been corrected for getting them wrong. “She says you’re not really my aunt. Because you and Aunt Agatha’s marriage isn’t… real.”

She didn’t look up. Her eyes flicked downward, then up again — stubborn and searching, full of both hurt and defiance. “But I don’t think that’s true.”

Agatha caught the tail end of that, went very still. She watched Thea carefully, saw no cruelty in her face—only a child trying to make sense of clashing realities.

Rio tilted her head. “Well, Thea, your mother’s wrong. Our marriage is just as real as anyone else’s. We signed the papers, made the vows, wore ridiculous outfits, cried like fools—”

“I didn’t cry,” Agatha muttered dryly.

Rio gave her a look. “—okay, for the millionth time, you absolutely did. We have witnesses.”  Then she turned back to Thea. « She looked like a goddess. We have the rings, the photos, the arguments about paint colors. Children. And we love and support each other and want to spend the rest of our life with each other. That’s what makes a marriage real.”

Agatha’s voice came in. “And that life we’ve built? It includes you. I’m your aunt. And Rio is too. Not pretend. Not part-time. Family doesn’t have to ask permission to be real.”

Thea absorbed that, brows furrowed slightly in thought. Then she looked up at Rio and asked very seriously, “Can I call you Aunt Rio, then?” Like naming things made them true.

Rio’s smile softened so much it nearly crumpled. She reached out and smoothed a bit of hair behind Thea’s ear. “I would be honored.”

Thea nodded like a deal had been struck, solid and final.

And then — without warning — Thea launched forward and threw her arms around Rio’s neck in a fierce little hug, beetle forgotten. It only lasted a second, fast and tight like she didn’t entirely trust herself to linger, but the warmth of it stayed, sharp and startling.

She scrambled back just as quickly, glancing over her shoulder with furtive precision to see if her mother had noticed. Her whole posture tensed for a beat — not out of guilt, but out of strategy. Her eyes darted, lips pursed. When she saw her mother was distracted in conversation across the yard, her shoulders dropped an inch in quiet relief.

Then, with the same urgency, Thea shuffled to Agatha’s side and did the same — another quick, bursting hug around her neck. She buried her face for half a heartbeat in Agatha’s neck before retreating just as fast, her cheeks pink.

Agatha’s hand rose automatically, cupping the back of Thea’s head just for that one small moment, soft and gentle. Her face didn’t change much — but Rio knew her well enough to see what it meant. The little twitch of her jaw. The way she blinked more slowly than usual.

Thea took a step back and squared her shoulders like something official had taken place — something binding. Her eyes were bright now, her whole body humming with the thrill of having made a choice that felt like power.

Then, with a gleam in her eye, she turned and yelled toward the garden, “Nicky! The beetle’s ready for the next mission!”

Nicky, who was halfway across the lawn inspecting a tree stump, shouted back, “Let’s go! Queen Violet needs her scouts!”

And just like that, Thea took off at a sprint, the beetle still safely in her hand.

Rio stood slowly, brushing her knees, and gave Agatha a long look. Agatha, expression unreadable, watched their niece rejoin the chaotic orbit of childhood.

The garden around them buzzed with the soft chaos of children: Nicky shouting something unintelligible from behind a bush, Violet babbling as she tried to crawl toward a bee, the world unaware of the quiet, sacred shift that had just taken place.

Rio stepped closer, then reached down just in time to catch Violet as she veered too close to the stepping stones. “Not so far, Vivi Moon,” she murmured, scooping her daughter into her arms and pressing a kiss to her head, soft and lingering. “Stay with me, little explorer.”

Then she looked up, eyes meeting Agatha’s across the sun-dappled space between them.

“Did that feel like a victory?” Rio asked, her voice low but clear. 

Agatha exhaled softly. “No. That felt like a beginning.” A pause. “Every time she chooses to believe us instead of what she’s been told… that’s a crack in the wall.”

Rio nodded slowly, the wind teasing at her loose curls. “And we’ll be here when it all breaks open.”

There was nothing dramatic in the way she said it — no fire, no flurry of promise — only calm conviction, steady and bone-deep. Like they’d already prepared for this, silently and together, long before Thea ever asked a question.

Agatha’s voice dropped to a soft murmur as she leaned closer to Rio, her eyes still following Thea’s figure with a mixture of concern and something fiercer, more protective.

Agatha looked at her wife. “We should send her books — the right ones. Ones that don’t just tell her how things are supposed to be, but show her how things could be. Worlds she can walk into when hers gets too small.”

Rio smiled — wry, crooked, touched with just the right amount of mischief. “And maybe an escape plan. You know. Just in case.”

Agatha huffed a soft, dry laugh, but the fire in her eyes didn’t waver. “Not maybe. Definitely.”

Then her voice fell, nearly a whisper. “She can’t be left to rot in that house.”

Her hand balled lightly at her side. “Eugenia didn’t let me disappear,” she continued, voice rough with the weight of it. “I won’t let her either. No child should be taught to swallow themselves whole.”

“I know,” Rio said. “You won’t.”

A line drawn across generations, in blood, and in defiance and tenderness. A quiet revolution written in small gestures: a beetle held carefully in small hands. A nickname reclaimed. A whispered “Aunt Rio.” A secret hug. Another Matilda.

Agatha closed her eyes, only for a second. “Then we give her something worth remembering.”

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Chapter Text

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The sun had just began its descent behind the chapel garden’s hedges.

It was time to leave.

Agatha stood quietly, her eyes flicking toward the path ahead before settling on her daughter. She crouched beside Violet, brushing a leaf from the toddler’s skirt. The little star-dotted dress—creased now from a long day of exploring—still held the faintest in the light. Agatha smoothed the fabric gently, then adjusted the cardigan over Violet’s small shoulders and lifted her up in her arms. Violet blinked up at her, cheeks flushed, curls sticking to her forehead, looking both sleepy and content, as if she could barely tell if this was the end of an adventure or the beginning of a dream.

With her free hand, Agatha reached out and found Nicky’s. He was already standing close, like he’d been waiting. Their fingers threaded together without a word. He held his daisy crown proudly in his other hand, a little crooked now, petals rumpled, but still intact—his personal offering to a day filled with meaning he didn’t yet have the words for.

Rio adjusted the baby bag over one shoulder and leaned in to kiss the top of Violett’s head, murmuring something only the little girl could hear. Violet made a soft, pleased sound and nuzzled against her mama’s collarbone before letting herself be passed gently onto Rio’s hip.

“Let’s make the rounds,” she said softly.

Agatha straightened slowly, her jaw tightening as her eyes drifted toward the chapel entrance. Her posture shifted slightly—subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders drawn up, chin lifted.

“Eugenia would demand dignity,” she said at last, her voice low, flat as a stone but carrying all the weight in the world.

Rio glanced at her, searching, and then nodded with quiet understanding. “Then she’ll have it.”

Agatha took a slow breath in and looked down at Nicky. “Ready, love?”

He nodded solemnly, slipping the daisy crown over his head again and straightening it as best he could. 

They crossed the lawn together. The sound of chatter drifted across the garden, brittle and forced. A cluster of older relatives stood in a semi-circle near the trimmed boxwood hedge, nursing tea and brandy with the ceremonial detachment of people who knew how to mourn someone without saying anything real. At the center of them stood Margaret stood—immaculate as always, her hair lacquered into perfection, posture like iron, the undisputed matriarch holding court with rigidity.

“Margaret,” Agatha said coolly, offering the barest nod of civility. Her voice was smooth, measured, and distant. “Thank you for hosting. It was a… memorable afternoon.”

Margaret smiled thinly, a smile that made her cheekbones look like weapons. “Of course. It was important for all branches of the family to be here.” Her eyes flicked pointedly to Rio and the children before she added with a glint that was anything but warm, “Even the more… unconventional ones.”

There it was. The quiet dig. Subtle as a razor.

Rio smiled sweetly, shifting Violet slightly in her arms. “Isn’t it wonderful how the family tree still grows, no matter how twisted the roots?”

There was a pause—a mmt where Agatha had to look away to keep from laughing outright. She cleared her throat lightly, schooling her expression. “We appreciate the reception,” she added with glacial politeness. “It means a great deal to have paid our respects.”

They began to turn, feet already angled toward the garden gate, when Margaret’s voice cut after them—light, laced with civility so sharp it could draw blood.

“Well… best of luck with your little ones,” she said with a silken smile. “I imagine it must be challenging, raising children without a proper father figure.”

The words hung in the air like a sour perfume.

Agatha stopped mid-step. She turned her head slowly, her eyes dark and steady, voice like flint. “We’re raising them to recognize love, respect, and strength when they see it. We are giving them a family rooted in truth, not performance. And they are growing up safe. And loved. And free. They’re doing just fine.”

Rio didn’t turn. She rocked Violet gently, her fingers rhythmically brushing the child’s hair. But her voice came clear and dry over her shoulder, like a match striking stone.

“And they’re not learning bitterness, judgment, or quiet bigotry passed off as tradition. So I’d say we’re ahead.”

Margaret scoffed, but they didn’t look back again.

They had barely walked ten steps when an older woman, elegant and softly wrinkled, with silver hair pinned in a loose bun, approached them from near the edge of the garden. There was no stiffness in her walk, no show in her expression for once— only the easy gravity of someone who’d lived long enough to discard pretense. Her eyes found Agatha’s first and softened.

“I was hoping I’d see you,” she said, reaching out and gently patting Violet’s head, then brushing her knuckles affectionately down Nicky’s cheek. “You must be Nicholas,” she added warmly. “And this little star must be Violet.”

Nicky lit up. “That’s me! And she’s sleepy but she’s still in charge,” he added proudly, glancing at his sister.

Violet blinked up at the woman with mild curiosity, nestled securely against Rio’s shoulder, and made a quiet humming sound of acknowledgment—but didn’t pull away.

"Cecilia, right?" Agatha asked the lady, looking at her curiously. 

The lady nodded, her eyes soft, open and warm. 

“Eugenia always spoke so fondly of you, Agatha. Every letter she wrote, every Christmas card. every note tucked into the corners—your name was always there. You were her bright spot. Her girl.”

Agtha stilled. Something in her composure cracked — the tiniest fracture that let emotion bleed through. She blinked a few times, not trusting her voice just yet, and reached forward to take the woman’s hand gently in both of hers.

“She’d be proud to see your family,” the woman said, giving Agatha’s fingers a reassuring squeeze. “These beautiful children. The life you’ve made. It’s strong.”

Agatha’s throat moved like she was swallowing down something tight and aching. “Thank you. That… that means more than I can say.”

Rio watched them quietly, one hand gently stroking Violet’s back, her other arm wrapped around Nicky’s shoulder as the little boy leaned against her side.

The woman leaned a little closer to Agatha, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her. “Eugenia always hated how this family tried to box people in. She couldn’t stand it. But you… you were the one who gave her hope they couldn’t. She said you never fit their mold, and thank God for that. She said you reminded her that surviving wasn’t the same as shrinking.”

Her hand rose briefly to brush Agatha’s cheek in a gesture that felt maternal, familiar—like she’d might have done it once before, many years ago. “You still do.”

Agatha closed her eyes briefly, holding on to that hand a moment longer. Then she looked over at Rio and her children, her heart tight but full.

“I’m glad someone remembers the right things,” she murmured.

The woman smiled gently, the kind of smile that understood far more than it said out loud. “Some of us always did.”

She gave Rio a soft nod and bent slightly to kiss the top of Nicky’s head. Then, with the same grace she’d arrived with, she turned and made her way back toward a tall, kind-eyed man waiting for her at the edge of the garden, watching over her with patience.

Rio stepped close, letting their shoulders ouch.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice low.

Agatha nodded once, then again, slower. “Yeah,” she said, her voice steadying. “I think… I think I needed that.”

A minut later, a woman in her thirties with a kind face and a juice-stained blouse approached Rio as she gently bounced Violet on her hip. Two toddlers clung to the woman’s legs, both sticky-fingered and already halfway undone from their formal clothes. She offered a sympathetic smile, eyes flicking to Violet, who was blinking slowly, thumb in her mouth.

“Long day for the littles,” the woman said with a dry, knowing laugh, shifting the taller toddler to her opposite leg as he attempted to scale her like a jungle gym.

Rio smiled back—tired, but genuine. “And for the not-so-littles too. I think I’m about three minutes from a juice box meltdown myself.”

The woman grinnedd. “Oh, same. Mine lasted twenty minutes into the ceremony before a full emotional collapse. Bribed them with two cookies and a juice box just to make it to the end without anyone throwing a chair.”

Rio chuckled, bouncing Violet slightly as she stirred. “You’re a pro. Ours went the operatic route—dramatic wailing, full-body flailing, the waterworks. I think she scared a few old relatives half to death.”

“She’s got lungs,” the woman agreed, casting a glance at Violet, who blinked back owlishly, thumb still in her mouth. “But she’s clearly well-loved.”

Rio looked down at her daughter, her expression softening completely. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the crown of Violet’s head. “She is. Every inch of her.”

The woman’s eyes drifted across the garden, where Nicky has wandered a little further away, waiting for his moms to say good-bye, and was now sitting cross-legged beside Thea, carefully balancing daisies along the top of her shoes.

“And your boy… he has a good heart. I saw him earlier, giving his snack to that little girl who’d drop hers. He didn’t even hesitate—just handed her his own and sat next to her like it was no big deal. That kind of kindness—you can’t teach that. Not really.”

Rio’s face lit up. She didn’t even try to hide the pride that bloomed across her features. “That’s Nicky. He’s… he’s got more empathy than most adults I know. Sometimes I forget he’s only eight.”

She looked back down at Violet, who was nearly asleep again, her little hand fisted in the fabric of her blouse.

“Both of them… They’re the best thing Agatha and I have ever done. “

The woman nodded, her expression gentling even more. “It shows.”

For a moment, they stood quietly among the scattered clusters of people and too many doilies, the shared understanding of tired but fierce motherhood passing easily between them.

Just then, one of the toddlers beside the woman plucked a petunia from a low flower arrangement and attempted to stuff it into his mouth.

“Ah, nope. Not lunch,” she muttered, catching it mid-chomp. “Sorry, baby, that’s strictly decorative.”

She gave Rio an apologetic smile, tucking the slightly crumpled flower behind her ear out of pure habit, then juggled the weight of both children as they began tugging in opposite directions.

“Well. Good luck with the journey home. Hopefully she naps.”

Rio gave a helpless little laugh. “Hopefully I nap.”

The woman laughed as she began to shuffle off after her escape artists.

Rio waved with her free hand. “And hey — three cookies next time. Just in case.”

They laughed, and the woman disappeared after her wayward children just as Agatha rejoined Rio. Agatha raised a brow as she looked at her wife.

“Making new friends?”

Rio shrugged, grinning. “Mom club. We have a code.”

Agatha knelt beside the stroller and adjusted the soft buckle across Violet’s waist, tucking the skirt of her little dress beneath her legs and brushing a stray daisy petal from the baby’s hair. Violet blinked sleepily, cheeks pink from sun and sugar, already halfway to dreams.

It was then that Agatha felt it—that quiet presence hovering. She looked up and spotted a girl standing a few feet away, just past the trimmed hedges. She was tall, all knees and elbows, the long awkwardness of adolescence not quite settled into grace. Her dark braids were neat but frayed at the ends, and her arms were crossed so tightly over her chest it seemed more like a shield than a comfort.

She had the air of someone who didn’t want to be noticed, but couldn’t quite bring herself to leave either.

Agatha rose slowly, brushing her hands down her skirt as she studied the girl’s face. There was something familiar—an echo of childhood in the eyes, a flash of memory tied to a much smaller figure darting through the halls of family gatherings, always just on the edge of someone else’s shadow.

Then it clicked. She was a distant younger cousin from Eudora’s husband’s side.

“Alexandra?” Agatha asked, her voice gentle, careful not to startle.

The girl nodded, hesitant, like her name was a secret she hadn’t heard spoken aloud in years. “You… remember me?”

Agatha’s lips softened into a smile, both amused and wistful. “You used to sneak sugar cubes from Eugenia’s tea tray when you thought no one was looking. And you cried during Easter lunch one year because your tights itched and no one would let you take them off.”

A surprised laughter broke through Alexandra’s stiff posture. “I didn’t think anyone remembered that. I thought I was invisible back then.”

Agatha took a slow step forward, closing a little of the space between them without intruding. She kept her posture open, voice low. “You weren’t invisible. You were quiet. And sweet. And a little stubborn. I remember thinking you had the biggest eyes I’d ever seen on a child.”

Alexandra looked away at that, blinking toward the garden path, but she didn’t retreat. A gust of wind lifted a few strands of hair from her shoulder, and she shifted her weight awkwardly, like she wasn’t used to standing still.

Agatha studied her more closely now—the sharp angles of a girl trying hard not to take up space, the slight tremble in her fingers as she toyed with the hem of her sleeve. She had the look of someone who had spent too long learning when to speak, when to shrink. It seemed like a pattern in that family.

“I see someone different now,” Agatha said softly. “Someone who came over here on her own, even though she didn’t have to. That’s not nothing.”

Alexandra’s lips pressed into a line, but her eyes were wet. Not crying—just full, like maybe her body hadn’t quite decided whether it was safe to feel anything yet.

“I liked her,” the girl said suddenly. “Eugenia. She was the only one who remembered my birthday last year. She mailed me a book. No one else even texted.”

Agatha’s heart squeezed. She nodded, voice steady. “That sounds like her. She never forgot the quiet ones.”

A long silence followed, but not an uncomfortable one. Violet shifted in her stroller, letting out a soft snuffling sigh. Somewhere across the garden, Nicky let out a loud, theatrical groan of protest as he was finally corralled into putting on his jacket.

Alexandra glanced toward the noise, then back at Agatha. Her voice, when she spoke again, was barely above a whisper. “Is it always like this? These things—family stuff? I don’t know how to do it.”

Agatha let out a slow breath, a rueful laugh woven in. “No one really knows how to do it. Not when the family’s fractured. But you showed up. You stood here. That’s more than most.”

The girl shrugged, still guarded, but there was a flicker of something else now—curiosity, maybe. Or hope.

“Would you…” she hesitated, eyes on Violet now. “Would it be weird if I… came to say goodbye to her?”

Agatha smiled again, this time letting it reach all the way to her eyes. “Not weird at all. I think she’d like that.”

She stepped aside, just enough for Alexandra to approach, and watched quietly as the girl leaned down and gently touched Violet’s hand. The toddler stirred briefly, blinked once at the unfamiliar face, then gave a little sigh and turned her cheek against her shoulder.

“She’s beautiful,” Alexandra murmured.

“She looks just like her mom,” Agatha said softly.

Alexandra gaze flicked to Rio, uncertain, but Rio only offered her a quiet, welcoming smile, stepping back just half a pace to make space.

The teenager turned to Agatha again, eyes wide and vulnerable, like she was still deciding whether to speak or run.

“I…” Alexandra’s fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve. “I wanted to say… I liked the way you stand.”

Agatha blinked, surprised.

The girl flushed, but kept going, the words spilling out in fits and starts. “Even when people were being weird or… cold, or just—mean. You stood proud. Not loud. Just… real. Like you weren’t shrinking. And it made me want to know more. About Aunt Eugenia. And… about you.”

Agatha’s heart clenched. She looked at the girl, at the nerves trembling in her limbs, at the courage it was taking just to stay standing in front of her. Slowly, a smile unfolded across Agatha’s face--wry, warm, and full of something deeply maternal.

“Then ask,” she said gently. “That’s how you find your people. You ask. You wonder. And you pay attention to who listens.”

Alexandra nodded quickly, swallowing hard. She rubbed at one eye like she wasn’t sure whether she was crying or just overwhelmed. “I think… I want to listen more. And maybe… say something too.”

She took a deep breath, sharp with hesitation, like air she wasn’t sure she deserved.

“I think I’m like you,” she said, voice trembling. “Not exactly like you, but… I don’t think I like boys. Not like I’m supposed to. I think I like girls. And I’ve never said that out loud. Ever.”

The words came out in a rush and then silence followed—tense, uncertain.

Agatha didn’t speak right away. She reached out and very gently took Alexandra’s hand.

“Thank you,” she said softly, steady as a heartbeat. “Thank you for trusting me with that part of yourself. That’s not a small thing. That’s something brave people do. And brave people like you are perfect just the way they are.”

Alexandra’s chin quivered. Her eyes shimmered, though she blinked fast, trying to keep it together. “I didn’t know who I could say it to. I thought I was broken. Or lying to myself. But then I saw you and your wife… and your kids. And you weren’t hiding. You were just… living. And I thought maybe it’s okay to be like this. To be me.”

“It’s more than okay,” Rio said, stepping up beside them now. Her voice was low and certain. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. And you’re not alone, sweetheart. Not even close.”

The breath Alexandra let out was shaky and enormous, like it had been locked in her chest for years. Her shoulders slumped—not in defeat, but in relief, like a weight had fallen away.

“You two are kind of like… role models, I guess,” she admitted, a little bashful, a little in awe. “Especially in this family. No one else…” She glanced over her shoulder toward the chapel again, her nose wrinkling faintly. “Well. You know.”

Agatha let out a low, amused hum. “Tough crowd.”

That earned a laugh from Alexandra—an actual, full laugh, a laughh that made her look younger and older all at once. She reached forward in a burst of instinct and wrapped her arms around Agatha in a hesitant, shy hug.

Agatha didn’t hesitate. She hugged her back like someone who had known her far longer, with the quiet understanding that some hugs need to last just a second longer than usual to really count, jjst like she had done with her little niece earlier in the afternoon..

“I’m glad I saw you today,” Alexandra murmured into her shoulder. “I didn’t think anything good would come out of it.”

“Well,” Rio said gently, smiling at her, “you found us. So I’d call that a win.”

Violet babbled in the stroller and kicked her feet as if agreeing, and Alexandra giggled, brushing a hand over the baby’s soft curls before she turned to go.

“I think I want to stand proud too,” she said, quieter now, but certain.

And then she turned and walked back toward the stone path—still awkward, still herself, but taller somehow. Like the words had added weight to her spine to grounf her instead of weighing her down.

Agaha stood still a moment longer, eyes misty.

Rio slipped her arm around her wife’s waist. “That’s two girls today who won’t forget you.”

Agatha leaned into her touch. “Then today wasn’t a waste at all.”

Then finally, Agatha and Rio gathered their things, ready to finally  leave. Violet was babbling in her stroller, waving her hands at nothing in particular, and Rio had just zipped up the baby bag when she called across the lawn:

“Nicky! Come on, love, time to go!”

Nicky, breathless and flushed from racing, turned mid-laugh and waved. But before he could run over, Theodora darted ahead of him. She reached out and gave Nicky a tight, impulsive hug.

“You’re fun,” she said, sincerity thick in her voice. “I hope I see you again. You’re the coolest cousin I have.”

Nicky looked surprised, then lit up. “You’re the coolest too. And you run really fast.”

Thea grinned, then turned toward Agatha, expression shifting into something more serious, more vulnerable.

She stepped forward, blue eyes focused. “Can I write you?” she asked. “You and Aunt Rio. And Nicky. And Violet, too? I want to keep in touch. I mean it.”

Agatha blinked, something tender catching in her throat. She knelt, looking directly into the girl’s bright, searching eyes.

“You absolutely can,” she said softly.

She reached into her bag, pulling free a worn notepad and tearing off a sheet of paper. With a quick flourish of pen strokes, she scribbled their address and folded it into a neat square, pressing it gently into Thea’s small hand.

Then, still crouched, Agatha said with gentle gravity. “Any time you want to talk. About books, or spies, or people who say rude things and don’t think you notice—write to me. I’ll always answer. Promise.”

Theodora beamed like a lantern being lit from within. “Deal. And you’ll write me too?”

“Cross my heart.”

From across the garden, a sharp hiss cracked through the moment. “Theodora!”

Margaret stood stiffly by the lemonade table, lips pressed tight.

Thea turned her head slowly, cast a glance at her mother, and then—without haste or fear—lifted her hand in a casual, indifferent wave. Not apologetic. Not asking for permission. Just… acknowledging. Almost dismissing.

And then she turned back to Agatha, her smile sly and secretive, and walked off with her head held high, the address gripped tight in her fist.

Agatha straightened, watching her go, something fierce and fragile stirring in her chest.

“That one’s really got spine,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Rio, standing beside her now, glanced sideways with a knowing smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “She’s a Harkness,” she said softly. “The good kind.”

Agatha reached for her hand without even thinking, and together, they turned toward the gate, the stroller rolling in front of them and Nicky skipping behind.

The sun dipped low, but something else rose in the quiet, a promise passed on, one girl at a time.

As they passed through the chapel gates and onto the gravel path, the hum of the reception faded behind them. The garden’s noises dulled — polite laughter, tepid clinking of cups, Margaret’s pointed voice somewhere in the distance — until it was just the sound of Violet softly humming to herself in her stroller and Nicky quietly counting clouds, careful not to miss one.

Agatha exhaled deeply, as though letting go of something old and calcified that had lived under her skin for too long. Her spine lengthened as she walked, her shoulders lowering with a quiet dignity earned only after surviving something no one ever fully sees.

She spoke quietly, her eyes ahead, but her hand never letting go of Rio’s. “Eugenia was the only reason I ever felt tethered to this family. Now… now I think we’ve officially outgrown them.”

Rio, walking close enough for their arms to brush, leaned into her wife’s shoulder with a warm press.

“Then let’s build our own family tree,” she murmured, “One that loves back. One with roots that choose us, and branches that reach toward the sun, not away from it. We’ll give it names like Violet and Nicky and… Thea or Alexandra.”

She paused, her eyes lifting to the horizon where the sky opened wide above the gravel path. “Thea’s the wild little seed that fights back. The kind that keeps blooming even in poor soil. But if we give her somewhere safe to grow, somewhere soft to land… she’ll thrive. And Alexandra can be a flower. One that only blooms where the conditions are good, but when it does, it’s so pretty and joyful.”

That was such a Rio metaphor to say. Her beloved plants, her beloved garden growing under her tender care.

Agatha’s lips quirked at the corner, eyes softening. She nodded once. “Yes. We’ll give them light. That’s all they need.”

They walked a little further in silence, the weight of the day slowly sloughing off, replaced by the quiet joy of their small, determined circle.

Violet kicked gently in her stroller, babbling again. Nicky darted a few steps ahead to chase a butterfly, then circled back, grabbing Rio’s fingers with sticky ones, anchoring himself to her without even looking. Agatha watched them both, her family: the one she chose, the one that chose her right back .

As the chapel shrank behind them and the world stretched out in front of them, Rio glanced sideways and murmured, “You know… if trees could talk, I think ours would be loud and a little chaotic, with roots that curve weird and blossoms that don’t match — but it would be strong. And it would love back. Just like the one you painted in Vivi’s nursery. »

Agatha smiled, a quiet curve of her mouth that lit her eyes. “Then let’s plant it. Today.”

Rio turned, her tone playfully admiring. “You were incredible. You handled Margaret like a pro. It was like watching a swan glide across a lake while holding a knife behind its back.”

Agatha snorted, adjusting the strap of the diaper bag that had somehow ended up over her shoulder. “It took every ounce of self-control I had not to launch a canapé straight at her aggressively symmetrical face.”

Rio laughed. “Which is why you’re the classy one in this marriage.”

Agatha gave her a long-suffering look, but her lips twitched despite herself. “Please. If you’d thrown it, it would’ve landed perfectly — martini glass, center splash, and not a single olive disturbed.”

They both cracked up quietly, trying not to disturb Violet, who had just started to doze.

Nicky ran a little ahead and turned back, arms outstretched like wings. “Fly with me, Mama! Come on, Mommy!”

Agatha looked at her wife, the love practically spilling out of her eyes.

“We did good, didn’t we?” she whispered.

Rio didn’t even hesitate. “We did the best.”

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Chapter Text

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*

Before heading back to the train station, they realized they still had a generous stretch of time left. So they wandered a few blocks away from the chapel and found a quiet park tucked between old buildings and soft shadows, where the world felt slower, quieter.

The park was almost empty, blessedly so : no clatter, no chatter, just the hush of trees whispering to one another in the breeze. Their leaves stirred with the easy dignity of something that had watched generations come and go, unimpressed by ceremony or grief or gossip. Beneath one particularly wide and ancient elm, they laid out a faded tartan blanket from the bottom of the stroller basket, brushing away a few twigs and settling into a little cocoon of calm.

The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy in golden fragments, dappling the grass and their skin like spilled light. It bathed them in warmth, gentle and forgiving, and it made the polished tension of the day behind them seem far away — something from another life.

Nicky, unburdened by adult concerns and already restored by a juice box and the simple miracle of open space, kicked off his shoes and took off like a rocket across the grass. His laughter rang out behind him like a charm. He ran in big loops, arms stretched wide like wings, his shadow chasing him in dizzy circles.

Violet squealed, her whole body vibrating with excitement, and flopped forward onto all fours with a determination far larger than her size. Her chubby hands pat-patted the blanket and then the grass, knees wobbling beneath her, dress riding up in the back and curls bouncing like tiny springs. She was a comet of joy, set on following her brother as far as her baby limbs would take her.

Nicky glanced back — just once — and Violet shrieked with laughter, as if he’d just revealed the funniest secret in the universe. He darted closer to her, bent low, and made a silly face, which only sent her into another fit of delighted giggles. He let her catch his toe with a wobbly hand, then gently scooped her up with the wobbliness of a practiced big brother and spun them both in a lazy circle, her laughter bubbling up into the trees.

Agatha watched them from the blanket, half-leaning on one elbow, a small, tired smile playing at her mouth. She looked… lighter. Her heels were off, her jacket folded nearby, and her hand rested gently on Rio’s knee — absent-minded, familiar.

Rio, sitting beside her with her legs stretched out and her shoes tucked under the edge of the blanket, held a bottle of water and a deep breath she hadn’t realized she needed. The way the sunlight hit Agatha’s hair — caught in streaks of brown and the faintest strands of silver — made her want to kiss her wife right then and there, just for being hers, for surviving this long, hard day with her, for still being gentle even when the world had demanded sharpness.

“You know,” Rio murmured, tilting her head to watch Violet screech with joy as Nicky plopped her into a little nest of clover, “we should get lost like this more often.”

Agatha glanced sideways. “You mean in parks? Or in time?”

Rio smiled. “Both.”

A breeze stirred the branches above them, sending a flurry of elm leaves skittering across the blanket. Violet reached for one, wide-eyed and serious now, fascinated by its rustle. Nicky sat cross-legged beside her, narrating something about tree goblins and leaf pirates, and she looked at him like he was the center of the world.

Rio lay back onto the blanket with a small huff, tipping  her head back until it found its place in Agatha’s lap — a familiar cradle of safety. Her eyes fluttered closed for what she told herself would be just a moment, but her fingers, without thinking, curled gently around her wife’s knee. A tether. A touch that said I’m here. I’m still yours. I’m just tired.

The day had been long, sharp-edged in places, but this… this was the calm after the storm.

Agatha’s hand moved immediately, instinctively, into her wife’s hair — tousled and slightly windblown from the walk and the air that still danced through the trees. She combed her fingers through the strands slowly, rhythmically, like a lullaby without sound. The touch that had learned her over years: how to calm her, how to anchor her, how to say I love you without saying a word.

With her other hand, Agatha shielded her eyes against the sunlight filtering through the leaves, gaze trained forward. The breeze was picking up again, soft and leafy. It carried the scent of grass and sun-warmed bark, and somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of a train on its way to somewhere else. But they were going nowhere — not yet.

Ahead of them, their children danced in a world entirely their own. Nicky had adopted a new game: spinning wide, dizzying loops around Violet with his arms straight out, making airplane noises and occasionally declaring himself Captain Nicky of the Backyard Purple Skies. Violet, always his enthusiastic audience, had toppled over into the grass, giggling from her belly and then clapping her hands as if the entire show had been performed just for her.

Agatha watched them, quiet, her expression softening into something that could only be called awe. “They’re so… unburdened.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s everything I wanted for them.”

Rio opened her eyes, gazing up at her through the golden light, and smiled. “It’s everything you gave them.”

Agatha blinked down at her, throat tightening just a little. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Rio’s forehead, then let her cheek rest there for a moment. The scent of Rio’s hair, the laughter of their children, the sun breaking through the canopy — it all sank into her like warmth into old bones.

Nearby, Nicky flopped onto the grass next to his baby sister, both of them breathless with joy.

Violet reached out, chubby fingers catching his sleeve with a grunt of effort. She tugged until he turned toward her, and then launched into a very serious string of babbles and sounds that clearly meant something important — at least to her.

Nicky straightened his posture immediately, nodding with mock solemnity. “Yes, Your Majesty the Empress. Your flowers are ready for inspection.”

Agatha snorted, and Rio cracked one eye open. “Did she promote herself from Queen of Petalonia to Empress while we weren’t looking?”

Agatha chuckled, fingers resuming their lazy path through Rio’s hair. “Power corrupts quickly. Especially in monarchies founded entirely on flower crowns and baby babble.”

Rio huffed a laugh, eyelids fluttering fully open now. “Especially in the flower realm,” she echoed with gravity. “Cutthroat politics. Nothing but daisies and betrayal.”

As if on cue, the children’s laughter erupted again. Violet had fallen backward into the grass, both legs kicking, a crumpled daisy clutched proudly in her tiny fist. She rolled forward again and crawled toward them with purpose, holding the flower out like an offering.

Agatha leaned forward, both hands extended with exaggerated reverence, and accepted the gift as if it were the highest medal of honor. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said in a regal tone, bowing her head just enough to make Violet beam and Nicky fall over laughing.

“Make sure you display it properly,” Nicky called from the grass. “Last time she gave me a clover and I accidentally stepped on it and she yelled at me for five whole minutes. It was scary.”

Rio groaned dramatically and sat up, propping herself on one elbow. “She’s going to be a dictator by the time she’s two.”

Agatha grinned down at her. “Let’s be honest. She already is.”

Violet giggled at the attention, then flopped sideways into her mother’s lap, landing like a sack of potatoes. She immediately started tugging on Agatha’s fingers, demanding something only she understood.

Rio reached over, brushing a bit of grass from her daughter’s cheek. “Your Empress demands tribute, darling.”

Agatha nodded solemnly, tucking the crushed daisy behind her ear like it was a royal insignia. “I live to serve.”

Violet squealed in delight and clapped, as though she had just signed a peace treaty or won a war.

Meanwhile, a rustling sound came from the stroller, followed by a delighted little gasp.

Nicky had plunged headfirst into Violet’s bag like a treasure hunter on a mission. He emerged victorious, brandishing a bubble wand in the shape of a pink star, holding it aloft as though it were a sword pulled from stone.

“Look what I found!” he shouted, eyes gleaming with mischief and triumph.

Agatha blinked, recognizing the toy with a flicker of memory — a silly, glittery thing tucked in weeks ago by Alice and Jen during their last visit. She hadn’t seen it since.

Before either mother could say a word, Nicky had unscrewed the tiny cap with the skill of a seasoned saboteur and started swinging the wand through the air with gleeful abandon.

A shimmering tide of bubbles erupted from the wand, catching the sunlight and scattering like bits of living glass. They floated in slow, sparkling waves across the grass, wobbling and bursting and multiplying, leaving trails of rainbows in their wake.

“BUBBLES!” Nicky shrieked, already sprinting in wild zigzags, the wand clutched tightly in his hand. “We’re under attack!”

Violet, sensing chaos she didn’t yet understand but definitely wanted to be a part of, let out a delighted war cry of her own. She scrambled after him on hands and knees, squealing each time a bubble brushed her cheek or popped just out of reach. Her little legs kicked and her dress flared like she was a determined potato in royal bloom.

Agatha sat up, adjusting her sunglasses and doing her best to channel stern authority. She failed magnificently.

“Nicholas,” she called, voice clipped but lips twitching, “do not blow those directly at your sister’s face.”

Her tone hovered in that liminal space between parental warning and barely-contained laughter.

Rio, already laughing, waved a dismissive hand. “He’s creating atmosphere, Agatha. Like a Greek god of wind.”

Agatha raised a dry eyebrow. “Then he’d better not follow it up with a plague. That’s usually how those myths end.”

Rio laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth. “Please. He’s not the god of pestilence—he’s the Bubble Sorcerer. Bringer of chaos, yes. But only the very glamorous kind.”

“I’m the Bubble Sorcerer!” Nicky bellowed, caught up entirely in the myth of his own making. He whirled in circles, bubbles trailing behind him like spells, catching in his hair, clinging to his shirt, bursting on his arms.

Violet tumbled forward in an attempt to catch a particularly large one. She missed, landed squarely on her stomach, and immediately started giggling like it was the funniest failure in the world. Nicky ran back and popped one right above her head for dramatic flair.

Agatha watched them, finally giving up her performance of stern motherhood and sinking back down under Rio’s head, a hand on her wife's chest.

“He’s completely deranged,” Agatha murmured.

Rio’s hand joined her wife’s on her chest and brushed her knuckles against Agatha’s hand. “Takes after me.”

Agatha turned her head slowly, her eyes dancing with affection. “You’re crazy.”

Rio’s grin spread, wicked and proud. “Exactly.”

A bubble floated down right between them, landing softly on Agatha’s nose. It popped with a quiet plink, and both of them burst out laughing like children themselves.

They shared the modest leftovers they’d taken from the reception — a few fruit slices, crackers tucked into a napkin, and half a bottle of lukewarm water. It wasn’t much, but it tasted better now than earlier. They sat close on the blanket under the shade, the world quieter now, as if finally letting them breathe.

Agatha carefully peeled a banana and broke it into small, manageable bites. She fed Violet each piece slowly, her voice dipping into that tender register she reserved only for her children.

“There you go, little star,” she murmured, brushing a bit of fruit from Violet’s chin. “One more? That’s my brave girl.”

Violet gummed the banana with all the seriousnsess of a queen sampling royal delicacies, , eyebrows raised like she was carefully evaluating texture and sweetness.

Rio, still stretched out with her head in Agatha’s lap, watched the two of them, her expression caught somewhere between admiration and quiet awe. She let out a contented breath, eyes half-closed against the dappled light that filtered through the leaves above. One hand rested over her stomach, rising and falling slowly with each breath.

“You’re such a good mom, you know,” she said softly.

Agatha looked down at her, blinking in surprise, caught off guard by the gentleness of the moment. A subtle flush colored her cheeks. For a heartbeat, she didn’t say anything—just took in the sight of Rio, open and tired and full of love.

She reached down with her free hand and cupped Rio’s cheek, ingers stroking gently along the jawline she’d memorized long ago, her palm warm against the younger woman’s skin.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Then, slowly, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips—quiet and unrushed, not one of their fiery ones. Rio kissed her back, a hand coming up to rest on the wrist cradling her face, feeling her pulse.

When they parted, Agatha looked a little dazed in the nicest way.

“You really are,” Rio added, smiling up at her.

Agatha brushed a strand of hair behind Rio’s ear, her thumb lingering at the corner of her jaw. “Only because I’ve got you at my side,” she replied softly. “Everything good I do — I do because I learned how to love from you.”

And then Violet let out a delighted squeal because Nicky had returned, tossing a cracker into the air to catch it with his mouth like a circus seal, and the spell was broken—but not lost.

Nicky finished his cracker, brushing the crumbs from his fingersr, then sighed dramatically and flopped down on the blanket. He landed next to Rio with his head resting on Agatha’s legs too, just beside his mother’s. His feet kicked lazily in the grass.

“That was the worst funeral ever,” he declared, eyes closed like he was reliving it. “Except for the part where I met Thea. And the cake. The cake was okay.”

Agatha let out a smirk, tilting her head down to look at him. “Strong review, Nicholas.”

Rio, eyes twinkling as she reached over to poke his shoulder lightly, added, “It’s also the only funeral you’ve ever been to, sweetheart.”

Nicky blinked, considering. “Oh. Right. Then it’s still the worst one.”

Agatha huffed a quiet laugh, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “Not a high bar, clearly.”

He stretched his arms over his head and yawned like a cat. “Well, some people were weird. And kinda mean. And that one old guy tried to tell me and Thea that girls aren’t supposed to play pirates.” His nose scrunched. “He had very boring pants.”

Rio gave a snort of agreement and muttered, “Crimes against fashion and gender. Impressive.”

“But Thea was cool,” Nicky continued, unbothered. “She didn’t care that we don’t have a dad or that Violet eats breadsticks with her whole face.”

Rio giggled at that, and Agatha gave a proud little shrug. “That’s because Thea has excellent taste in people.”

Violet, still sitting nearby, let out a happy screech like she was fully in agreement. Nicky leaned over and gave her a kiss on the top of his baby sister’s head.

“I think Thea should come visit us,” he announced, already planning. “We could show her how to do bubble sorcery, and toast marshmallows, and maybe teach her how to make a potion out of leaf juice.”

“One step at a time,” Agatha murmured, amused. “But I have a feeling she’ll write soon.”

“She will,” Nicky said with the unwavering confidence of someone who had never once doubted the strength of his own charm. “She said I was the coolest cousin.”

“She was right,” Rio said warmly, reaching across to ruffle his hair. “But you didn’t just impress Thea today.”

Nicky blinked up at her, curious.

Rio looked at him, really looked, with that soft, thoughtful way she had. “You showed people who we are,” she said gently. “Not just a weird little family that doesn’t match the mold — but a real one. A strong one.”

Agatha watched her wife speak, the truth of it blooming quietly in her chest like something long-rooted and long-overdue. She ran a hand down Nicky’s arm in agreement.

Nicky beamed, eyes brightening with pride, and without another word he turned toward Violet and lifted both her tiny pigtails in the air like little horns, declaring, “I now crown you Dragon Queen of Petalonia!”

Then they all took turns playing with Violet, setting aside the remnants of snacks and the slow ache of the day. The world narrowed to just her — their tiny explorer — propped up on chubby legs and held steady by eager, loving hands.

Agatha crouched a few feet ahead, arms out and steady, her smile wide but focused. Rio knelt behind Violet, her hands encircling her daughter’s waist, holding her up. Nicky bounced nearby on the balls of his feet, clapping in delighted bursts each time Violet managed to stay upright for more than a few seconds. His laughter rang like a bell in the air.

“There you go, baby girl,” Rio whispered near Violet’s ear, her voice low and encouraging, a gentle murmur of awe. “Look at you. You’ve got this. So strong. So brave.”

Violet blinked, swaying on her feet, her grip tight in Rio’s hands — and then, without a word, without warning, she let go.

For a split second, the world seemed to still. No one breathed.

Violet stood unassisted. Her arms out like a sleepy bird, soft and unsure, but balanced. She looked stunned by her own boldness, eyes huge, mouth open in a silent “oh,” as though she were waiting for someone to catch her.

She wobbled slightly.

Rio didn’t breathe.

Nicky gasped so hard it turned into a hiccup.

And then — a step.

One small, uncertain, quivering step forward.

Another.

And another.

Three steps.

Tiny, imperfect, miraculous.

Right into Agatha’s lap.

A sound tore out of Agatha’s throat — half gasp, half sob, utterly stunned. A bird burst from the nearby hedge at the noise, but Agatha didn’t notice. She was already reaching, her arms scooping up Violet with a reverence that bordered on religious.

“You walked to me,” she whispered, her voice cracked and trembling with disbelief. “You walked. You walked to me, you absolute marvel.”

She kissed Violet’s cheeks, her forehead, the tip of her tiny nose, her round belly, every reachable part of her warm, wriggling body, as if trying to memorize this miracle through her lips.

Violet squealed with delight, blinking in surprise at the sudden onslaught of kisses, then wriggled harder, caught up in the energy. Her little hands patted Agatha’s face, her legs kicking with wild pride.

Nicky launched himself into Agatha’s side, bouncing with the excitement of it all. “She did it! She did it, Mama! She really walked! That counts, right? That counts as walking?”

“It more than counts,” Agatha said, dazed with joy, blinking hard against the tears in her eyes. “That was the best walk in the history of walking.”

Rio had risen to her knees a few feet away, one hand still suspended midair where it had been steadying Violet just moments before, as if her body hadn’t quite caught up to her heart. And then—like the sun cracking through cloud cover—she broke into radiant, uncontainable joy.

She clapped her hands, laughing breathlessly, her eyes bright with pride and love as Nicky spun in delirious little circles nearby, chanting at the top of his lungs.

“She did it! She walked! Violet walked!”

Agatha was still holding Violet close, eyes shining with emotion, her cheeks damp now with the tears she hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“That’s my girl,” she murmured, rocking Violet gently. “That’s my brilliant, brave girl.”

Rio leaned over and kissed the side of Agatha’s face—right where her tears had fallen—then rested her forehead there for a beat. Her own heart felt like it might burst with everything inside it: pride, wonder, fierce love.

“Of course she walked to you,” she murmured. “She always knows where her center is.”

Agatha looked up at her wife, still slightly stunned. “I’ll never forget this.”

Nicky was practically vibrating with joy, his little feet pounding the grass as he shot up and began running wild, arms flailing in celebration.

“VIVI WALKED!!” he screamed. “I SAW IT! SHE’S A WALKER NOW!”

He tore across the grass like a streak of sunlight, arms flailing with minimum coordination and maximum enthusiasm. He circled the blanket like a tiny, ecstatic comet, shouting the news to anyone who might be listening—trees, birds, the wind, a startled squirrel who bolted into the bushes with wide eyes.

“WORLD, HEAR ME! MY SISTER WALKS! BOW BEFORE HER!”

Rio collapsed back onto her heels beside them, wiping a joyful tear from her cheek. “Well,” she said, voice still breathless with amazement, “we’ll never be able to top that.”

Agatha turned toward her, eyes still damp but glowing. “We don’t have to. This… this is the peak.”

Rio let out a breath that was half a sob now, half a laugh, emotional as ever when it came to her children. Her hand flew to her mouth as the tears finally welled up, blurring the sight of her daughter squirming happily in Agatha’s arms.

“She just—she let go,” Rio whispered, breathless. “I wasn’t even ready.”

Agatha turned to her, beaming, eyes still glassy with stunned delight. She gently held Violet out so Rio could see her clearly — this soft, giggling, triumphant little being who had just changed their world with three tiny steps.

“She knew where she was going,” Agatha said softly.

Rio reached out and gathered Violet close, her arms wrapping around her baby as though she could never be close enough again. Violet squeaked with joy, burying her face against Rio’s shoulder and grabbing a handful of her hair.

“My brave little girl,” Rio whispered, kissing Violet’s head over and over. “You’re amazing, Vivi Moon. You’re so amazing.”

Violet responded with a high-pitched giggle and a dramatic wiggle, like she already knew she’d done something remarkable. Agatha laughed, settling beside them again, brushing her hand gently along Violet’s back.

Nearby, Nicky collapsed dramatically onto the blanket, arms splayed. “That was the best thing that’s ever happened! Ever!”

Agatha leaned over to kiss Rio’s temple, and then Violet’s cheek. Rio closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against Violet’s soft hair.

They didn’t say anything for a moment.

Their baby had taken her first steps. Right into their arms.

After a few more minutes of cuddling and celebrating, they gently set Violet back on the blanket-covered grass. She went willingly, giggling and wriggling in Rio’s arms as she was lowered down, her pudgy legs kicking in delight.

Violet blinked up at them from her seated position, cheeks still pink with excitement, curls sticking out in every direction like a tiny storm cloud had kissed her. Her eyes—wide, thoughtful, and full of mischief—flicked between her mothers.

And then, with a determined little grunt that sounded like a baby-warrior rallying her courage, she leaned forward, planted her hands on the blanket, and began to push herself upright again.

Rio and Agatha both went perfectly still.

“Wait, is she—” Rio started, her voice already cracking with wonder.

“She’s doing it again,” Agatha breathed, barely daring to blink. “My God, she’s really doing it again.”

Violet got to her feet slowly, a little wobblier than before, her legs bowed slightly like she’d just discovered they had opinions of their own. She lifted her arms out like wings, tottering forward. One step. Then another.

And then—plop.

Straight onto her bottom.

There was a tiny, stunned silence.

“Oof,” Violet said, blinking as if the ground had betrayed her.

And then she started laughing. Big, delighted, triumphant baby giggles that shook her whole body.

Rio gasped like she’d been holding her breath the entire time. Her hand flew to her jacket pocket, fumbling frantically.

“Wait—wait—don’t move—oh my God—hold on—!” she exclaimed, her voice breaking into laughter and tears all at once. She tugged her phone out with shaking fingers and raised it quickly, barely managing to focus as Violet grinned up at them like a conquering queen.

She snapped the photo just as Violet clapped her hands together in celebration, cheeks flushed, curls wild, eyes shining with unfiltered joy.

“Oh my God,” Rio whispered, staring at the picture like it was a masterpiece. “Look at her. She’s—she’s radiant.”

Agatha leaned over to peek. “She looks like she just won the Nobel Peace Prize for Walking.”

“She did,” Rio replied, already tapping furiously. She opened the group chat with Alice, Jen, and Lilia, her thumbs flying over the keyboard.

“THE BABY PRINCESS JUST TOOK HER FIRST STEPS!!!” she typed, adding five heart emojis, three stars, and two crying faces, then sent the slightly blurry photo along with it.

The response from Alice came in 0.3 seconds flat.

Alice: OMFG. YOU’RE LYING. I’M CRYING. WE’RE ON A BUS, RIO. HOW DARE YOU. OUR BABY MOON RISES.

Not even two seconds later, Jen’s reply popped in—a flurry of digital love:

Jen: (heart emoji) (heart emoji) (heart emoji) (confetti gif) LOOK AT HER.

Jen : Look at her FACE. She knows she’s the main character. We are merely supporting roles in the saga of Violet Moon.

And then, a blurry selfie came through—Jen and Alice squished together in their bus seats, both making exaggerated “ugly cry” faces at the camera, cheeks wet, eyes puffy, Alice holding a tissue like a tiny flag of surrender.

Rio burst into laughter.

And then Lilia’s message arrived, as steady and sincere as the woman herself—longer, slower to type, but no less immediate in heart.

Lilia: I’m crying in the produce aisle. She’s walking?? My sweet Violet. Oh, she’s growing so fast. I’m so proud of her. I’m proud of all of you. Give her a kiss from me. No—give her ten. Give one to Nicky too, and each other while you’re at it. I love you all so much. Look at our beautiful family. My grandbaby is walking before she’s even done teething??? This is it. I’m baking a cake. Tell Violet it’s lemon because she’s sunshine.

Rio let out a laugh-sob and wiped her eyes again, overwhelmed. She held the phone out toward Agatha, who took it and read through the flood of love in silence, her face softening with every word. By the time she reached Lilia’s message, her expression had melted entirely.

“Of course Lilia’s baking a cake,” Agatha murmured, handing the phone back. “That woman needs zero excuse.”

“She’ll show up with a three-tiered sponge and pretend she’s ‘just in the neighborhood,’” Rio said, sniffling through her grin.

“She’ll have it wrapped in linen with a flower on top and say, ‘It’s nothing.’” Agatha chuckled. “Meanwhile, it’ll be filled with custard and divinity.”

“I want to be her when I grow up,” Rio said, eyes still watery.

“You sort of are her already,” Agatha teased. “Except for your cooking skills, obviously.”

Rio blinked. “No. I’m the gremlin who cried over a blurry photo and used all caps in the group chat.”

Agatha leaned closer and kissed the side of her head. “You’re my gremlin.”

“They’re all going to want videos,” Rio said after a moment, scrolling through the reactions piling into the chat.

“Then we’ll get more,” Agatha replied, reaching out to brush a grass stem from Violet’s curls as the toddler bounced on the spot, proud as a queen, ready to try again. “She’s just getting started. »

“I can’t believe she did it,” Rio whispered, looking back at Violet. “She just… let go.”

“I can,” Agatha replied softly. “She knows she’s safe.”

Just then, a dramatic gasp came from behind them.

“Did she do it AGAIN?!” Nicky cried, springing to his feet like he’d been jolted by lightning. “I missed it?!”

He bolted across the blanket and threw himself down beside Violet, crouching low like a wildlife photographer in the field.

“Vivi, you WALKED again?!” he whispered, eyes huge. “That’s two walks! That’s officially a pattern. That’s science.”

“She’s gonna be a full-on walker by next week,” Rio said, still sounding half-dazed with awe. “God, we need to baby-proof everything.”

Agatha gave a theatrical groan. “There go my bookshelves.”

The boy beamed then turned to them, slightly alarmed. “She’s gonna be FAST. You think she’s walking for cuddles? No. She’s gonna be stealing my snacks.”

Agatha chuckled and leaned in, ruffling his hair. “That’s the price of being the big brother.”

“I just taught her to wave,” Nicky moaned, collapsing backward into the grass with theatrical agony. “And now she’s out here sprinting across kingdoms.”

“She took three steps, sweetheart,” Agatha reminded him with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” Nicky said proudly, standing tall. “Three heroic, epic, sister steps.”

As if on cue, Violet clapped again, her face scrunching with joy at all the attention. She made a pleased little squawk and tried to stand up again, only managing to get halfway before toppling sideways onto Nicky’s leg.

He immediately sat up and scooped her into his arms like a prized trophy.

“I’m keeping her,” he declared. “She’s mine now.”

“She was always yours,” Rio said warmly, tucking a stray curl behind Violet’s ear. “You were the first person she ever smiled at.”

“That’s because I’m hilarious,” Nicky replied matter-of-factly. “And a good influence.”

Agatha gave him a skeptical look. “You taught her to throw cheese.”

“That was an experiment,” Nicky said. “In velocity and texture.”

“She threw it at your face,” Rio laughed.

Nicky nodded solemnly. “She’s a fast learner.”

“She agrees,” Rio said, smiling so wide it made her cheeks hurt. She looked at Agatha, then at Violet, then at Nicky.

“God,” she whispered. “This day took a turn.”

Agatha didn’t disagree.

“She walked,” Rio whispered.

Agatha squeezed her hand. “And the world got bigger.”

“Better,” Rio whispered back. “Definitely better.”

After a few more attempts, they all collapsed into a pile on the blanket, a tangle of arms and legs and quiet joy. Nicky threw himself across Agatha’s back, giggling and shouting, “FAMILY HUG! FAMILY HUG!” while Rio shifted Violet carefully into the middle of the cuddle.

Violet looked slightly stunned—caught between the weight of her accomplishment and the smothering affection of her family—but she was grinning, cheeks pink and eyes gleaming. She let out a triumphant little squeal and thumped both fists excitedly against Rio’s chest like a little jungle queen.

Rio gasped, hand flying to her heart. “I’ve been conquered,” she announced.

“She’s claimed you in the name of House Violet,” Agatha said, brushing a cluster of curls off the baby’s forehead. “All hail the tiny empress.”

“She’s gonna be running so fast,” she added, softer now, eyes lingering on her daughter like she still couldn’t believe this was real—this radiant little being who had found her feet and walked straight into their arms.

Rio groaned melodramatically, though her eyes shimmered. “God help us all.”

“She’s going to start a revolution,” Nicky said from his perch, his flower crown now crooked over one ear. “And I’m gonna be her general.”

“You’re not even in charge of brushing your teeth,” Rio replied, poking his ribs. He shrieked and squirmed but didn’t move.

“Still qualified,” he muttered.

They all laughed, and for a moment, there was nothing else—no reception, no stares, no barbed comments or judgmental relatives. 

The sting of the funeral had faded. Agatha’s family—Margaret and her whispers, the cousins with their too-sharp eyes, the gossipy politeness—had retreated somewhere far in the background, irrelevant.

This — this was their real inheritance. This warm, messy, blooming thing they had built together.

Agatha shifted onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow to look at them: Rio with tear-damp lashes and a crooked grin; Nicky – a flower crown still in his hair-- still talking animatedly to Violet, explaining the responsibilities of a royal toddler; Violet herself, now chewing happily on Agatha’s index finger like it was her post-victory prize.

Rio was holding everything at once—Violet, yes, but also the gravity of the day, the weight of how much had changed and how much had not. She was breathless, flushed, wind-tossed, radiant with love that refused to shrink itself. Her arms curled tighter around their baby, like she couldn’t bear to be even an inch apart.

Agatha leaned in and pressed a soft, steady kiss to the crown of her wife’s head, letting her lips linger there.

She pulled back, voice barely a murmur “This is the only legacy I care about,” she said.

And Rio, still holding Violet against her heart, whispered, “Then we’re doing just fine.”

*

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Chapter Text

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After the laughter softened and the excitement ebbed into a peaceful lull, the air settled around them like something warmer than evert. The branches above swayed gently in the breeze, and somewhere nearby, a bee buzzed lazily through the clover, and Nicky began humming under his breath as he braided clovers into Violet’s flower crown.

Rio shifted slightly, pillowing her cheek against Agatha’s thigh again, her body still curled protectively around Violet. Her eyes found Agatha’s face with a gaze that never demanded anything, only offered. a gaze that always made Agatha feel entirely seen, as though Rio could read her heart without her needing to say a word.

“We’ve still got time before the train,” Rio said softly. “Do you want to go see her?”

Agatha looked down, startled—not because she hadn’t thought of it, but because Rio had. Rio always knew. Always saw the things no one else noticed. She opened her mouth, but no words came. Only a flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

Rio reached up and gently brushed a strand of grass from Agaha’s long hair, her fingers lingering there a moment longer than necessary. Her voice dropped to a more private register.

“Just the four of us,” she said. “No cousins. No Margaret. No performances. No one watching to see how you mourn. Just you… saying goodbye. For real this time.”

Agatha’s gaze flickered to the grass, where a single petal had fallen from Nicky’s crown. Her fingers moved idly through Violet’s hair, soothing even though the baby was already half-asleep, her cheek warm against Rio’s chest, her tiny fists curled beneath her chin.

“You told me they buried her earlier this week,” Rio went on, slow and careful, not pushing, only openinig the door. “But today wasn’t about that. Not really. It wasn’t about you. Not the part that matters.”

She paused, thumb rubbing softly across the the back of Agatha’s hand that rested over on her chest.

“I thought maybe we could go. Together. Not for them.  Just… for you. If you want.”

Agatha inhaled slowly, her eyes lifting to the canopy above them. The light shimmered through the leaves like water, dappling her lap, her arms, the baby’s soft curls. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Her expression was unreadable—somewhere between deeply moved and quietly afraid.

She had wanted this. Had achingly wanted this. A moment of her own. A goodbye that wasn’t surveilled, dissected, judged. No tight dresses or stiff chairs or murmured condolences from people who didn’t know the first thing about what she’d lost. No Margaret’s sanctimonious glances. No unspoken demand that she be the polished, stoic daughter. Again.

This—Rio’s offer—was different. It was safe.

Her voice was barely above a whisper when it came. “You’d come?”

Rio sat up slightly, brushing her hand along Agatha’s jaw. “Of course, my love,” she said, the words unwavering. “We’ll all come, if you want us there. You don’t have to do that part alone. Not anymore.”

Agatha looked down at Violet, then across at Nicky, who had now begun placing tiny flowers into his sister’s socks with great concentration. The sight of them—these two small pieces of her heart—and Rio, grounding her so gently, holding her with such care—it undid something in her.

Her throat tightened. She nodded once, unable to speak, and leaned forward to press her forehead to Rio’s.

Nicky, still beaming and sticky with dried bubble soap clinging to his cheeks and forearms, looked up at the mention of “going somewhere”. His curls bounced as he straightened, curiosity lighting his face.

“Where are we going?” he asked, already halfway to standing, as if ready for another adventure.

Rio smiled at him. “We’re going to visit someone very important, sweetheart,” she said, her voice calmand warm. “It’s a quiet place, so we’ll be calm and respectful, okay?”

Nicky’s smile faded into something more thoughtful. He nodded seriously, his little chin lifted in the way he did when he was trying very hard to be be grown-up. “I can be respectful,” he said solemnly, wiping his sticky hands on his trousers and straightening the crooked flower crown still tangled in his curls.

Violet let out a soft, sleepy awakening babble from Rio’s chest—something between a hum and a hiccup—as if she too agreed with the plan. Her cheeks were flushed, her little hands curled loosely against Rio’s collarbone, eyes blinking slowly in the golden light.

Agatha looked at them all for a moment—at the children, at Rio, at the fading afternoon sun bathingthem in soft amber—and then bent down to press a kiss to Rio’s forehead. She lingered there, her lips resting just above the space between her wife’s brows, drawing strength from the closeness. When she finally pulled back, her fingers brushed along Rio’s jaw, and there was a quiet resolve in her gaze now.

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice low but firm. “I’m ready.”

They packed up the blanket, brushed grass off their clothes, and gathered their little ones.

Nicky picked up the bubble wand and held it like a sword as they began to walk, though he didn’t swing it. He just carried it, solemnly, like he knew this next part needed a different kind of energy.

The path from the park curved gently, trees on either side ofthe dirt trail. The afternoon had begun to lean toward early evening, and everything had turned that honeyed shade of gold

Violet stirred once in Rio’s arms but didn’t fuss. She only nestled closer into Rio’s chest, thumb slipping into her mouth, her lashes brushing against her flushed cheeks.

Agatha walked slightly ahead, her fingers brushing Nicky’s shoulder as they walked side by side. Every few steps, Nicky would glance up at her, as if checking in, and Agatha would smile down at him—small and grateful.

This wasn’t just another part of the day. This was something else.

A small pilgrimage.

For Agatha.

For the woman who had seen. For the girl she had once been. For the mother she was now.

A gentle wind stirred the trees overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove called.

And in the center of it all—a quiet woman in black, walking forward with her family by her side, ready at last to say goodbye.

The walk would be short.

But the meaning of it would last forever.

When they arrived at the cemetery, the world seemed to quiet itself in respect. The hum of late summer had softened; even the breeze moved slowerly here. The air was cool beneath a high canopy of old trees, their branches arching overhead like gentle sentinels. Everything smelled of moss and sun-warmed stone, of time suspended in stillness.

The ground beneath their feet was soft with damp earth, scattered gravel, and brittle leaves that crunched faintly underfoot. The further in they walked, the more hushed it became—as if even the wind had been asked to whisper.

Rio carried Violet close against her chest, her tiny body heavy with sleep, cheek resting warm against Rio’s shoulder. One of her fists was curled in the collar of her mother’s shirt, the other dangling limp in complete trust. Nicky walked beside them, small hand firmly clasped in Agatha’s now. He had stopped bouncing with each step. Instead, his legs moved in quiet sync with hers, his expression unusually solemn. Every so often he glanced up at her with wide, thoughtful eyes, as if sensing that this wasn’t an ordinary walk.

Agatha caught one of those glances and gave his hand the smallest squeeze. His mouth closed again, and he simply nodded to himself, walking a little closer now, as though to guard her.

It was quiet. Blissfully quiet after the day’s strange ballet — the stiff smiles, the veiled insults, the awkward conversations, the sidelong glances at Rio. Here, the noise fell away. Here, the heaviness of memory was met with the gentleness of peace.

Agatha hadn’t realized how tense her body had been until the silence began to work its way into her lungs, loosening something inside her. Her shoulders dropped by degrees. Her jaw unclenched. And when she felt Rio’s hand brush gently against hers , she closed her eyes for just a moment and breathed deeply.

They moved together between the rows of headstones, careful not to let Nikcy step on any. He read the names under his breath, trying to pronounce them properly, his brows furrowed like a little scholar. Once, he looked up and whispered, “Some of these people were really, really old.”

Agatha nodded. “They were.”

“And some were little,” he added, quieter.

“Yes.”

He didn’t say anything after that. But he kept hold of her hand a little tighter.

Violet let out a small sigh, her arms slack, her legs swinging slightly with each of Rio’s steps. Rio adjusted her gently, brushing a kiss to her temple before returning her gaze to Agatha—steady, present, offering support without words.

Then they found it.

Eugenia’s grave.

The headstone was beneath a sycamore tree, where golden light fell in uneven patches across the grass. The stone was soft gray, polished smooth but simple. Still new and pristine. Elegant. Her name etched in clean serif letters. Her dates. And beneath them, a single line:

“what is remembered, lives”

Agatha stopped walking.

She stared for a long time, her breath catching somewhere behind her ribs.

It wasn’t a grand monument. It wasn’t overdone. It was, somehow… right. Exactly right.

The kind of thing Eugenia would have picked for someone else. The kind of thing she never thought she deserved.

Rio held back, giving Agatha space but but staying close. Nicky stopped too, looking up at his mother, then at the stone, then back at her again.

Agatha took a step forward.

Then another.

She stood in front of the grave, hands folded loosely in front of her, shoulders soft, gaze steady. For a moment, no one moved. Even the air held its breath.

“She would have liked this,” Agatha murmured.

And she meant it.

It didn’t make everything better. It didn’t fix the years lost, or the years that hurt. But it was something. A place. A line of poetry. A pause in the noise.

A still point. 

Agatha closed her eyes. She breathed in the scent of the grass, the faint smell of stone warmed by sun. She reached up and absently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—an old nervous habit. But her face was calm now. Open.

The stone wasn’t grand, wasn’t boastful. There were no flourishes, no marble angels or heavy inscriptions trying to say too much. It didn’t try to impress anyone. It was… honest. That was what Eugenia had always been to her. A rare respectful honesty in a family that so often drowned in its own performance. Eugenia had never looked away from who Agatha really was — even when she was hard to love.

Not the version the family wanted, not the polished daughter Evanora had tried to sculpt from stone — but the real Agatha. Messy. Fierce. Wounded. Strange. She had seen her, and stayed anyway. Maybe they were more alike than either of them had realized. 

Rio stayed just behind her, close enough to offer warmth without pressure. Violet stirred slightly in her arms and opened her sleepy dark eyes. Nicky slipped his small hand into Agatha’s again, silent and warm.

The wind moved gently through the branches above as if whispering you can speak now.

Agatha knelt slowly in front of the gravestone, her knees brushing against the damp grass. She brushed away a few stray petals — wind-tossed leftovers from an earlier arrangement — and then a couple blades of grass that had crept across the base of the stone. Her fingers lingered there, tracing the carved letters of Eugenia’s name as if she could etch them into memory more deeply.

For a moment, she didn’t speak.

Then, with a quiet breath, she began.

“Thank you,” she said, the words barely above a whisper but sure, unwavering. “For seeing me. For choosing me. For never pretending I was easy, but still… never turning away.”

Her throat tightened. She paused, grounded herself by pressing her hand fully against the cool stone.

“For telling me I wasn’t her. That I wasn’t my mother. That I would never have to be. That I could break the cycle, even if it broke me for a while first.”

Her voice wavered, but she went on.

“For the letters,” she added softly, her eyes lowering to the grass. “You knew I’d need them. I read them again last week. Every word. And they still made me feel… braver. Like you’re still here, somewhere, reminding me how far I’ve come.”

Behind her, Rio didn’t speak, but Agatha could feel her listening. The weight of her attention was like a hand on the back — quiet, encouraging. Nicky had crouched now beside her, tracing one of the letters on the gravestone with a little finger, copying her movements exactly, like a ritual.

Agatha’s smile was small and tired and filled with something vast.

“You were the only one who made me feel important,” she said. “The only one who didn’t treat my softness like a weakness. Who saw the things I was afraid of becoming and still told me I could grow into someone good. Someone better.”

Her shoulders trembled from the unspooling of years’ worth of ache. Still, she didn’t cry. Not quite. The tears hovered but didn’t fall. They shimmered behind her eyes, unspent. Maybe they didn’t need to fall. Maybe this was the kind of grief that didn’t need spectacle to be real.

She looked down at the grass for a moment, then let her gaze drift upward toward the stone again. Her hand smoothed over the line of the dates — a beginning and an end.

“I wish you could’ve met them,” she murmured, her voice thick with longing. “Nicky and Violet. You would’ve adored them. You would’ve told them stories from dusty books, taught them about ink and and old typewriters and the right proper way to fold a letter. You’d have spoiled them with rare books and antique fountain pens and long afternoons full of too many snacks.”

She gave a shaky, fond laugh.

“Nicky would’ve begged to sleep over at your house. You’d have let him. You would’ve sat him down and told him everything about astronomy just because he asked one question. And Violet…”

She turned to glance over her shoulder, where Rio had now shifted Violet into the crook of her arm, letting the baby’s eyes flutter half-open, curious.

“Violet would’ve crawled into your lap with a book and refused to leave. You would’ve let her turn the pages all out of order just to see her smile.”

She looked back at the grave, her eyes full now, but still clear. Still sure.

“You would’ve loved them,” Agatha whispered. “Because you loved me.”

She placed her palm flat to the stone. Her voice dropped to a hush.

“And I love them the way you taught me to. But louder.”

Behind her, Rio gently lowered Violet to the ground. The little girl stood unstedily, still clinging to her newfound skill, and toddled just close enough to touch the edge of the stone with curious fingers. Then, as if sensing the importance of the moment, she wobbled quietly beside it, looking up at Agatha with wide eyes.

Nicky, uncharacteristically solemn, stayed close to his Mama. He watched her intently, his face serious, his small fingers gripping the hem of his shirt. He didn’t ask questions. He just listened. Somehow, he knew this was a moment to remember.

He would remember this. Maybe not the name on the stone, maybe not all the words his mama spoke — but he would remember how still she was, how her voice sounded different here, how the wind whispered through the trees like it was listening too. He would remember the way Violet toddled forward like she had something to offer. The way Rio stood behind them, holding space like she always did : not loudly, but fully.

And indeed, Rio stayed at a quiet distance, arms folded loosely across her chest, her weight shifted to one hip as she watched them all — her wife, her son, her daughter — gathered in quiet gravity around this moment.

She said nothing. She wouldn’t break the hush with words. This was not hers to shape. This goodbye had waited too long already, and Rio would not rush it. All she could do was hold the moment open and let it be what it needed to be.

Then, as if stirred by some invisible thread, Violet turned slightly and reached both arms up toward her mommy. A small, familiar whimper escaped her — not fussy, just needing. Wanting connection again. Something to hold onto.

Rio stepped forward and bent to lift her. Violet wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck with surprising strength for such a tiny body, tucking her head beneath Rio’s chin and sighing into the curve of her collarbone like a baby bird folding into its nest.

She clung there, quiet but present, her breath warm against Rio’s skin. A closeness that was instinct more than choice — the primal pull of safety and love and knowing exactly where you belong.

Rio rocked her gently without thinking, shifting her weight from side to side like a lullaby, her gaze softening even further.

Here they were — a family, in the quiet between words, held together by grief and love and the impossible magic of being still here. Of choosing to remember. Of choosing to stay.

This is why we made it. This is what we were building all along.

Then Nicky walked forward slowly, his little shoes brushing softly over the grass. He held the small violet Rio had helped him pick just before entering the cemetery, a perfect little flower cradled delicately between his thumb and forefinger, as if it might shatter if he wasn’t careful. His face was unuzsually serious, the way only a child’s can be when they understand something big is happening, even if they can’t quite name it.

He paused in front of the gravestone, glancing up briefly at the inscription again as if trying to memorize the name forever. Then, with a solemn kind of grace that caught both his mothers off guard, he bent down and placed the violet at the base of the stone. His fingers lingered for a second on the cool stone beside it.

Then he whispered — soft, almost shy:

“Thank you for being nice to my mama when she was little… and for taking care of her before she had me.”

The silence that followed was total.

Agatha inhaled sharply, like the air had just been knocked from her lungs. The words hit her square in the heart, stunning in their purity and their understanding. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She blinked hard, but it didn’t stop the tears this time— quiet, unshowy ones that welled up in her eyes and spilled over without permission.

She reached for him instinctively, wordlessly, like it was the only thing in the world that made sense in that moment. Nicky let her scoop him up without protest as Agatha sat on the ground cross-legged and pulled him in her lap. His small arms looped around her neck, and she buried her face in his curls, holding him close like she was anchoring herself to the earth.

He smelled like sunshine, like grass, like the faint sweetness of crackers from the picnic earlier. He smelled like the present. Like life moving forward.

“Oh, my heart,” she whispered against his temple, her voice thick and trembling. “You are… everything.”

Nicky didn’t quite know what kind of everything she meant. But he could feel it — the way her arms trembled a little, the way her voice wrapped around the words like they mattered more than anything she’d ever said.

So he held her tighter.

“It’s okay, Mama,” he said softly, his cheek pressed against hers. “I love you.”

Agatha let out a sound then — a half-laugh, half-sob — and cradled the back of his head as if she could hold him even closer.

Rio still stood a little back, Violet in her arms, watching the two of them through a veil of her own tears. Her chest ached, a slow, steady throb of love so intense it almost hurt, of pride so full it didn’t know where to go, of grief still soft around the edges, like a bruise that would never quite fade, even if she wasn't the one grieving directly.

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t have if she tried. The moment was too sacred for words, too full for interruption. Her throat was thick with everything she didn’t need to say — everything that shimmered in the look she gave Agatha over their son’s shoulder. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them. Something vast. A knowing. A vow. A thank you. A promise.

Violet squirmed gently in Rio’s arms, reaching out in the direction of the gravestone again as if sensing the emotion in the air. Rio slowly knelt and set her back down carefully in the grass beside the headstone. The little girl stood on her own, wobbly but determined, staring at the stone with wide, curious eyes.

She didn’t understand, not really. Not the shape of death, not the ache of loss, not the significance of the name carved into stone. But she stood there anyway — silent, still, present.

The breeze shifted again — a quiet ripple through the leaves, rustling softly overhead like a whisper.  Somewhere nearby, a bird sang, high and clear. The world seemed to exhale around them.

The cemetery held the moment like a cathedral holds silence. Heavy and holy.

Agatha’s eyes were wet as she finally, slowly, pulled back just enough to press a long, tender kiss to Nicky’s cheek. He leaned into it without hesitation, his arms still looped around her neck. For one breath, she simply rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed, her hands steady on his back.

Then she whispered, voice hoarse but full of something quiet and holy, “Thank you.”

Not to Nicky this time. Not to Rio.

To Eugenia.

She turned back toward the stone. Her hand reached out, palm flat against the cool surface. Her voice didn’t tremble this time.

“Thank you,” she said again, stronger now. “For loving me when no one else did. For showing me how to be more than what I came from. For making me believe there was something worth growing into.”

She didn’t speak the next words aloud. But in her chest, clear as a bell, clear as sunlight on stone, she heard them form.

They will be loved the proper way. Because of you.

And it was true.

Because of Eugenia, there had been a letter when Agatha needed one. A hand held out in the dark. A story told at just the right time. A seed planted. And now, years later, here she was — standing on her own two feet, her family around her, her heart open. Full.

They stayed there in silence for a while longer, the four of them — together in grief, in love, in memory. And in the space between, something healed.

Then Rio knelt beside Agatha slowly, the grass cool beneath her knees, one arm curled instinctively around Violet’s waist as the baby stood nearby with her wobbly stance, balanced only by trust and wonder.

Her eyes moved to Agatha — to the slope of her shoulders, to the way her fingers still lingered on the etched name like they could conjure her, hold her there a little longer. There was something in Agatha’s stillness, in the precise way she knelt, that broke and rebuilt Rio’s heart in the same beat. There was grief in her, yes,  but there was something else, too. Gratitude. Something quiet and deep and long-held.

And then Rio looked at the grave, at the soft gray stone that bore the name Eugenia Harkness — not just a name, but a lifeline. A name she half bore herself now. 

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but unwavering. Steady as the earth beneath them.

“Thank you,” she said. “For not letting her be lost. For seeing her. For writing her. For holding a light out in the dark. For being the hand she could reach for when there was nothing else.”

Her free hand reached out and touched the stone — fingers brushing over the same letters Agatha had traced moments before, as if wanting to feel the shape of the woman who had once changed everything for the woman she loved.

Eugenia Harkness. The name glowed in the filtered sunlight. It had meant many things. Safety. Defiance. Possibility. A future that didn’t look like the past.

Family — in the truest, bravest sense.

“I love her so much,” Rio continued, her voice thickening as emotion swelled in her chest. She glanced over at Agatha — her beautiful, complicated, brilliant, fiercely loving wife — and gave her a small, tearful smile.

“And so do they,” she added, nodding toward their children.

She turned her gaze toward their kids. Nicky now stood solemnly beside the grave, one hand wrapped around Violet’s chubby arm to help steady her. He looked up at Rio with his big, thoughtful eyes, and for a second, the resemblance to Agatha was uncanny —in the physical sense yes, but also in the quiet strength they both held. Violet, meanwhile, was focused on the stone, fascinated by it.

Rio reached over and smoothed back a curl from Violet’s forehead. “I know you already know, but she’s the best mama,” she added gently, still speaking to Eugenia, her voice now a tender murmur. “I’ve never seen someone love with so much gentleness and fire all at once. Like the world doesn’t get to dim her, no matter what it throws at her.”

She paused, her voice barely above the breeze.

“I hope you see what she’s built. I hope you see them. I hope you know the way your love made this possible.”

Rio’s hand stayed pressed to the stone for a beat longer. She didn’t need a sign, or a breeze, or a whisper. She believed. She knew.

Because the proof was already here, kneeling beside her, standing close by. The proof had curls and wide eyes and hands full of violets. The proof was alive and clinging to them and standing on its own two feet for the first time.

As if summoned by the stillness, Violet crouched with the careful clumsiness of toddlers— her little knees bending outward until she looked like she might topple right over. Her balance wavered, but she planted her feet and leaned forward with determined curiosity. One chubby hand reached out, and her fingers landed on the gravestone with a soft pat, tentative but deliberate.

She didn’t understand what it was but something in her, some deep, wordless intuition, told her this was important. That it mattered.

Her tiny hand tapped the stone again. Once. Twice. And then, just as a breeze fluttered past like breath through the trees, she clapped — a single, sharp burst of sound that cracked through the hush like a firework in a chapel.

The echo startled her for the briefest moment — her dark eyebrows shot up, her lips parted in surprise. Then joy bloomed across her face like sunlight breaking through clouds, and she squealed — a high, bubbling, delighted sound that rang through the cemetery with the innocent clarity a child’s laughter carried.

It was unexpected. It was jarring. It was perfect.

Agatha let out a startled laugh. Tears still clung to her lashes, but they no longer felt heavy. They shimmered now — like something being made new.

“Even our baby thinks you’re magic, Eugenia,” she said softly, her voice unsteady with affection, thick with everything she hadn’t known how to say until this moment. “Of course she does.”

Violet, delighted with her audience, bounced slightly on her feet, preparing to clap again. Her pigtails bobbed with the motion, her whole body humming with joy. She looked back at her mothers, seeking approval, connection, the way toddlers do, with the unshakable belief that their joy should be shared.

Agatha reached out instinctively, steadying her daughter with one hand before she could really topple over. Her touch was gentle, but it lingered — like she couldn’t quite let go of the moment, of the miracle in it.

Then, still kneeling beside Rio, she wrapped one arm around her wife’s shoulders and pulled her close. Rio exhaled as their bodies touched, folding into her like it was the most natural thing in the world. The two women leaned into each other, silent for a beat, surrounded by the murmur of wind and the rustle of leaves.

“I can feel her,” Agatha murmured. “Not like a ghost or anything — just… the part of her that always stayed with me. It’s so loud right now. Like it’s humming inside my chest. I think she would’ve loved this.”

“She would’ve adored Violet,” Rio whispered back. “And Nicky.”

“She would’ve adored you,” Agatha said, her voice catching just a little. She leaned in and pressed a long kiss into Rio’s hand, letting her linger on the gold band on her finger. “You remind me of her sometimes. The way you talk to people like they’re worth something. The way you love — not ashamed, not halfway. How you protect what’s yours with everything you are. But you're so much louder.”

Rio shook her head, smiling through tears. “She’s the one who made sure you grew up the way you were supposed to. Not like the rest of them. I’ll never stop thanking her for that.”

Agatha leaned into her more fully, resting her forehead against Rio’s shoulder for a breath. “She would’ve liked you calling her ‘the rest of them.’ And she would have included herself in that statement because she was humble like that. She wanted me to be different. Braver and louder.”

They sat together a while longer, Violet eventually settling into Rio’s lap and leaning her head on her chest, thumb in her mouth. Nicky traced letters on the gravestone with one careful finger, sounding them out quietly under his breath, his voice carried by the wind like a chant.

“Mama,” he said softly at one point, turning to Agatha. “Do you think she hears us?”

Agatha took a moment, her throat tight. “I do,” she said finally. “Maybe not with ears. But… with her heart. And her love. And all the parts of her that are still here.”

Rio nodded. “Some people stay, even when they go. A little like roots. Beneath the surface. Because you carry them with you. Because they made you who you are. And you carry them forward every time you love someone the way they once loved you.”

Nicky seemed satisfied with that. He nodded back, seriously, and said, “Then I’ll carry her too. Because she helped make Mama, and Mama made me.”

Agatha covered her mouth, holding in a sob that was part heartbreak, part awe. She reached for her son, pulling him close against her side.

There was no more bitterness in the air. No more echoes of Margaret’s disdain, or Eudora’s coldness or Evanora’s cruelty,  or the stinging weight of family expectations. Here, it was just them — Agatha, Rio, their two beautiful children, and the quiet presence of the woman who had made it all possible.

And for a moment, Agatha could almost feel Eugenia beside her. In the breeze against her cheek. In the shape of Rio’s hand pressed to her back. In the sweet weight of Nicky leaning into her side. In the sleepy warmth of Violet’s breath against Rio’s collarbone.

“I hope you’re proud,” she whispered toward the stone. “I’m okay. We’re okay"  

And somehow, in the stillness, the silence answered back.

Rio let a tear fall. "She is. I know she is. »

They stayed a little longer, letting the silence stretch, letting the moment breathe. Until the sun began its slow descent through the trees, painting golden dappled light over the gravestone and the grass.

When they finally rose to go, Agatha pressed her hand gently to Eugenia’s name one last time. The stone was warm now, kissed by the sun, and she let her palm rest flat against it like a goodbye, or maybe a promise. The others stood a respectful distance away, giving her room.

“Thank you,” she whispered one last time.

Her voice was almost inaudible, but Rio could still catch it from where she stood with Violet in her arms and Nicky at her side.

“I’ll write to Thea,” Agatha whispered, the words shaped from something fierce and tender all at once. “I’ll be her Eugenia if she ever needs one.”

She swallowed hard, blinking back a fresh rush of tears. “I won’t let her go unseen. Not in that house. Not in that world. Not while I’m still here. I swear I’ll fight for her. »

Then, almost as though the stone had responded — with the soft rustle of wind in the trees, the sunlight peered through the leaves, a beam of it catching the stone directly — and Agatha smiled through her tears. She leaned down and pressed her lips to her fingers, then touched them to the stone. A final seal.

When she rose, Rio was already beside her. She didn’t say anything right away, just reached out and gently linked their arms. They stood like that for a breath, still and steady, before beginning the slow walk back down the path.

“Of course you will,” Rio said softly, her voice low and warm like the earth beneath their feet. “That’s exactly what she would’ve wanted.”

Agatha tilted her head, leaning ever so slightly against her wife’s shoulder as they walked.

They continued down the quiet path, surrounded by the shade of old trees that had weathered decades and still stood tall — like Eugenia had. Like Agatha now did. The path was strewn with sunlight and fallen leaves, and the faintest scent of lavender from some nearby bush lingered in the air.

Nicky skipped ahead a few steps, then slowed again to walk between them, slipping one hand into each of theirs, as though to tether them all together. He looked up at Agatha. “Are we going home now?”

Agatha looked down, her face softer than it had been all day. “Yes, sweetheart. We’re going home.”

Violet gave a small, sleepy grunt from where she nestled against Rio’s shoulder, her hand curled into Rio’s necklace, as if to say she was holding on too.

Rio tightened her arm around her daughter and gave a breathy laugh, brushing her lips across Violet’s curls. “We’re all going home,” she whispered. “Together. All five of us.”

And they walked — a strange, beautiful little procession. Agatha and Rio, side by side, arm in arm. Their children close. A presence behind them. The weight of grief still there, but no longer jagged. It had been shaped into something gentler — a quiet devotion to carry forward.

As they neared the gate, Rio glanced sideways. “What will you write to Thea first?”

Agatha thought about it, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “That I saw her today. Really saw her. And that she’s not wrong about the world — it can be cruel. But cruelty isn’t the whole of it. There are people who fight back. People who survive. People who make spaces kinder, even when it’s hard.”

She paused, then added more quietly, “And she can be one of them.”

Rio gave her a proud, quiet look. “I married a damn good letter-writer.”

Agatha smirked faintly, her tone dry. “You also married someone who was very close to throwing mini quiches at her cousin and almost used her son to tip a lemonade glass all over her god-awful dress.”

Rio bumped her shoulder lightly. “And that is part of your charm.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, save for the sound of leaves crunching softly beneath their feet, and the occasional hum of the wind. When they reached the end of the path, Agatha turned back one last time, eyes tracing the now-distant silhouette of the headstone tucked beneath the trees.

Then they stepped out through the gate, into the fading gold of late afternoon — a family shaped by survival and love.

By memory and tenderness.

By all the things they had chosen to carry forward — and everything they had dared to leave behind.

*

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Chapter Text

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They were on the train heading back home, the low hum of the engine blending with the gentle, rhythmic sway of the carriage. The motion was soothing, almost hypnotic, lulling the few other passengers into that peculiar kind of travel stillness — not quite sleep, but hovering close. Outside the windows, the last traces of daylight clung stubbornly to the horizon, thin and fragile ribbons of pale gold and pink stretched across the deepening blue. The fields they passed were already fading into shadow, their shapes softening with distance.

One by one, the lamps overhead flickered on, filling the carriage with a warm, amber light that made the space feel smaller, more intimate. Somewhere at the far end, a conductor’s muffled footsteps moved between cars.

Nicky was fidgeting beside Rio, still carrying the fizz of the day’s adventures in every restless movement. His legs swung beneath the seat, shoes thuddding softly against the metal support, and every so often he bounced as though the seat itself might propel him forward. He was holding onto something — an idea, Rio could tell -- and sure enough, the moment the train lurched into motion and settled into its steady pace, he leaned toward Agatha, eyes alight with that urgent spark that meant no amount of distraction would derail him.

“She has to do it again!” he announced, voice pitched with the kind of excitement that carried. An elderly man in the seat ahead lowered his newspaper just enough to smile at the declaration before turning back to his reading. Nicky didn’t notice — he was too busy leaning closer to his mama. “So it’s not a fluke, Mama!”

Agatha’s brow arched with regal precision, but her smirk was betrayed by the fondness in her eyes. “Oh, I see,” she said slowly, glancing toward Violet, who was curled contentedly against Rio’s chest, her small hands tangled in the fabric of her cardigan. Violet was drowsy but stubbornly awake, chewing idly on the knit as though it might tell her secrets. “You think your baby sister has to prove herself?”

“Yes!” Nicky bobbed his head, hair flopping into his eyes with each emphatic nod. “She has to walk in the train. Then it’s official. Then she’s a real walker.”

Rio let out a quiet snort, smoothing his hair back. “She’s not auditioning for a marathon, sweetheart,” she said, but her voice was warm, her smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Give her time.”

Nicky sighed as if this were a great injustice to progress everywhere. “But what if she forgets?”

Agatha’s lips twitched. “Your sister is not going to forget how to walk in the time it takes us to get home, darling.”

“But—” Nicky began, only to be interrupted by Violet lifting her head, blinking at him with heavy-lidded curiosity as though she’d somehow caught the thread of the conversation. He froze, then leaned toward her and whispered, conspiratorial,  “I’ll remind you.”

After a quick glance toward her wife, Agatha gave in with the kind of indulgent sigh she reserved for moments when she knew she was about to be roped into something ridiculous—and that she wouldn’t mind one bit.

“Alright, little moonflower,” she murmured, her voice low and warm as she rose from her seat. She slipped her hands under Violet’s arms and lifted her from Rio’s lap.

The baby blinked up at her, blinking once, twice, as though trying to decide if this change in scenery was part of the plan. Then—without hesitation—her tiny fingers latched onto a lock of Agatha’s hair, twisting it with all the determination of someone who thought it might somehow help with balance.

Agatha smoothed a hand over the soft crown of her daughter’s head before setting her down in the narrow aisle between the seats. She crouched a few feet away, arms open in quiet invitation. “You’ve already conquered a park and a cemetery today,” she said, eyes glinting with amusement, “now let’s see your commuter strut.”

Violet swayed in place, her knees locking and unlocking like a wind-up toy unsure of its gears. Her toes curled inside her tiny socks, her little fists opening and closing as though she could grab balance out of the air. Her tongue peeked out in fierce concentration, and for a heartbeat the whole carriage seemed to hold its breath.

Nicky leaned so far forward in his seat that Rio had to steady him with a hand to his shoulder. “You got this,” he whispered to his sister with all the gravitas of a sports coach calling the final play.

Rio, smiling at both of them, already had her phone angled low—not to film every second, but just in case the perfect moment happened and she could catch it like lightning in a jar.

One cautious shuffle forward. Another, bolder step, her head tilting like a tiny bird testing the wind. Violet’s expression remained comically serious, so much so that Agatha had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. And then—without warning—her knees gave up the fight and she plopped down on her bottom with a soft thump, letting out a little “hmph” as if she had personally decided she’d done enough for one day.

The cheer that followed felt far too big for the tiny space. Rio clapped softly, her grin wide and proud, as though Violet had just taken gold at the Olympics. Nicky threw his arms sky-high and declared a small but victorious “Yes!” that made the old man with the newspaper chuckle into his lap.

“It’s a start,” Rio said, still beaming at her daughter. She reached over to squeeze Agatha’s shàulder. “She’s just saving the rest for a grand entrance.”

Agatha smiled down at the baby, who was now happily patting the floor with both hands as though congratulating herself. “And when she does,” she murmured, “this train won’t be ready for her.”

She bent down, scooping Violet into her arms in one smooth motion, the way only a mother who had done it a thousand times could. The baby fit against her side like she had been made for it, soft and solid and warm. Agatha pressed a kiss into the crown of Violet’s head, inhaling the faint, sweet scent of her—warm skin, baby shampoo, and the lingering hint of biscuits from earlier in the day. Her pigtails were long gone, replaced by wild tufts of fine hair that brushed against Agatha’s cheek.

“That,” Agatha announced in a tone of deep, mock solemnity, “was a perfectly respectable commuter strut.”

Violet’s eyes lit at the praise, a bubbling squeal bursting from her chest. She patted at Agatha’s face with her chubby hands—still slightly sticky, still smelling faintly of butter and crumbs—and Agatha caught one mid-air, pressing a kiss to the tiny palm as it landed against her lips. The baby giggled, curling her fingers around Agatha’s nose for a moment before wriggling happily in her arms.

Nicky, who had been watching with an air of barely concealed pride, reached up to stroke his sister’s back. For once, his touch was feather-light, so gentle. “See? Not a fluke,” he murmured under his breath, as if the thought was meant more for himself than anyone else. His grin, however, was anything but quiet—it stretched wide across his face, the kind that could only belong to a big brother who had just witnessed something important.

The train swayed gently as it carried them through the deepening night, the rhythmic rattle beneath their feet lulling the carriage into a soft, comfortable hush. Outside, the windows had turned black, reflecting their own little tableau back at them: Agatha cradling Violet close, the baby’s head tucked beneath her chin; Rio leaning sideways against the seat beside them, her hand resting lightly on Agatha’s knee in a wordless touch, and Nicky opposite, sitting forward with that unstoppable grin like he was determined to memorize the scene.

The family’s reflection swayed and shimmered with the train’s motion, an intimate, flickering portrait framed by the dark.

Nicky swung his small, well-worn backpack into his lap with a practiced ease, the straps jingling softly as he settled in. He unzipped it with purpose, his fingers fumbling just slightly as they searched for the familiar tin inside. With a triumphant gesture, he pulled out his travel sketchpad—y edges bent and dog-eared from countless adventures—and the battered tin of colored pencils, dulled and worn from use.

He flipped open to a fresh page, the crispness a stark contrast to the roughened corners. His tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth in that concentrated way he had when he was truly focused, and the tip of his pencil began to scratch softly against the paper.

First came the gravestone: strong, straight lines for the sturdy stone, carefully measured and neat. Then came the grass surrounding it, shaded with hesitant strokes that mimicked the wild, uneven blades outside the window. Above the stone, Nicky drew a woman—a kind face framed by long, flowing hair, graceful lines that seemed almost to move across the page. Around her shoulders, he sketched soft, feathered wings, arching protectively over the rest of the drawing like a shield.

“That’s Aunt Eugenia?” Rio’s voice was low, gentle as she leaned just enough to peer over the table, her breath warm against his head.

“Mm-hm,” Nicky answered without looking up, his pencil never pausing. “I never saw her, not really. But I think she’d look like this—kind and strong. Like she’s watching over Mama.”

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, just let her gaze settle on the image her son was bringing to life, the familiar ache of loss softened by the tender hope in those strokes.

Beneath Eugenia’s wings, Nicky began to add four smaller figures, carefully arranged in a littkle circle. There was himself, holding tightly to Mama’s hand, his own features simplified but unmistakably earnest. Next to them stood Violet, sketched with two squiggly lines for pigtails, her legs captured mid-wobble, unsure but determined.

Mommy appeared beside mama, one arm linked with hers, both of them steady and strong.

“That’s Violet walking,” Nicky explained matter-of-factly, pointing to the shaky legs. “It’s her first steps, like today.”

Then, with a delicate sweep of a pale lavender pencil, he added another figure—a smaller shape, a hint of a smile, a hopeful tilt of the head.

“And here,” Nicky said, “this is Thea. Because Mama said she’s going to write to her, and maybe one day she’ll be part of our family pictures too.”

He paused, then carefully labeled the drawing in his careful, uneven handwriting. He sounded it out aloud, as if making the words come alive on the page:

“The Day Violet Walked + Mama Was Brave.”

Rio reached over, her hand warm and sure as it settled on the crown of his head. She kissed him softly there, her voice thick with pride. “That’s beautiful, little love. You have a way of catching the important things, don’t you?”

Nicky shrugged shyly, cheeks blooming pink beneath her praise, but his pencil never faltered. He pressed down a little harder, adding final touches—a line here, a bird there—with clear satisfaction.

Agatha leaned in, resting her chin lightly on her hand, savoring the simple, steady rhythm of the train beneath them and the comforting scratch of pencil on paper. The world outside was dark and quiet, but here in this small cocoon of warmth, loss and hope were drawn together in delicate strokes—woven into a story only a child’s heart could tell.

The train rocked steadily along the darkening countryside, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels like a heartbeat underneath them. The hum of quiet conversations and the occasional rustle of a snack wrapper filled the carriage, but at their little cluster of seats, the world felt hushed and contained, like they were sitting inside a bubble only the four of them could inhabit.

Violet, utterly worn out from the day’s adventures and emotions, had surrendered to sleep almost without a fight. She had wriggled and fussed back in Rio’s arms for a few minutes—tiny fists rubbing at her eyes, her soft hair brushing against Rio’s skin as she searched for comfort. Then, as if the pull of exhaustion became too strong to resist, she curled herself into a snug little ball against her mother’s chest. The steady rise and fall of Rio’s breath soothed her, and within moments, her own breathing deepened and slowed, her warm, delicate weight settling with trust and ease.

Rio adjusted her hold gently, one hand spread protectively across Violet’s back, fingers splayed to keep her close yet comfortable. Her other hand cradled the baby’s head with tender precision, ensuring it wouldn’t loll awkwardly with the train’s motion. Violet’s tiny fingers clung weakly to the fabric of Rio’s shirt, her grip loosening and tightening in an unconscious rhythm—like she was clutching at a dream, holding onto something unseen and precious in sleep.

Agatha watched them for a long moment, her expression unreadable to anyone but Rio. It wasn’t just the maternal tenderness in her gaze—it was somthing heavier, a quiet awe mixed with a fragile sort of gratitude, as though she couldn’t quite believe these moments belonged to her.

Rio shifted slightly, leaning her head against Agatha’s shoulder, careful not to jostle Violet. She breathed in the faint scent of Agatha’s perfume, something warm and grounding, and let her eyes half-close.

In the softest whisper, meant for no one but the woman beside her, she said, “You were so strong today.”

Agatha let out a faint exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh. Her reply was equally quiet, almost swallowed by the noise of the train. “I didn’t feel like it.”

Rio’s lips curved faintly. “That’s the thing about strength,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over the back of Violet’s tiny hand. “You don’t always feel it. But I saw it. I saw you. The way you shielded our kids from all this bigotry and the harshness and the ugliness of the world…” Her voice trailed for a second, thick with emotion she didn’t want to spill out in public.

Agatha’s mouth tilted into the smallest, wry smirk. “Are you implying I’m scary?” she whispered, one eyebrow lifting in that familiar way that always made Rio want to grin.

With a soft, assured voice wrapped in affection, Rio answered, “I’m saying you’d set fire to this whole train if anyone threatened them.”

Agatha didn’t hesitate, her reply sharp and sure as if no other answer could exist. “Correct.”

Rio huffed out a quiet laugh, tilting her head so her temple rested against Agatha’s jaw. “But scary too. You’re my scary wife, and I love you so much.”

That earned her the faintest hum of amusement from Agatha, who didn’t bother denying it. Instead, she shifted ever so slightly so her arm brushed against Rio’s. She glanced down at Violet, now completely gone to the world, and then at Nicky—curled up against the window with his sketchpad still open in his lap, his pencil having rolled to the seat beside him. His head was tipped at an awkward angle, hair falling into his eyes, but the peaceful slackness in his face told her he’d followed his sister into sleep.

Agatha let her gaze linger on both of them, then turned her head just enough to meet Rio’s eyes. The look they shared was long and steady, saying more than words could without shattering the quiet.

“You think I’m scary,” Agatha murmured finally, her tone somewhere between teasing and matter-of-fact. “But you’re the one who keeps making me brave.”

Rio’s throat tightened at that, and for a moment she could only shake her head slightly, pressing a kiss to Violet’s hair as if to keep herself anchored. “We make each other brave,” she whispered back. “That’s the deal.”

The train jolted gently as it took a curve, and Rio let her body lean more fully into Agatha’s side. Her head fit perfectly against her wife’s shoulder, the way it always had, and she could feel the subtle tension in Agatha’s muscles—tension that had been there since morning, ever since they’d faced the people who’d tried to make the day about hate instead of love. It was still there, but it was softer now, like a taut string slowly loosening under the warmth of sharedsilence.

They stayed like that for a while, watching the blur of dark fields and occasional pinpricks of farmhouse lights slide past the window. Every so often, Agatha’s thumb would brush over the inside of Rio’s arm in a slow, absentminded rhythm, and Rio’s breathing would match the steady rise and fall of Violet’s tiny chest.

At one point, the conductor passed by, checking tickets. He slowed, perhaps to ask something, but caught sight of Violet asleep and the way the two women were folded into each other, and moved on without a word.

Agatha leaned her head slightly until her cheek brushed Rio’s hair. “Do you want me to take her for a while?” she asked in a near-whisper.

Rio shook her head gently. “No. Let me keep her like this a bit longer.” Her voice was almost childlike in its softness, as if letting go of Violet right now would be letting go of something she wasn’t ready to release.

“Alright,” Agatha said simply, and settled back, letting her wife hold on.

And in that small, self-contained bubble of quiet—held safe from the coldness of the outside world—Rio thought, not for the first time, that if Agatha was her scary wife, she was perfectly fine with it. Because it wasn’t the kind of scary that tore things down or spread fear for fear’s sake. No, Agatha’s kind of scary was fierce and protective, the kind that built walls of fire and iron around the people she loved and dared anyone to try and breach them.

Rio smiled softly to herself, eyes still closed, and thought how she could live with that fierce kind of scary—could live with it, and lean into it—for the rest of her life.

Across from them, Nicky had all but disappeared beneath Agatha’s heavy coat, his small frame curled like a kitten trying to hold onto wakefulness even as his eyelids betrayed him, fluttering and heavy. His breathing was slow, rhythmic, almost hesitant, as if caught between the restless cusp of day and sleep.

Agatha moved with gentleness, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet that wrapped them all. She slipped her hand into her bag and retrieved two familiar, well-loved plush dragons—the blue one for Nicky, the yellow for Violet. Their fabric was faded and soft, corners worn from years of being squeezed tight in moments of both joy and fear. Without a word, she placed Blue Dragon tenderly into Nicky’s arms. His eyes cracked open just enough to meet hers, a small, drowsy smile blooming on his lips before he clutched the dragon to his chest and let his head fall back against the seat.

“Blue Dragon’s ready for duty,” Agatha whispered, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Nicky’s eyes fluttered closed again. “He always keeps the nightmares away,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

Yellow Dragon was nestled beside Violet’s sleeping form, its tail gently caught in the tiny fingers that twitched occasionally in dreams. Even in slumber, Violet seemed to instinctively reach for the familiar comfort of her dragon, curling her hand protectively around its body.

Rio shifted slightly, brushing a soft kiss against Violet’s forehead. “Looks like someone’s got her own little guardian too,” she said quietly, her voice full of warmth.

Agatha glanced up at her, their eyes meeting in a moment of shared tenderness. “They’re our fierce little defenders,” she said softly. “No one’s getting past those dragons.”

Rio smiled, her hand finding Agatha’s and squeezing it gently. “Good. Because we’ve got a whole lot worth protecting.”

Nicky, half-asleep, opened one eye and murmured, “And if anyone tries, Blue Dragon and Yellow Dragon will be ready. Right?”

“Absolutely,” Agatha answered with a nod, settling back into her seat.

She leaned back, her head resting against the train seat. For a moment she simply watched her wife and children, committing every detail to memory—the rise and fall of Violet’s little back against Rio, the way Rio’s hair fell loose over her shoulder like a curtain of dark silk, the peaceful expression on Nicky’s face. There was something about the quiet—about the knowledge that for this moment, at least, the world outside couldn’t touch them—that pressed against Agatha’s heart in the best and worst way at once.

“This…” she murmured, her voice so low it was nearly lost under the sound of the train, “this is everything I needed. Just us. Just peace.”

Rio turned her head and pressed a soft kiss to Agatha’s shoulder. “We’ll keep making it,” she whispered back. “No matter what.”

Agatha’s eyes softened. There had been so much ugliness that day, so much weight she hadn’t wanted her children to feel, but Rio was right. They had still made space for beauty. They had still laughed, and coaxed Violet into her first wobbly steps with gentle hands and encouraging smiles, and stood together against the shadows. And now, here they were. This was their refuge, their unspoken vow.

The train swayed gently, and Rio shifted just enough to wrap her free arm around Agatha’s. Their fingers found each other without thought, intertwining. Outside the window, towns and fields blurred into dark silhouettes against the faintest lingering glow of dusk.

After a few minutes, Rio said quietly, “You know, I think she would’ve loved this.”

Agatha glanced over, meeting Rio’s eyes, calm and distant as they flickered toward the darkening window. “Eugenia?” she asked, her tone gentle, inviting the memory in.

Rio nodded slowly, a wistful smile touching her lips. “Yeah. You, me, the kids… this calm, this peace. I can just see her—right here in the middle of it all—holding Violet close and spinning those wild, wonderful stories for Nicky. »

Agatha’s smile deepened, soft and bittersweet. “She would’ve brought biscuits for the train ride,” she said, voice warm but teasing. “Not just brought them… baked them. Fresh out of the oven, probably still warm.”

Rio chuckled quietly, the sound full of fond affection. “And then complained about the tea being terrible,” she added, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “She and Lilia would have been best friends. Loud, fierce, stubborn friends who’d argue over whose scones were better and then somehow end up baking together anyway.”

The memory lingered between them, bittersweet but not crushing. Remembered for one, imagined for the other. Violet shifted in her sleep, letting out a small sigh that made both mothers glance down at her with the same instinctive fondness.

Agatha reached over and brushed a lock of hair away from Violet’s forehead. “She’s going to wake up the second we get home, isn’t she?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Rio replied with a quiet laugh. “She’ll want her grand finale—the big walk through the living room before bedtime, like it’s her own little victory lap.”

“That’s my daughter,” Agatha murmured, pride mixing with amusement.

The rhythm of the train seemed slower now, as though stretching this pocket of safety for them just a little longer. Rio’s breathing matched Violet’s, steady and deep. Nicky had slipped fully into sleep, Blue Dragon wedged under his chin.

Eventually, the train began to slow, the subtle shift in momentum nudging Rio from her half-doze. She blinked against the dim carriage light and glanced sideways at Agatha, who was already watching her with that quiet, steady look they shared when words weren’t needed—an unspoken acknowledgment that they had made it through the day, all of it, together.

The train hissed softly as it pulled into their station, the familiar sound carrying a strange comfort. Outside, the night had settled fully, folding itself over the landscape like a dark velvet blanket. The station platform was bathed in the soft, muted glow of flickering streetlights, their pale yellow circles pooling on the wet pavement. Occasionally, distant headlights traced patterns along the road beyond, brief flickers of warmth in the cool darkness.

Violet remained asleep against Rio’s chest, the steady rise and fall of her tiny back a soothing rhythm. Her little fists were curled tightly, knuckles white with the gentle, instinctive grip only a baby could give when clutching at dreamsd. Nicky, snug beneath Agatha’s coat, stirred slowly, his lashes fluttering open before he blinked sleepily into the dim light. His small body shifted slightly but clung to the warmth wrapped around him, unwilling to let go just yet.

Agatha was the first to move, slipping her hand through her hair inwith a slow, deliberate motion. She exhaled quietly, a breath full of relief and exhaustion, before bending to scoop Nicky fully into her arms. Without hesitation, he nestled his face into the soft curve of her neck, murmuring something muffled but unmistakably content. She settled him carefully, lifting his legs so they curled around her waist, then turned to meet Rio’s gaze.

Rio, still cradling Violet, rose in one fluidmotion. Violet shifted slightly with the movement but stayed fast asleep, releasing a soft, sleepy sigh that echoed the peace held in the small family bubble.

When they stepped off the train and onto the platform, the night air was cool against their skin, carrying the fresh, earthy scent of damp leaves and the faint trace of rain that must have fallen earlier. Despite the chill, the darkness felt safe, like a quiet cocoon wrapping around them. They walked side by side, the weight of their children grounding them as much as the warmth they shared.

The short walk from the station to their home was almost entirely silent, save for the occasional shuffle of shoes on pavement and the muffled thrum of a car passing by. The air was cool but not biting, carrying with it the faint scent of wet leaves from a rain that must have fallen earlier.

At their front door, Agatha expertly fumbled her keys free from the pocket of her coat, managing to unlock the door with one hand—a small, effortless skill Rio had long since stopped questioning and quietly admired. With a gentle push of her shoulder, the door creaked open, and they stepped inside.

Immediately, the warm, comforting scent of home wrapped around them like a soft embrace. The faint lavender from their laundry detergent mingled with the lingering sweetness of the last batch of Lilia’s tea, brewed that very morning before they had left—a quiet reminder of the day’s earlier moments, now tucked safely away in memory.

The house was hushed, as if it too recognized the fragile bubble of sleep surrounding their children. They didn’t flick on the harsh overhead lights, instead trusting the gentle, golden pools of light cast by the scattered lamps in the living room to guide their way. The soft glow painted shadows on the walls, creating a cocoon of warmth and quiet stillness that felt like sanctuary after the long day.

Agatha carried Nicky first, cradling him close against her chest. His head lolled softly, heavy with sleep, but his eyes never quite fluttered open. With care, she nudged his bedroom door open using her hip, the hinges barely making a sound. Inside, the room was dim and familiar—faded posters of space and stars adorned the walls, a scattering of books lined the shelves, and the soft colors seemed to glow in the nightish atmosphere.

She moved gently to the bed, easing Nicky down onto the soft mattress. His small body relaxed even further, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips as she slipped off his shoes with deliberate softness, not wanting to shatter the delicate peace. From inside her coat, Agatha pulled out Blue Dragon and  placed it carefully in the crook of his arm, and Nicky’s fingers twitched instinctively to clutch the familiar friend.

A soft, almost-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, fragile and tender like a whispered secret. Agatha’s hand drifted up to brush a few stray curls from his forehead, her fingers lingering as if to imprint the moment on her heart. Then, with the gentlest touch, she pressed a kiss to his temple and rose to her feet.

« Good night, my brave little dragon, » she whispered softly, her voice barely making a sounf in the hushed room.

She crossed to the corner where the nightlight twinkled like a miniature galaxy, flipping it on with a quiet click. Stars bloomed across the ceiling, soft points of light that seemed to hold the promise of safe dreams and quiet wonder. For a moment, Agatha stood still, watching the constellation dance above her son, her heart full of fierce love and the bittersweet ache of time passing too fast.

Meanwhile, Rio had taken Violet to the nursery. She moved slowly, swaying a little out of habit, her voice a low hum of some old lullaby as she lowered the baby into her crib. Violet’s tiny hands opened and closed once before settling against her chest. Rio adjusted Yellow Dragon beside her so that it looked as if it were keeping watch.

She stayed there for a long moment, one hand resting lightly on Violet’s small, rounded tummy, feeling the steady rise and fall of each breath. The fragility of their daughter struck her anew—how impossibly small she was, cradled in the vastness of a world too big and complicated to grasp. And yet here she was: warm, protected, loved.

The quiet was broken only by the soft rustle of fabric and the faint creak of the floorboards as Agatha stepped silently into the doorway. Rio glanced up to find her wife watching her, eyes steady and full of that unspoken tenderness that always made Rio feel both completely seen and utterly safe.

Without a word, they left the nursery and padded back downstairs together. The house was still quiet, though the faint creak of the floorboards under their feet felt almost comforting.

In the kitchen, Rio set the baby monitor on the counter while Agatha filled the kettle. They moved around each other in well-practiced rhythm, making tea without needing to speak — one reaching for the mugs, the other pulling out the tea leaves.

Finally, as they settled onto the couch, Rio let out a long breath. “One down, one down-er,” she murmured, nodding toward the ceiling.

Agatha smiled faintly, her fingers curling around her mug. “And two very asleep.”

Rio leaned back against her, closing her eyes for a moment. “That’s my favorite part of the day. When they’re warm and heavy and you know they feel safe enough to just… let go.”

Agatha’s arm came around her shoulders. “Mine too,” she admitted quietly.

They sat like that for a while, sipping their tea, listening to the stillness of the house. Every so often, the baby monitor crackled faintly — a rustle, a sigh — but nothing that needed them.

Upstairs, Nicky was probably dreaming of his drawing from earlier, the one with wings and angels and bravery. Violet was likely curled in a tiny half-moon shape, her yellow dragon tucked close.

Here, on the couch, Rio let her head fall against Agatha’s shoulder. “We made it through today,” she whispered.

Agatha pressed her lips to Rio’s hair. “We’ll make it through tomorrow too.”

After a while, once their teas was drunk and the mugs washed and rinsed, Rio and Agatha padded down the upstairs  hall on bare feet, the faint creak of the floorboards familiar and comforting, and Rio closed Nicky’s bedroom door with the same care she always used, just enough to keep out the light but never enough to make him feel shut away. Agatha following her, moving with that particular, almost regal grace she always carried even when barefoot and tired.

They didn’t need to speak, their eyes met, and there was that unspoken little nod that said, kids are safe, kids are warm, now it’s just us. Rio reached for Agatha’s hand, linking their fingers as they made the slow walk toward their bedroom, both of them too tired to hurry, savoring the stillness that followed such a long and emotional day.

Inside, the room was bathed in the faint amber glow of the lamp on Agatha’s nightstand. It made the deep tones of the walls feel even warmer, as though the space itself was a blanket waiting to wrap around them. Their bed was turned down, the sheets cool and inviting. On the dresser across from it, two stuffed dragons—Green and Purple—sat side by side, as if keeping silent watch over their humans. Rio smiled at the sight. “They’re guarding us too tonight,” she whispered.

“They’d better,” Agatha murmured, hanging up the blouse she’d been wearing. “After the day we’ve had, we deserve some very fierce dragon protection.”

They began to change, the easy, quiet undressing that comes from years of shared space and comfort and absolutely no shame with each other. Rio pulled her hair up loosely, sliding out of her clothes and into the soft cotton pajama shorts and oversized shirt she favored. Agatha swapped her outfit for her own silk pajama set, the deep navy making her hair seem even darker, the long waves spilling down her back.

As they moved about, they brushed past each other with small, familiar touches—Agatha’s hand grazing Rio’s waist as she passed, Rio’s fingers briefly finding Agatha’s hip. There was nothing hurried or deliberate about it, it was simply muscle memory, the language of two people who had long since learned to speak as much in touch as much as in words.

When they finally crawled into bed, they met in the middle without hesitation. Rio curled into Agatha’s side, resting her head on her wife’s shoulder, one leg hooking lazily over hers. Agatha’s arm wrapped around her instantly, drawing her close until they were an unbroken line of warmth beneath the covers. Rio let out a long, slow sigh, the last of her tension melting away now that she was pressed into that steady heartbeat.

On the dresser, the dragons faced them like silent sentinels. Rio smiled faintly again. “It’s ridiculous how much comfort I get from knowing those two are watching over us,” she whispered.

“Not ridiculous,” Agatha said softly, her voice already low and soothing. “They’re part of the family. And they know their job.”

“Guardians of the night,” Rio agreed, her voice drowsy but still tinged with affection.

After a long silence, Rio tilted her head just enough to press a kiss to the hollow of Agatha’s collarbone. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Agatha murmured, her lips curving into a smile that Rio could feel against her hair. “And I love you. More than I’ll ever be able to explain properly.”

“You do explain it,” Rio said sleepily. “Every day. In a hundred little ways.”

Agatha hummed at that, holding her a fraction tighter. “Same goes for you, love and light.”

They lay there for a long while without speaking again, the rhythm of each other’s breathing slowly falling into sync. The weight of the day—its heaviness, its beauty, its bittersweet edges—seemed to settle around them like a blanket, but one they could carry together. Rio closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of Agatha’s heart beneath her ear.

Eventually, her breathing evened out into the slow cadence of sleep. Agatha stayed awake just long enough to press a final kiss into Rio’s hair and glance toward the dresser, where the dragons sat unmoving in the warm lamplight.

“Keep watch,” she whispered to them and then higher, to something—or someone—above, someone now watching over them from up there, before letting her eyes close and her own body drift into rest.

And so they slept—tangled, safe, with the stuffed dragons standing silent guard—until the quiet night gave way to morning.

*

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Chapter Text

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The week after the memorial passed in a strange blur, like the air around them had shifted somehow.

It wasn’t grief exactly—not in the sharp, fresh way--but rather the long, lingering ache of having touched a wound you thought had scarred over. They had gone about their days in a quiet sort of rhythm, tending to Violet’s newfound determination to take steps whenever she thought no one was looking, indulging Nicky’s sudden interest in drawing “family history” scenes, and keeping the house cozy against the damp heat of late summer.

That afternoon, the rain had just started its steady tap-tap-tap against the windows when the knock came at the door. Not the quick, neighborly rap of someone dropping by unannounced, but the measured, deliberate knock of someone with a purpose.

Rio had been curled up on the couch with a cup of tea, still in her softest cardigan, watching Nicky try to convince Violet to chase after him in an elaborate game that involved Yellow Dragon being “kidnapped” and spirited away under the coffee table. Violet was making her determined “mmmh!” sound, arms and legs scrambling across the rug in small bursts before flopping to her knees in protest.

Agatha, halfway between the kitchen and the living room, frowned at the sound. “That’s the post,” she said, already crossing the room. “This late?”

When she opened the door, the postman was already turning away, leaving behind two envelopes on the mat. The first one—official looking— wasn’t bulky, but it had the faint stiffness of multiple pages. The paper looked expensive in the way that suggested lawyers, or official looking things. The second one was a cream-colored envelope with a neat handwriting on it, one she faintly recognized but couldn’t place.

Agatha bent to pick them up, closing the door behind her. Her eyes immediately caught the handwriting on the first—precise, neat, as if the writer took care never to let a single curve stray and a logo stamped on he corner. It wasn’t familiar in the personal sense, not warm like a friend’s, but familiar in a colder way. She knew it from signatures on past documents, from seeing it across envelopes delivered years ago.

Eugenia’s lawyer.

Agatha’s breath caught for half a second. She didn’t move right away, her fingers still resting against the envelope as though it might vanish if she wasn’t careful.

Rio looked up and set her tea aside and leaned forward. “Who’s it from?”

Agatha looked up, and her voice was calm, but there was a faint edge to it, like she was balancing on the line between bracing herself and letting the weight sink in. “The lawyer. Eugenia’s.”

For a moment, the living room seemed very still, save for the rain outside and the soft giggles from the rug as Nicky scooped Violet into his lap. He was telling her something in a low, conspiratorial tone, making her squeal and wave her arms toward the dragon in his hand.

Agatha sank onto the couch, still holding the envelopes, her thumb running over the ridge of the paper. She hesitated with the sudden understanding that whatever was in here had been written before Eugenia’s memorial, before any reconciliation or closure could ever happen. It was a piece of the past pushing its way into their present.

Rio reached over, her hand warm against Agatha’s. She gave a small, steady squeeze, the sort that said I’m here, without a single word.

“Go on,” she murmured.

Agatha drew in a quiet breath, placed the second envelope on the coffee table and kept the first one in her hands. She slit it open with careful precision, as though the neatness of it mattered. Two sheets slid out.  She recognized the letterhead instantly. She could almost hear the lawyer’s measured tone in her head, each word chosen with legal exactness.

She unfolded it, scanning the opening lines, then began to read aloud.

“It’s… a description of the will,” she said softly, glancing toward Rio as if to confirm she was reading it right. “What she left… and to whom.”

Nicky didn’t even look up from where he was crawling under the coffee table, clearly intent on reclaiming Violet’s dragon for the sake of the game, but Rio leaned a little closer, her free hand brushing against Agatha’s knee.

“I figured there’d be something for me,” Agatha went on, her voice quiet but steady, “and maybe for Nicky. But…” She paused, eyes moving down the page, and something in her expression shifted—not shock exactly, but a surprised tenderness that softened the lines around her mouth.

“She left something for you, love,” she said, looking straight at Rio now, “and for Violet, too.”

Rio blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “For Violet?”

Agatha nodded slowly. “Yes. Considering we hadn’t spoken in years, I didn’t even think she knew about her.”

Her gaze drifted toward the rug, where Violet was now attempting to chew on Nicky’s sleeve while he protested dramatically. There was a pause, a small space between the words, as if Agatha was letting the realization settle: whatever else had passed between her and Eugenia, her aunt had thought of all of them—not just her by blood, but the family she had built.

The letter crackled softly in Agatha’s hands as she started reading. Her voice wavered only slightly when she reached the first bequest.

“To my niece, Agatha Harkness-Vidal, I leave my entire personal library, in its entirety, without restriction or division. May she find peace and joy in the words others have written, and be encouraged to add hers to the collection of the world. May the poem of her life expand and grow with her and her accoplishments.”

For a heartbeat, the room felt suspended in quiet. Violet squealed from the rug, clutching one of Nicky’s toy cars in victory, but even that seemed distant in Agatha’s ears. The words pressed against her chest like a weight—one that was heavy, yes, but warm too.

Her whole library.

Agatha swallowed, her mind already wandering into memory: the cool dimness of Eugenia’s sitting room in summer, the beeswax polish catching faint lines of light across the wood, the cedar scent rising from old shelves, the faint ghost of her aunt’s perfume clinging to pages she had turned late at night. She could see Eugenia there, a shawl around her shoulders, a book in her lap, one finger marking her place while she offered some dry remark that was half wisdom, half challenge.

It wasn’t just the books. It was her.

She looked up from the page, and her voice was quieter, as if speaking too loudly might break the moment. “Her whole library.”

Rio was already watching her with that soft, steady gaze—the one that saw past Agatha’s straight spine and calm tone, straight into the part of her that was trembling. She didn’t say I’m sorry or I know this hurts. Instead, she let a small smile curve across her lips and said, “We’re going to need another wing… or a new house.”

Agatha blinked at her, startled into a laugh that came out tangled with tears. She pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes for a moment before looking back at Rio, shaking her head. “It’s at least… oh, I don’t even know. Hundreds of books. Maybe thousands. And not just books. Annotated manuscripts. Rare editions. She had—”

“I know,” Rio interrupted gently, still smiling. “I heard your tone the first time you told me about her house. You sounded like you’d remembered the Holy Grail.”

“It was the Holy Grail,” Agatha murmured, a shadow of a smirk playing at the edge of her mouth. She looked back down at the letter, running her fingers lightly over the paper, as though that might bring her closer to the woman who had once stood between her and the worst parts of the world.

Nicky, apparently deciding that this grown-up quiet had gone on far too long, scrambled to his feet and padded over, his socks whispering against the rug.

“Mama,” he began, frowning in genuine curiosity, “how can she leave a library? Libraries are, like… buildings. You can’t take them with you.”

Agatha’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. She reached out, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “In this case, ‘library’ just means all of one person’s books. All together in one place.”

Nicky’s head tilted, eyes narrowing in thought. “So… all of our books are also a library?”

“Yes,” Agatha said, then hesitated, glancing at Rio with a helpless grin. “But this one is—” she paused for effect “—bigger. And older. And probably dustier.”

Nicky wrinkled his nose, leaning back slightly. “Dust is boring.”

Rio leaned in smoothly, resting her elbows on her knees until she was eye level with him. “Not when it’s magic dust,” she countered. Then she tipped forward to bump her nose against his, making him giggle. “And these books are going to be ours. Mama’s aunt wanted her to have them. That’s like… finding a treasure.”

Nicky’s eyes widened just a little, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Like a pirate treasure?”

Rio straightened with mock solemnity. “Exactly like a pirate treasure. Except instead of gold coins, there are stories. And instead of maps, there are notes in the margins. And instead of—”

“Parrots?” Nicky offered.

“—yes, instead of parrots, there’s probably… a very bossy librarian ghost who will tell you to use a bookmark,” Rio said, eyes twinkling.

That drew a startled laugh from Agatha, who shook her head. “For the record, there is no ghost.”

« That you know of,” Rio murmured, pretending to look thoughtful.

Nicky gave a satisfied nod, apparently willing to accept this as legitimate treasure lore. “Okay. I’ll help carry them. But only if I get to open the first box.”

Agatha chuckled, shaking her head, but she couldn’t deny the tiny flare of warmth that Rio’s choice of words lit in her chest. A treasure. Yes. That’s what it was—if you knew how to value it.

Her mind drifted briefly to the logistics—how they’d get the books here, where they’d put them, if they’d need to reinforce shelves to hold the weight of Eugenia’s collection—but underneath that was something deeper. Something rawer. Eugenia hadn’t just left her possessions. She’d left a part of herself. A trust. A statement that even after years of strained contact, she had still seen Agatha. Still believed in her. In her intellect.

Violet, perhaps sensing her mother’s shift in mood, toddled over and pressed a soft, drool-damp hand to Agatha’s knee. Agatha reached down without thinking, scooping her into her lap. Violet settled there instantly, chewing absently on the collar of her shirt while Agatha smoothed a hand over her baby-fine hair.

“She knew,” Agatha murmured, almost to herself. “She must have known we’d find a way to make room. For her books. For… all of it.”

Rio’s hand found her knee and squeezed, steady and sure. “We’ll make room,” she said firmly. “We always do. We’ll knock down a wall if we have to. Or two.”

Agatha could almost see it already—an extra room lined with towering shelves, a reading chair by the window, Nicky curled up with a picture book while Violet toddled between stacks, learning early that stories lived not just on pages but in the people who passed them down.

When she finally looked back at the letter, her throat was tight but her voice was steady. “All right. That’s the first part. Let’s see what else she—”

Rio’s thumb brushed lightly over her hand. “No rush,” she said softly. “We can take this one piece at a time.”

But Agatha shook her head. “No. She wanted us to know. All of us. And the sooner we do, the sooner we can… honor it.” Her eyes drifted toward the rug, where Nicky had resumed darting back and forth, trying to get Violet to chase him again in a chaotic zigzag of giggles and squeals. “They’ll want to know too,” she added, “even if they don’t understand all of it yet.”

Rio gave her that look again—the one that said, without words, You’re doing better than you think you are. “Then read it to us, love,” she murmured. “I’m right here.”

Agatha smoothed the letter on her lap, took another breath, and prepared to keep going.

Her voice softened instinctively when she read Nicky’s name in the will. Her eyes flicked briefly toward him—he was lying on his stomach now, half on the rug and half on a cushion, Violet clambering over his back like he was her personal jungle gym.

“To my great-nephew, Nicholas Harkness-Vidal,” Agatha read, her tone gentle, each syllable deliberate. Even seeing it written that way tugged at something deep in her chest. Eugenia had gotten his name exactly right—the name that recognized him fully as Rio’s son and her own.

“I leave my telescope, which I used for many years to map the constellations from my balcony. I hope he will lift his gaze often to the night sky, and find as much wonder there as I did. May he learn that every star holds a story, that the oldest tales are written in light, and that even in the darkest hours, there are always bright places—if you know where to look.”

Nicky’s head popped up so fast, his curls flopped over his forehead. “Telescope? Like… like the big ones?” he asked, eyes wide, already starting to vibrate like he was about to take off.

“Yes,” Agatha said, watching the exact moment his imagination lit up. “A real one. Not a toy. Eugenia’s was—well, let’s just say it’s special.”

Violet, who was now perched on Nicky’s back, made a gleeful squeal and reached for the paper in Agatha’s hand, little fingers curling like she was trying to claim her own inheritance. Rio gently intercepted her grab, laughing. “Not for chewing, Vivi. That’s important paper.”

Nicky had already twisted around to face his moms properly. “Can I use it right away? Tonight? Please?” His voice was climbing, excitement bubbling so hard it was almost tripping over itself.

Agatha chuckled and shook her head slightly. “You’ll have to be patient, star-gazer. We don’t have it yet—it still has to be sent here. And even then, you’ll need to learn how to use it. It’s a fragile object, and I don’t want you snapping anything the first night.”

“I won’t break it!” Nicky promised instantly, crossing his heart in a dramatic X across his chest. “I’ll be super careful. Carefuller than I’ve ever been in my whole life.”

Agatha’s mouth twitched at his determination. “I believe you,” she said softly. “But this isn’t like peeking through the cardboard tube from the paper towels.”

Rio grinned at the mental image. “We can teach you together. I will show you all the science bits—how to adjust the focus, track the moon, all that—and Mama can teach you the star stories.”

Nicky blinked up at them, like he hadn’t even considered that there might be stories behind the constellations. “The stars have stories?”

“Oh, do they ever,” Agatha said, setting the paper on her lap for a moment, her voice low and rich like she was beginning one of her lectures—only gentler. “Some of them are myths that have been told for thousands of years. Some are the history of explorers and astronomers. And some are just… our own.”

Rio tipped her head toward Agatha, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Like the one where two stars gave birth to the sun and the moon instead of the other way around?”

“That’s not a constellation,” Agatha muttered, but there was a spark of amusement in her eyes. “It’s a bedtime story you made up to avoid explaining actual astronomy.” But there was a spark in her eyes.

“Still a good story,” Rio said under her breath, which made Nicky giggle. "Pretty true, if you ask me."

“I wanna learn all of them,” Nicky burst out, practically bouncing now. “All the science. All the stories. All the everything!” He flung his arms wide for emphasis, nearly toppling Violet.

Violet, instead of minding, squealed and tipped sideways into Rio’s arms, kicking her feet like she’d been part of the plan all along.

“You will,” Agatha promised, her gaze lingering on him with a look Rio recognized well—it was equal parts affection and that deep, unspoken ache she sometimes carried when she saw glimpses of her own childhood in her son’s wonder.

Nicky, already lost in a daydream, started rattling off all the things he could use the telescope for. “We can see the rings of Saturn! And the craters on the moon! And maybe a comet—do you think there’ll be a comet soon? And if there is, can we please stay up all night? And an eclipse? And maybe aliens—”

Rio leaned over, brushing her fingers through his curls. “I think Mama just agreed to a lot of late nights.”

Agatha smirked faintly. “If it keeps him from using my good baking sheets as imaginary rockets, I’ll take it.”

“That was only one time!” Nicky protested, though he was grinning as he flopped onto his back on the rug, arms tucked behind his head like he was already lying under the stars.

Violet toddled over again, plopped herself beside him, and patted his arm with a solemn little nod, as if officially appointing herself co-pilot.

Agatha’s gaze softened as she watched them, her fingers finding Rio’s without thought. “Eugenia would have liked that,” she murmured. “The two of them looking up at the sky together.”

Rio’s answering smile was steady and sure. “And she’d like knowing they’ll be learning it from you—and from her—at the same time.”

Agatha didn’t answer right away—just squeezed Rio’s hand and looked down at the paper again, her throat tightening before she moved on to the next part of the will.

Her gaze softened as she reached the section addressed to Rio. It wasn’t just words on paper—it was as though her aunt’s voice had crossed the years and the silence to speak directly to her wife. She cleared her throat a little before speaking, her voice instinctively gentler, as if she were reading something sacred.

“To Rio Harkness-Vidal,” she began, her gaze flicking toward her wife before returning to the paper, “whom I never had the pleasure of meeting in person but feel like I know so well already through my niece’s letters…”

Rio blinked at that, her brows knitting together, as though she was not sure she had heard right. “You… really wrote about me?”

Agatha glanced up, her mouth tugging into a small, knowing smile. “Of course I did,” she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “When we got engaged, I wrote to her. I told her everything about you. About the way you walked into a room and somehow made it warmer. How you could argue like a storm and laugh like a sunrise. How my fiancée was all fire and light, and I—” she paused, her eyes glinting with something both mischievous and tender—“I told her I’d be an utter fool to let you go.”

Rio’s breath caught—just for a moment—and then she ducked her head, her cheeks warm. “You never told me that.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Agatha murmured, her voice threaded with affection.

Nicky, who was half-listening while trying to keep Violet from gnawing on the tail of his toy dragon, piped up. “You mean Aunt Eugenia knew about Mommy before Mommy even knew about her?”

“That’s right,” Agatha said. “And apparently she listened and remembered every word.”

Nicky’s voice piped up again, this time with awe instead of curiosity. “So… she kinda knew you were gonna be my mommy before I even knew?”

Rio smiled through the sting in her eyes. “Sounds like it.”

“Wow.” Nicky tilted his head, clearly storing the idea away like it was another constellation in his mental sky. “That’s kinda magical.”

Agatha squeezed Rio’s hand once more, her fingertips lingering on the crease. “She thought so too.”

 Agatha looked back to the letter.

“I leave my collection of rare plants, cultivated over decades and kept in the sunroom of my home. Some have bloomed only once in my lifetime. Others are stubborn and temperamental but worth the patience they demand. May they continue to thrive in the care of someone who understands the quiet language of growing things. May their roots find steadiness in her hands, and their flowers bring love and gentleness to her already technicolor life. And may she always remember—life tends toward growth when given the right light.”

Rio’s eyes went wide. “Her plants?” she repeated, almost reverently. ““Wait—do you mean the rare ones? The ones she kept under those big glass domes in the sunroom? The ones you showed me in those old Polaroids?”

Agatha nodded. “The very same.”

Rio leaned back against the couch cushions, processing. “How did she even know I liked plants?”

Agatha’s mouth curved, faintly smug. “I told her.” She lowered the paper just enough to meet Rio’s gaze. “That you loved growing things. That you could coax life out of anything—even the things everyone else thought were past saving. That it was one of the many reasons I loved you.”

That did it. Rio blinked rapidly, her lips pressing together to keep from outright crying. She covered Agatha’s hand with her own, squeezing it hard, both grateful and a little overwhelmed. “I didn’t know she knew me, even in some small way. And she still… thought to leave me something.”

“She did,” Agatha said softly. “She saw you through my eyes.”

For a moment, Rio could only sit there, her thumb brushing over Agatha’s knuckles. Then her gaze drifted toward the window, already flicking into the practical part of her mind. “The sunniest spots in the house are the kitchen windowsill, the bay window in the living room, and—”

“—the upstairs landing,” Agatha finished for her, one eyebrow arching in amusement. “You think I don’t know how your mind works ? I already knew where this was going.”

Nicky grinned. “Mommy’s going to talk to the plants more than she talks to us.”

Rio turned to him with mock offense. “I will not! I’ll talk to them and to you equally.” She leaned in closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Besides, you’ll probably get jealous if they start growing faster than you.”

Nicky gasped, almost offended. “I’m already taller than a plant!”

“Some plants,” Rio teased. “Not all.”

Agatha shook her head, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, at least you’ll have help keeping them alive. Between the two of you, they’ll probably get lullabies at night.”

Rio turned back to her with a bright, watery grin. “Oh, they absolutely will.”

Violet chose that moment to squeal with delight and clap her hands. Her little palms smacked together twice before she let out a string of bubbly nonsense, one syllable in particular sounding suspiciously like “flower.”

Rio froze for a heartbeat, eyes widening. “Did she just—?”

Agatha’s lips curved in that subtle way that meant she wasn’t going to outright confirm it, but she’d definitely heard it too. “Possibly,” she murmured, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Though it could just as easily have been her saying ‘flour’ and demanding cake.”

Before Rio could reply, Violet made a determined grab for the will again, chubby fingers catching the edge and managing to crumple one corner with startling precision for someone still in the cruising-around-furniture-and-barely-taking-ten-steps-unassisted stage of mobility.

“Vivi,” Agatha said with a patient sigh, deftly sliding the paper from her daughter’s grip. She smoothed the wrinkled edge with her palm, as though the act of caring for it was part of honoring the words it contained. “You’ll get your turn in a moment, Baby Moon.”

Violet blinked up at her, then responded by patting her own lap as though inviting the paper back.

Rio chuckled quietly, shaking her head. “She’s going to think the plants are hers when they arrive.”

Agatha glanced back at her wife. “They’re going to be happy with you,” she said simply, as though she could already picture Rio in the sunlit kitchen, coaxing new life from old stems.

Rio smiled, softer now, a little teary-eyed but mostly filled with that peculiar of gratitude that came when someone decided you were worth giving something precious to. “Then I’ll make sure they thrive.”

Agatha leaned over just enough to brush her lips against Rio’s temple. “I know you will.”

Violet, apparently unwilling to be excluded from the moment, reached up and patted both of their cheeks, babbling something that was definitely not a word but felt suspiciously like her version of approval.

Then Agatha turned back to the will and turned the page, her eyes skimming over the neat, slanted handwriting. Her breath caught before she even began to read aloud, something in the first few words making her heart stumble.

“Then… the most surprising,” she murmured, her voice already softer, “comes Violet’s turn.”

Rio was still not over that. “Violet’s?” she asked, as if she needed to be sure she’d heard right. "Really?"

Agatha nodded slowly, still staring at the words as if they might vanish if she blinked. “I didn’t even… I didn’t think she knew,” she admitted. “Not her name, not even that she existed.” Her voice had a faint, shaky undercurrent to it, as if her mind was trying to piece together how this could be. « But she did. Somehow, she did. »

On the rug, Nicky had paused his game, crouched with Violet in his lap. His gaze moved between them with a mix of curiosity and caution.

Agatha inhaled, bracing herself, and began to read the next lines aloud. The words seemed heavier now, each one deliberate, each one steeped in meaning.

“To Violet Harkness-Vidal,” she read, her voice catching on her daughter’s name, “I leave my own Harkness crest medallion—worn by me since I was ten years old. May she one day wear it with pride, and may she change the course of its history. Let it rest against her heart and remind her of the women who came before her, but also of the woman she is destined to become. May she bring kindness and colors to its weight, and may she never let the name it bears define her limits—only her possibilities.”

She stopped. Just stopped. The room was utterly still except for Violet’s little hum of confusion as she tilted her head against Nicky’s chest, and the faint rustle of the letter in Agatha’s hands.

Rio’s eyes softened, her own throat tightening. “Her medallion?” she asked quietly.

Agatha swallowed hard and gave a small nod, looking at her wife now instead of the letter. “In the family,” she explained, “every girl is given a medallion on her tenth birthday. It’s tradition. I was going to have Violet’s made when the time came… but—” She paused, blinking hard as the edges of her composure wavered. “But for Eugenia to leave hers… the one she wore for decades… for Violet to keep until she’s old enough…” She trailed off, unable to finish.

Rio’s hand found hers instantly, warm and steady. “It’s more than special,” she said gently, finishing the thought for her. “It’s part of her history. And now it’s part of Violet’s story, too.”

Agatha’s eyes lingered on the tiny, busy baby across the room – her Violet— who had no idea of the significance of what had just been given to her. Violet was squirming now, trying to wriggle free from Nicky’s lap so she could toddle back toward the shiny paper in her mother’s hands. Her little fingers stretched toward it with fierce determination, as if she already knew it contained something meant for her.

Nicky watched her with a sly grin. “Looks like she wants her medallion already,” he said, his voice full of amusement. “She’s stubborn and impatient like you, Mom.”

That drew a quiet laugh from both women, though Agatha’s was still tremulous. She could picture it—years from now, Violet older, perhaps with the same spark of curiosity in her eyes, looking even more like a mini version of Rio, the medallion hanging around her neck as something she’d treasure. But for now, it would be kept safe, a link to family and to a woman Agatha had thought too distant to remember them this way.

Rio squeezed Agatha’s hand again. “She knew, Agatha,” she said softly. “Even if we didn’t think so, she knew about Violet. She thought about her.”

That thought, unexpected and strangely comforting, stayed with Agatha as she lowered the letter to her lap. She felt the sting of tears, not the raw grief of the memorial week before, but something gentler, laced with gratitude. Eugenia’s absence still hurt, but this gesture—this legacy—felt like a thread tying their present to their past.

Violet let out a loud babble, patting Nicky’s knee as if demanding to be let down. When he complied, she made her unsteady way toward the couch, one hand out for balance, the other still reaching. Agatha bent forward, scooping her up before she could trip over the edge of the rug. She pressed a kiss into her daughter’s fine hair.

“You’ll have it one day, my love,” she murmured, so softly only Rio heard. “In nine short years. And when the day comes, you’ll know exactly where it came from.”

Rio leaned in, her voice just as quiet. “And exactly how much it meant.”

The medallion wasn’t even in their possession yet, but Agatha could already feel its weight—symbolic, precious, undeniable.

On top of the medallion, Eugenia had also left Violet the old trunk of clothes she had kept at her house for the days when Agatha came to visit and did not want to wear the stiff, formal dresses Evanora always forced on her. Agatha paused as she read, her eyes lingering on the neat lines of the solicitor’s handwriting, and the image came rushing back so vividly it was almost like she could smell the faint lavender sachets Eugenia always tucked between the folded garments.

Agatha let out a short, almost startled laugh. “I can’t believe she kept that.” Her voice wavered on the last word.

Rio leaned in. “The trunk?”

“The one she used to pull out the second I arrived,” Agatha said, her eyes distant now. “Evanora would send me in those awful, starched dresses—high collars, skirts so stiff I could barely bend my knees. »

The clothes inside that trunk had been nothing like the dull, joyless dresses Evanora insisted upon—those that seemed designed to keep her from moving too quickly or breathing too deeply.

Instead, Eugenia had given her an escape. The trunk had been filled with practical clothing that was soft, comfortable, and easy to move in. Every single piece had been hand-sewn by Eugenia herself, stitched with quiet rebellion in every seam. They came in rich, lively colors—deep blues, sunny yellows, warm reds—and in fabrics that felt alive against her skin: cottons, linens, and soft wools that draped and swayed instead of clinging stiffly.

Agatha remembered the first time she had changed into one of those outfits at Eugenia’s house. She had been seven years old, perched on the edge of the bed in Eugenia’s guest room, her fingers fumbling at the stubborn buttons of the dress Evanora had chosen for her.

« Eugenia hated them. She’d take one look at me and say, ‘Off with that dreadful thing.’” Agatha’s lips curved at the memory. “So she had this old cedar trunk in the guest room. Inside—soft trousers, loose tunics, skirts I could actually move in. She sewed them herself. Soft fabrics and… all in colors Evanora would have fainted over.”

Rio grinned. “And you wore them?”

“Every chance I got. I could run, climb trees, roll in the grass. No one scolded me for grass stains.” Agatha’s smile deepened for a moment, then softened into something more fragile. 

She could still remember the way the fabric had felt against her skin, and the sudden, dizzying freedom that came with it. For the first time, she had been able to be a child without fear of Evanora’s scolding. That freedom had meant more to her than she could put into words, and seeing Eugenia’s quiet defiance in the stitches had made her feel loved in a way that was different from anything else in her life.

Now, thinking of that trunk going to Violet—her own daughter, her little Vivi—Agatha’s throat tightened. She imagined Vivi running around in some of those clothes years from now, the hem dragging behind her as she played make-believe in the backyard, or curling up in the soft wool sweaters on cold days. The thought made Agatha’s chest ache in the best possible way. Maybe Violet would want to add butterfly wings, or Nicky’s dragon horns headband and make it all her own. It would be perfect.

Rio reached over and brushed her fingers along Agatha’s arm, grounding her. “She really thought about all of us,” Rio said softly, almost in awe. “She wanted Violet to have what she gave you,” she said quietly.

Agatha nodded, but for a moment she could not speak. The weight of the gesture—of Eugenia’s understanding, of her care—was almost too much. She pressed her lips together, blinking hard, before she finally managed, “Yes. She really did.”

They sat together in the living room, the letter now spread open on the coffee table between them. The envelope lay discarded beside Agatha’s mug, its torn edge a quiet witness to the moment. Violet had been playing on the rug a few minutes ago, but now she had crawled into Rio’s lap, curious about what all the fuss and reverence was about. Nicky leaned against Agatha’s side, following the lines of handwriting as if it were a story he was desperate to read.

Agatha’s voice had been steady at first as she read aloud, tracing Eugenia’s words with her gaze. But as she reached the last line, her voice softening until it almost faded. Her eyes lingered on the closing, the looping signature she knew so well. Then she folded the letter again with careful hands, as though it were made of glass.

Eugenia hadn’t only remembered her. She had remembered all of them—Rio, Nicky, Violet—and written them into this last testament like she was still looking out for them.

I saw you. I knew you. And I will keep protecting you.

Agatha stayed very still, the weight of the message settling over her.

Rio, who had been watching her closely, shifted Violet in her lap and slid closer until their knees touched. She leaned in, resting her head against Agatha’s shoulder without a word.

For a long moment, they sat like that—the four of them gathered in a small circle of warmth—while the letter lay between them, holding more than just ink.

“She thought of everything,” Agatha murmured at last, her voice barely audible.

“I know,” Rio answered, her tone soft but sure.

No one moved to put the letter away. It stayed where it was, a silent guest in their home, as the evening light began to soften through the curtains.

“We’ll have to go back to Eugenia’s place soon,” Agatha said softly. “We’ll bring all these things home—the telescope, the plants, the clothes, the medallion, the books. It’ll be like another quiet farewell trip.” She smiled at Rio and then at Nicky, who was suddenly sitting very still, as if weighing the importance of her words.

Nicky’s face lit up. “When we go, can we… can we see Thea too? Please? I want to tell her about Violet walking and the telescope!” His voice was filled with hopeful excitement.

Rio exchanged a glance with Agatha, her smile softening into something protective and determined. “We’ll do everything we can,” she promised. “We’ll reach out to Margaret and try to organize a visit.”

Agatha chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “Even if Margaret is a bit of a—well, a difficult person—we’ll find a way.” She squeezed Rio’s hand gently. “We might have to come up with a clever excuse to ‘kidnap’ Thea for a day, if that’s what it takes.”

Nicky giggled, delighted by the idea. “Like secret agents!” he said, his eyes sparkling. “We could sneak into her house and surprise her!”

Violet babbled happily, clapping her hands in agreement, as if she understood every word and was already imagining the adventure.

Rio laughed. « Let’s not sneak out into Margaret’s house like that. She might behead us on sight. »

Nicky hopped up and ran over to the window, looking out at the fading light. “When can we go? Tomorrow? Next week? Can it be soon?”

“We’ll plan it soon,” Agatha said firmly. She looked back at the coffee table, where the second envelope was laid.

« But right now, I have another letter to read. »

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Chapter Text

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Agatha reached slowly for the second envelope, her fingers hovering just above it for a heartbeat before she finally brushed against the smooth paper. There was  hesitation there, as if she wasn’t quite certain she was ready for whatever secrets it might hold.

The envelope was different from the first: the paper was thicker, almost velvety to the touch, and the handwriting was neat, looping in an old-fashioned cursive style, written in dark blue ink that seemed to shimmer faintly in the warm light of their living room. A subtle scent wafted up as Agatha brought it closer to her face—a delicate blend of lavender and something else, maybe the faint, nostalgic aroma of pressed flowers. It felt intentional, personal, and almost fragile, like a message folded carefully in time.

Agatha turned the envelope over slowly, tracing the edges, then spotted the name written on the back. She squinted, and the name seemed to settle deep inside her memory.

“Cecilia Carlisle…” Rio leaned over Agatha’s shoulder, curiosity knitting her brows together. “Do we know her?”

Agatha froze mid-motion, the letter poised between her fingers. The name stirred something quiet but unmistakable within her. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Yes,” she said gently.  “Cecilia—the woman from the memorial. The kind one. The quiet one. She was there… just before we left. She came to say goodbye.”

Rio’s eyes softened with recognition. “Oh. That’s right. The woman who sat quietly in the corner with her husband, with that warm smile. She didn’t say much, but you could tell she cared and that she carried a lot of stories.”

Agatha nodded, still holding the envelope carefully, as if it were something precious not just because of what it contained but because of who it came from. The moment stretched between them—a pause filled with unspoken questions and the weight of memories yet to be opened.

Nicky and Violet continued their quiet play nearby, oblivious to the significance of the second letter, while Agatha and Rio shared a glance that said without words: whatever this was, it mattered.

Agatha carefully broke the seal and unfolded the letter, the delicate paper crackling softly in the quiet room.

She cleared her throat and began to read aloud, her voice steady but touched with a gentle respect as she took in each carefully chosen word.

My dear Agatha… 

Agatha’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. She hadn’t known Cecilia Carlisle well—only a few brief encounters, quiet moments at the memorial—but this tone suggested a closeness she hadn’t expected.

I have thought many times about writing to you since the memorial, yet each time I sat down, the right words seemed to dance just beyond my grasp. Eugenia often told me that words have the power to both heal and wound, and I wished to wield them with care and kindness — because you deserve nothing less.

Though our meetings were few and our conversations brief, I have come to feel I know you through the stories Eugenia shared with me over the years. Stories told in whispers, tucked between memories and silences— stories that painted you not just as a niece, but as a bright and vital presence in her life. 

Agatha’s heart tightened at this. Eugenia had always been so private, yet she had spoken of Agatha enough to leave a vivid impression on Cecilia, enough to make Cecilia feel connected to her before they ever truly met. 

I wanted to share some memories with you, pieces of your aunt’s life that she never spoke about openly, but that I was fortunate enough to witness. These are not tales of grandeur or glory, but of a woman whose strength was often hidden beneath layers of fear and sacrifice. There is much about her and her love that I hope will help you understand the woman who was your aunt. I wanted you to know this, in case you had ever doubted the difference you made. She often spoke of you as a light in her later years, a reason to hope and keep going.

Agatha’s throat tightened. “I never imagined Eugenia saw me as a light.”

Rio’s voice was soft, full of warmth. “Well, she did. And so do I. You are a light, Agatha—always have been.”

Agatha glanced at Rio, a quiet smile touching her lips.

“It’s never too late to hold onto the light.”, Rio whispered.

This letter wasn’t just a note of farewell or condolence; it was the beginning of a deeper conversation—one that Cecilia wanted to have with Agatha, even if only through her written words.

With a small breath, Agatha continued reading, ready to hear what Cecilia had chosen to share, knowing it might reveal pieces of Eugenia’s past—and perhaps, pieces of their own future as well.

There are stories of her youth, struggles, and the secret moments she found joy despite it all. She was a woman of many layers—resilient, kind, sometimes stubborn—and she cherished her family fiercely, even when circumstances kept them apart. I hope this letter can offer you some comfort, and perhaps a sense of connection you may have missed.

Rio took a breath. “It sounds like she wanted to reach out, to bridge the gaps Eugenia left behind.”

Agatha nodded, tears threatening. “She said she already feels she knows me… through Eugenia’s stories. It makes me wonder how much Eugenia talked about us, and that I never knew about.”

Rio’s eyes glistened. “Maybe more than you realized.”

Agatha leaned back, letting out a soft sigh. “I… I don’t know how to feel.”

Rio squeezed her hand. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here. We’ve got time.”

Agatha smiled, grateful. “Thank you—for always being here.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the letter resting gently between them as if it held a fragile bridge between past and present.

Agatha unfolded the next section of Cecilia’s letter, her voice steady but threaded with awe as she began to read aloud.

I first met Eugenia during our college years, in the quiet, dusty aisles of the old library where we both sought refuge from the world outside. It was a place filled with forgotten stories and whispered secrets, and somehow, amidst the scent of aging paper and fading ink, we found each other. We bonded over shared tales and tentative dreams, laughter that felt like a secret language spoken only between us—an unspoken promise of something rare and fragile.

Agatha paused, her eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise at the intimate tone.

We were close. Closer than you might imagine, even now.

Her voice softened as she read the next lines.

What began as friendship quietly deepened into something else—something profound and irrevocable. Our love blossomed in the shadows, away from prying eyes and judgmental whispers. It was a love that dared not speak its name, concealed beneath layers of silence and careful smiles, hidden in the spaces between stolen moments and whispered confidences.

We lived in a time and place where the world would never have understood us, never have accepted what we shared—not then, not there, not within the confines of our families’ expectations and society’s harsh norms.

Agatha’s eyes flickered to Rio, who sat silently, her fingers tracing the edge of the letter as if holding the words close.

Our relationship was a delicate dance of stolen moments and hidden glances. We knew from the start that openness was a luxury we could not afford. Our world’s heavy hand pressed down on us, and eventually, family expectations and pressure pulled us apart. Yet, even as we drifted into separate lives, the bond between us remained—deep, unwavering, and tender.

Agatha swallowed hard, the words settling deep inside her, stirring emotions she hadn’t expected. Her voice caught briefly as she continued, and Rio’s hand found hers, offering a steadying, loving squeeze.

I married James—good, kind James—who from the beginning understood that my heart was never entirely mine to give, nor was it his to claim. We had all met in college, Eugenia, James and I, and it felt like the only acceptable path for us. James, too, is a man who loves differently; our marriage was less about conventional romance and more about companionship.

Together, we built a safe harbor, a sanctuary where each of us could live authentically in our own way, even if the truths we carried lay beyond the bounds of our union. It was this understanding, this quiet acceptance, that allowed me to remain tethered to Eugenia across the years and miles that separated us.

Agatha’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her breath quiet in the stillness of the room.

Rio broke the silence, voice gentle and awed. “ It’s so… beautiful, and heartbreaking all at once.”

Agatha nodded, wiping a tear away. “They loved in a way that was brave and fragile, given their time and circumstances. Just thinking about how much they sacrificed just to hold on to that connection…. it feels almost unimaginable.” Her voice trembled slightly, touched by the weight of that quiet courage. “To hold onto something so precious, despite everything.”

Rio leaned her head against Agatha’s shoulder. “It’s like they found freedom in each other, even when the world said no.”

Agatha looked back at the letter. “This changes everything I thought I knew about Eugenia.”

Rio kissed her temple softly. “We’ll read it all, together. Every word, every secret she’s willing to share.”

Agatha’s voice was barely a whisper, full of reverence and love. “Everything.”

After Eugenia and I parted as lovers, life took us in different directions, but the threads that bound us were never truly severed. We communicated in ways only we understood — letters filled with veiled words and carefully chosen phrases that carried the weight of unspoken emotions. We both chose different paths. I married James, she remained celibate. Yet in the quiet moments, our hearts remained entwined. And then, years later, we found each other again.

Agatha paused, looking up at Rio, her voice steady but tinged with emotion. “She really wanted to explain their connection… how love can survive even when it has to hide.”

Rio squeezed Agatha’s hand. “It’s all about the parts of people we never see, the hidden histories that shape them.”

Agatha smiled faintly, then continued reading.

Through the years, Eugenia and I remained deeply connected. Our friendship, love and partnership endured, evolving with time and circumstance. We shared dreams, fears, and moments of joy — fragments of a life we might have had, had the world been kinder.  I carry those memories with me still—delicate shards of a life shared in secrecy but felt deeply. And now, dear Agatha, I offer them to you. To remind you that the love which shaped us was never meant to be hidden from your heart, and that it lives on, enduring beyond time and circumstance.

Agatha’s voice faltered slightly as she finished the passage. She looked at Rio, her eyes glistening with tears.

Rio whispered, “It’s such a beautiful kind of love, even if it doesn’t fit the usual story.”

Agatha nodded. “It’s brave. It’s the kind of love that lasts because it doesn’t need to be seen by others to matter.”

Rio brushed a stray strand of hair from Agatha’s face. “It’s a gift, this letter. A glimpse into a world that was hidden but never forgotten.”

Agatha nodded, voice barely a whisper. “I never knew. Not the depth of it. And now… I feel like I’m holding pieces of a story that was waiting for me all along.”

She let out a soft sigh, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, she spoke with quiet determination. “There’s more to read. »

« We can take all the time you need, » Rio murmured, her eyes fixed on her wife.

There is so much more I wish I could tell you—stories left untold, moments lost to time. But for now, I entrust this letter, and the story of our love, to you. May it bring you closer to understanding the woman Eugenia was—not only as my beloved but as a remarkable soul who touched many lives with her strength, kindness, and fierce love. May her spirit lives on in you and your family, guiding you through both light and shadow.

Rio whispered, “She understood you, Agatha. In every way that mattered.”

Agatha nodded, voice filled with gratitude. “And now, so do I.”

I was the one who sent you the note with the memorial invitation. I wanted to make sure you knew you would be welcome there, that your presence mattered. Eugenia spoke of you often, Agatha. She kept clippings of your work pinned carefully in her journals, read every article you published with quiet pride, and treasured photographs and mentions of your achievements as if they were precious jewels. In many ways, you were everything she wished she could have been, had the world been kinder to her. To us.

“Can you imagine,” Agatha whispered, “how much that must have meant to her? To follow my life like that… like a secret joy.”

Rio nodded, brushing her fingers over Agatha’s hand. “She loved you in the way she could — quietly, fiercely, from a distance. And seeing you love the way she must have wished she could have loved… Thats must have been the loudest victory of them all.”

And yes, she knew of Violet, though we never met her. Eugenia was delighted to think of her great-niece toddling about in a world that might finally let her grow into herself without fear.

Agatha’s heart squeezed at the mention of Violet, the little girl playing nearby, unaware of the weight of history unfolding through the letter.

Rio leaned in, voice low and tender. “That hope — for Violet’s future — it’s precious.”

Agatha nodded, eyes misting. “It feels like Eugenia left us more than memories. She left us a legacy of hope… and acceptance.”

They sat quietly for a moment, letting the words settle around them like a warm embrace. The letter was no longer just ink on paper — it was a bridge, a reminder that even in difficult times, love and pride could endure across generations.

Rio kissed Agatha’s temple gently. “We’ll carry that with us. Every day.”

Agatha smiled against her wife’s touch. “Yes. We will.”

I'll always be there should you have questions, or fears. Just like what is mine was Eugenia’s, what was hers is mine. I intend to honor my precious one by carrying forward her legacy. That begins with cherishing you, Agatha, as well as your family and all those she held dear, as if you were my own. You are not alone, clever girl.

 

All my love, always and forever,

Cecilia Carlisle 

Agatha folded the letter carefully, her hands resting on the paper as if holding something fragile and precious beyond measure. She sat very still for a long moment, the room quiet except for the distant, happy sounds of Nicky’s laughter and Violet’s soft babbling as they played nearby.

Her eyes were slightly glassy, a subtle sheen that Rio noticed instantly. She didn’t say anything at first—just watched Agatha with quiet, steady patience, knowing some moments weren’t meant to be broken by words or jokes.

Finally, Agatha exhaled slowly. “I had no idea that… she was like me. I never thought—” She stopped, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge the weight of something too heavy to carry all at once.

Rio reached out, curling her fingers around Agatha’s hand, grounding her gently. “What is it, love?”

Agatha’s eyes met Rio’s, shimmering with a mixture of sadness and something almost like wonder. “It’s just… She could have been… a mentor on that level, someone in the family who understood me on a level I thought was impossible. If only—if only they had lived in a world where they could have spoken openly. Where she could have been more than a quiet shadow behind the scenes.”

Rio squeezed her hand, silent encouragement.

“She hid so much of herself,” Agatha murmured. “Not because she wanted to, but because she had to. The fear, the pressure, the unrelenting demands to be ‘proper,’ to fit a mold no one would ever let her break, but which haunted her life.” Her voice cracked slightly, a raw edge beneath the calm. “I always thought I was alone with that… with the constant balancing between who I was and who I was expected to be.”

Rio shifted closer, draping an arm around Agatha’s shoulders, drawing her near. “But you broke that cycle. And through you, she did too.”

Agatha gave a small, watery smile, resting her head against Rio’s. “It’s just… so bittersweet. To realize there was someone like me in the family — someone who understood the loneliness, the fear, the secret joys — and yet, we never spoke. We never reached across that divide. We never reached out when maybe all it took was a single word.”

She paused, staring down at the folded letter in her lap. “If Eugenia had lived in a different time, in a kinder world, maybe things could have been different for both of us. Maybe she could have been the mentor I needed. And maybe I could have been there for her too.”

There was a long silence between them, a quiet gravity settling in the room. A silence filled with unspoken truths, with mourning for lost possibilities and with gratitude for the fragile thread of connection that had survived through decades of silence.

Rio kissed the top of Agatha’s head gently. “That time is now, Agatha. You’re carrying her legacy—her strength, her love—and maybe this is the moment where the silence finally breaks.”

Then, more quietly, she continued. “Thank you for sharing this with me. For letting me be here with you.”

Agatha turned to look at her, eyes bright despite the tears that threatened. “Thank you for being here. For everything.”

Her hands cupped Rio’s face gently, her fingers tracing the familiar lines as if to memorize them anew, holding her close. “We will carry this with us. Eugenia’s story, her courage — it’s part of us now. And I want to make sure Violet and Nicky grow up knowing that they belong to something beautiful and complicated and strong.”

Rio smiled, her heart full and her eyes proud. “They will. Because you’ll tell them.”

Agatha nodded, a quiet determination settling into her features. “I will. I promise.”

As if on cue, Violet toddled over, her little legs wobbling unsteadily but determined. She reached up with chubby hands, gripping the hem of Agatha’s skirt tightly before pulling herself up onto her mother’s lap with a triumphant giggle.

Violet’s bright eyes sparkled with innocent curiosity, her tiny fingers exploring the delicate chain of Agatha’s necklace with wonder. “Mamamamama,” she babbled, her voice a sweet, nonsensical melody that seemed to fill the room with light.

That baby. That boy. Their very existence. It was proof of everything Agatha had built and everything Eugenia had protected from afar. Their living legacy. Their hope.

Agatha stood up quietly, holding Violet close as the baby babbled softly to herself, her tiny mouth moving in a song that somehow filled the room with warmth.Unconsciously, Agatha started rocking slightly from side to side.

From the couch, Rio watched the scene with a soft smile, her eyes tender and knowing as she took in the mix of strength and vulnerability in her wife’s expression. 

Then, she spoke, her voice gentle but insistent. “We should invite them here. Cecilia and James. Or we could go see them. Not because of the will, not because of the memorial… but because they knew a side of Eugenia you never got to see. You deserve that, Agatha.”

Agatha hesitated, a familiar shyness creeping over her. The idea of opening that door felt vulnerable, almost daunting. She had always kept pieces of her family history locked away, as if hiding from the truths might somehow protect her. Yet, Rio’s words stirred something deep within her—a yearning to fill the empty spaces Eugenia had left behind.

Rio stood and moved toward her wife, stepping gently until she was close enough to wrap her arms around Agatha from behind. She rested her head lightly on Agatha’s shoulder, her gaze drifting down to where Violet’s tiny hands still clutched the necklace.

“You know,” Rio whispered, “if we invite them, Nicky and Violet will get to meet the people who loved your aunt the most.”

Agatha remained silent for a moment, the weight of the suggestion settling in. The thought of welcoming strangers into their home, people who had been part of Eugenia’s secret world, was both frightening and oddly comforting.

“What if they’re not ready to see us?” Agatha whispered, her voice almost lost beneath the hum of the house. “What if I’m not ready to face everything that comes with it?”

Rio tightened her embrace, her tone unwavering. “We don’t have to be ready right away. But they are, love. It’s all over Cecilia’s letter. We’ll take it slow. But sometimes, the hardest doors to open lead to the most healing.”

Agatha drew a shaky breath, leaning back into Rio’s warmth. “You always know how to make the impossible seem possible.”

Rio smiled, brushing a stray curl from Agatha’s face. “Because I believe in us. And I believe in the love that brought us here. 

Sensing the hesitation lingering, Rio continued softly.

“Cecilia and Eugenia… they both deserve to know you heard them, love. And maybe you deserve to hear more. You’ve been searching for more pieces of her, and here’s someone holding a whole corner of the puzzle, just waiting for you to come find her now that she’s given you the key. Let’s not let that go.”

Agatha’s lips curved into a small smile, the corners of her eyes shining with a mixture of hope and relief. She nodded slowly, the decision forming quietly but firmly inside her. “You’re right,” she said, her voice steady. “It’s time.”

Rio tightened her embrace and kissed the side of Agatha’s neck. “I’ll help you reach out to them. When you’re ready.”

Violet wriggled in Agatha’s arms, and Agatha shifted to hold her more comfortably. The baby’s babbling grew louder, punctuated by delighted giggles as she tugged again on the necklace.

Agatha looked down at her. “This little one,” she murmured, “she’s part of a story we’re just beginning to understand. And I want her to grow up knowing all of it—the love, the struggles, the obstacles.”

Rio smiled, brushing a stray strand from Agatha’s forehead. “And she will. Because you’re going to teach her. Piece by piece. Story by story.”

Agatha closed her eyes briefly, breathing in the weight and warmth of the moment.

“We’ll do it,” Agatha promised, opening her eyes to meet Rio’s. “We’ll invite them here. Or we’ll go to them. Whatever it takes.”

She took a deep breath.

“We’ll let them know that Eugenia’s family is ready to welcome them. At last.”

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Sunday sunlight slanted through the tall windows, catching in the steam curling from Agatha’s untouched mug of tea. The porcelain cup sat abandoned on the side table, forgotten the moment she’d begun her slow, deliberate pacing. Her steps traced the same quiet path across the living room—pivot, cross the rug, pause by the window, pivot again—each turn measured, but threaded through with the sort of restless energy she carried before meeting someone who mattered in ways she hadn’t yet defined.

Rio had been watching for the better part of ten minutes from the armchair, legs folded beneath her like a contented cat, chin resting in her palm. The faint smirk playing at her lips deepened with every circuit Agatha made.

“You’ve faced dissertation committees with less fidgeting, love,” Rio finally said, her tone soft but edged with amused warmth.

Agatha glanced over her shoulder, one dark brow arching with dignified offense. “I am not fidgeting.”

“You’re orbiting,” Rio corrected, straightening slightly. “Big difference. Fidgeting is what normal mortals do. You’re more… planetary.”

Agatha gave her a look that was half a glare, half an almost-smile. She muttered something about needing to straighten the cushions and reached for one that was already perfectly aligned, pressing her palm across its fabric as though perfection could be improved.

Rio stretched slowly, vertebrae popping, then unfolded herself from the armchair. “They’re not arriving for another…” she checked the clock with deliberate slowness “…twelve minutes and twenty-three seconds.” She stepped into Agatha’s path before her wife could make another loop. “And they already like you.”

“That remains to be seen,” Agatha murmured, her eyes sliding toward the window again.

“And,” Rio went on, “they’ve never really met me, which is obviously their loss. But I’m charming. You’ll see—I’ll win them over before dessert.” She leaned in to press a quick kiss to Agatha’s cheek, her hand finding its way briefly to the small of her back. “Come on, love. Breathe.”

Agatha did breathe, but it was shallow and distracted, her gaze still drawn toward the window as though the first sight of their guests would settle something she couldn’t name. Outside, the world was washed in soft gold, the air thick with the quiet promise of an afternoon that could tilt one way or another.

When the doorbell rang—precisely on time—Agatha moved with that fluid grace Rio had long since recognized as her wife’s defense against feeling unsettled.

She opened the door to find Cecilia and James framed in a wash of early afternoon light.

Cecilia looked exactly as Agatha remembered from the memorial, though there was a warmth in her now that hadn’t been there in that solemn moment -—a small easing in her eyes, a smile that felt less like ceremony and more like a welcome. Her silver hair were pinned back in an elegant twist, catching the light like spun frost, and her coat was a deep plum that seemed chosen with care, the kind of detail that made Agatha wonder if she had dressed for this meeting as deliberately as she had.

James, tall and gently stooped, had the air of someone who’d lived enough to know the value of arriving with gifts. A pie rested carefully in one hand, the crimped crust golden and rustic, while the other cradled a bottle of wine. His dark overcoat shifted with the faint breeze at their backs, the scent of leaves and grass curling in with them.

“Agatha,” Cecilia said warmly, her voice like a familiar old melody. “Thank you for inviting us.”

“Please, come in.” Agatha stepped back, her hand lingering on the doorframe for a heartbeat longer than necessary, as though the wood might anchor her before they crossed into her space.

The moment they did, something shifted. It wasn’t dramatic or Loud, but more more like the quiet settling of a piece into the right place on a chessboard. They moved through the entryway with an ease that made it seem as though they belonged here, as though they’d walked these halls before. They hadn’t, but the sense of rightness was almost unsettling in its immediacy.

From the living room doorway, Rio watched, her gaze flicking between her wife and their guests. She noticed how Agatha’s eyes—keen and searching—followed Cecilia and James with care. She wasn’t simply observing them, she was listening for something beneath the surface, scanning the tilt of Cecilia’s head, the rhythm of her voice, the soft way James’s gaze rested on his companion. Looking for Eugenia’s shadow in their movements, as though catching even the smallest echo might bridge decades.

Cecilia turned then, her expression brightening as her attention landed on Rio. She extended her hand, and Rio stepped forward to take it. “Rio. Hello. It’s a pleasure to properly meet you.”

Rio’s smile came easily, her grip warm and sure. “Likewise. It’s an honor—and a privilege—to meet my wife’s family.”

The word hung in the air for a fraction of a second longer than casual conversation required. Family. No one here shared blood, but in that instant, the letter, the will, and the stories untold between them made the word ring true in a different register. It was Rio’s subtle way of saying: I know what this means. I’m here to honor it.

Cecilia smiled and took the pie from her husband's hands to handed over the pie with a little laugh. “This is an old recipe from my mother. She swore by it. I hope you like blackberries.”

“And this,” James added, holding out the wine, “is from a vineyard we stumbled across years ago in Italy. Thought it might suit the afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Agatha said, her tone warm but carefully measured. She gestured toward the sitting room. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

Rio caught the almost imperceptible pause Agatha made before turning away—just enough to steady herself before the next step. And quietly, without making a show of it, Rio moved closer, brushing her hand against Agatha’s as they led the way in.

The guests removed their coats and moved easily into the space, as though guided by an invisible familiarity.

Once they were settled—Cecilia sinking gracefully into the sofa, James leaning back into the armchair beside her—their bodies angled toward one another in that instinctive way people do when they’ve shared decades of conversation. It was the posture of deep companionship, of knowing how the other would react before a word was spoken.

Cecilia’s gaze drifted across the room, pausing on the low shelf where framed photographs lined up like sentinels of family history. She leaned forward slightly, her smile tugging wider. “And where are the little ones?” she asked, her tone carrying a brightness that felt genuine—curiosity without obligation.

“At my mother’s for the day,” Rio replied before Agatha could answer, her voice light. She shifted to pour tea into delicate china cups. “She staged a whole campaign about it, actually. Said we should have ‘grown-up company without tiny sticky hands climbing the furniture.’”

“She insisted,” Agatha added, smoothing the skirt over her knees as she sat in the armchair opposite James. “But she’ll bring them back later, so you might get to see them before you go.”

“Oh, I’d like that very much,” Cecilia said softly, her eyes momentarily far away—perhaps picturing a little girl’s unsteady steps or a boy’s unrestrained laughter echoing through the house.  «Interesting ages, isn’t it ? »

“That’s right,” Rio said, settling herself on the arm of Agatha’s chair as though she belonged there—and she did. She draped an arm lightly along the back, fingertips brushing Agatha’s shoulder in a casual, grounding gesture. “Nicky’s eight and asking questions about anything and everything, and Violet’s just learned she can point at things and expect us to drop everything to get them for her. Which she abuses shamelessly.”

James chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That’s the privilege of being the youngest. My sister’s boy was the same—had us trained like servants before he could talk.”

Agatha’s mouth quirked at that, though she didn’t quite smile. “Violet has… presence,” she said wryly, earning a soft laugh from Cecilia.

“She gets it from you,” Rio murmured, just loud enough for the others to hear, her smirk giving away the tease.

Agatha shot her a sidelong look, one that made James’ eyes twinkle in amusement.

The tea was poured, the steam curling up into the early-afternoon light. The pie sat in the kitchen, waiting its turn alongside the unopened bottle of wine. For now, the air held that delicate quiet of a first meeting that might one day feel like it had been happening forever—where every exchanged glance and half-smile was a thread in the slow weaving of a connection.

The absence of the children was striking.

Usually there would be the erratic drumbeat of Nicky’s running feet from the hallway, Violet’s sudden squeals of delight when she discovered some new sound her toys could make, the faint patter of curious toddler hands exploring the edges of furniture she wasn’t supposed to touch.

Now the house felt uncharacteristically still—its quiet was not heavy, but present, as though every breath and clink of china lingered longer in the air. The silence seemed to give the conversation to come more room, stretching it out into an unhurried rhythm.

Cecilia rested her mug against her knee and studied Agatha for a long, thoughtful moment, her gaze unflinching but not invasive. “You know,” she said at last, her voice warm and certain, “you do look like her.”

Agatha’s head tilted, the smallest crease appearing between her brows. “Like… Eugenia?”

“Yes.” Cecilia’s smile curved slowly, like she was savoring the recognition and the memory. “Same hair, same eyes. That calm sort of intelligence that made you feel she’d already thought through every possible outcome before you’d even finished your sentence.”

James gave a soft chuckle from the armchair, leaning back with a kind of easy familiarity. “And the way you sit—straight-backed, shoulders open. Your aunt could silence a whole room just by walking into it.”

Agatha’s lips curved faintly, but there was a flicker—guardedness, maybe—in her expression. “She always struck me as… perfectly composed.”

“Oh, she was,” Cecilia agreed readily, “but that wasn’t all of her. Eugenia had a streak in her.”

“A streak?” Agatha repeated, her tone caught between skepticism and intrigue.

“Not wild, exactly—she wasn’t reckless,” Cecilia said, a touch of fond amusement in her voice, “but she had her own quiet ways of bending the rules.”

Rio, who had been listening from her perch on the arm of Agatha’s chair, perked up. Her elbow rested lightly on the backrest, chin in her palm, eyes glinting. “Bending the rules? This sounds promising.”

Cecilia laughed—an unselfconscious, genuine sound. “Well… she had this habit of sneaking off campus in our third year at university. She’d tell the professor she was going to the library and then—poof—vanish for the afternoon.”

Agatha’s brow rose, curiosity slipping past her careful reserve. “Where would she go?”

“To poetry readings,” Cecilia said, her eyes bright with the memory. “Not the polite, departmental sort, with faculty introductions and perfectly timed applause. No—these were in the cramped back rooms of cafés, with the smell of burnt coffee and clove cigarettes hanging in the air. The poets would read about women’s bodies, women’s rage, love that didn’t fit in neat boxes… She adored it. We both did.”

James smiled faintly, his voice quiet but sure. “She came back from those readings with her eyes alight. Like she’d swallowed something electric.”

His gaze softened as he glanced at Cecilia, his voice lowering as though speaking into a memory. “I was the one who drove her sometimes. Or, well…” He let out a quiet laugh and leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. “More often than not, she’d just climb onto the back of my motorbike, hair pinned neat like she was heading to a lecture, and off we’d go—thirty minutes to the next town over.” His grin turned nostalgic. “There was this little bookstore—cramped, smelled like old paper and rain-damp wool. Dusty shelves stacked so close you had to turn sideways to pass. And the owner knew every spine by heart and would light up if you asked about something obscure.”

He paused, as though the picture of it was right there in front of him. “She’d disappear between the shelves for hours, pulling down first editions of Adrienne Rich, slipping slim volumes of French poetry under her arm like they were secrets she wanted to uncover. Sometimes she wouldn’t even buy anything—just read, perched on a stool in the corner with her coat still on.”

Agatha’s gaze moved between them, the image forming with every word. “I never pictured her on a motorbike,” she admitted with a littke smile.

“That was the thing about Eugenia,” Cecilia said, her tone carrying both fondness and a trace of mischief. “She knew exactly how to move in the world so that no one suspected she had any edges at all—until you looked closely. Then you’d see them.”

Rio, who had now been lounging with one knee hooked over the arm of Agatah’s chair, smirked over her mug. “Sounds suspiciously like someone else I know.”

Agatha turned her head slowly, arching a brow at her wife in a silent warning. The corner of her mouth, however, betrayed her with the faintest quirk upward.

Cecilia caught the exchange and her smile deepened, her eyes sharpening with curiosity. “You have her poise, Agatha, but… do you have the edges?”

Agatha opened her mouth, but Rio was already answering, her tone matter-of-fact. “More than she’ll admit. Trust me.”

James chuckled, lifting his glass in a small, deliberate toast toward Agatha. “Then I think she’d be proud.”

The warmth of it settled between them, mingling with the scent of tea and blackberry pie drifting in from the kitchen, the afternoon light turning the room golden. The conversation didn’t  rush:  there was no need.

Agatha was halfway through a sip of tea when James leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Oh—did Cecilia tell you about her graduation stunt?”

Cecilia’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes, you’ll love this.”

Agatha set her cup down, brows lifting. “Graduation stunt?” Her tone was half-skeptical, half-intrigued—as if she couldn’t quite reconcile the words with the woman she’d always pictured.

James was already laughing at the memory. “Eugenia was valedictorian. Big day, the university all puffed up and proper. They had this… unspoken but very firm idea about what a ‘lady’ valedictorian should wear for the ceremony. Floor-length dress, snesible shoes, maybe a string of pearls if they were feeling wild. She took one look at the guidelines and said, ‘Absolutely not.’”

Cecilia took over, her hands already sketching the scene in the air. “She showed up in trousers. Not just any trousers, mind you—perfectly tailored, black as midnight, with a razor crease you could cut yourself on. And boots—high, polished leather boots that clicked against the stage with every single step, as if she were daring someone to interrupt her. Her blouse was cream silk, sleeves full and dramatic, like she’d walked straight out of a 1940s film. Hair swept up, red lipstick, earrings that caught the light every time she turned her head.” Cecilia’s smile softened, her voice dipping and her cheek flushing slightly. The scene had clearly been burnt into her brain “…She looked devastating.”

Agatha’s lips curved, but her eyes had sharpened in interest. “And no one stopped her?”

James nearly spilled his wine in his eagerness to answer. “Not a soul. She strode across that stage like she’d built it herself, gave a speech that had half the crowd in tears, and walked back to her seat without breaking stride. I swear you could feel the air shift around her.” His grin widened.  «  I thought Evanora and Eudora were going to combust on the spot from the audience. They’d already graduated, but I think their parents dragged them there to play the role of dutiful older sisters.”

At that, Agatha laughed—an unguarded, surprised laugh that warmed the room. “I can picture it. They always had that tight-lipped expression when something offended their sense of propriety.”

“Oh, this wasn’t just tight-lipped,” James said, half doubled over. “Evanora looked like she’d swallowed a lemon whole, and Eudora—God—she had this vein in her temple that only showed when she was truly livid. It was practically pulsing.”

Cecilia shook her head fondly. “Eugenia never wasted her time trying to impress the wrong people. She knew exactly which rules were worth following, and which deserved to be broken in style.”

Agatha’s smile lingered, but there was a softness to it now—like the story had slotted into some missing space in her mind.

James leaned back, still grinning like the memory was too good to keep to himself. “And speaking of her bending rules—we should tell you both about the other book club.”

Agatha frowned. “Book club?”

“Oh, not the faculty book club,” Cecilia said quickly. “This was our other one. The secret one.” She shot James a glance—the kind of glance you give someone who knows the exact smell of the room you’re remembering, the exact scrape of the chairs on the floor, the exact feeling of walking in and exhaling for the first time all week. “We met every other Thursday night in the back room of a café downtown. Not a chain—one of those narrow, leaning old buildings where the coffee tasted faintly of the wood in the shelves.”

James nodded, the corners of his mouth softening. “It wasn’t just about books. It was about having a space that belonged to us. Somewhere the world’s rules didn’t quite reach. It doubled as a queer community, before it was safe to be open.”

“The late seventies,” Cecilia added, leaning forward. “People like to imagine it was all freedom by then, but not where we were. Not in our little enclave of old money and older prejudices. Out there, you kept your voice down. In that café, we didn’t.”

James’s voice dropped slightly, as if even now there was a trace of that secrecy in his bones. “We’d choose a poet, or a novel—sometimes translations of Renée Vivien, sometimes James Baldwin, sometimes someone local who’d passed us a stapled-together manuscript and prayed we’d read it. We’d argue, we’d read aloud, we’d scribble notes in margins… and somehow it turned into a kind of… lifeline. A reminder that we weren’t alone.”

Cecilia’s tone gentled into something almost wistful. “It wasn’t loud or flashy the way people think of activism now, but for us, it was radical. It was the only place we could talk about the lives we wanted—really wanted—without someone slamming a door in our faces.”

Rio, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, sat forward slightly, her gaze steady on them. “And Eugenia went?”

“Every time she could,” James said without a breath of hesitation. “She never needed to be the loudest voice in the room. Just her sitting there, leaning back in her chair, gave people permission to say things they’d never said out loud. And when she did speak…” He trailed off, shaking his head with something between awe and longing. “She had this way of taking a messy, unshaped feeling and putting it into one clean sentence that cut straight through you. Made you feel… seen.”

Agatha’s hands tightened a fraction around her mug, the weight of what could have been settling in again. She could almost see it: Eugenia in that dim café light, a book open in front of her, surrounded by people who looked at each other the way she and Rio did everyday.

Cecilia’s hand rested lightly over James’s, like one might absentmindedly rest a bookmark in a much-read novel. She smiled faintly, gaze going somwhere far away.

“I suppose,” she began, voice softer now, “the very first time I saw her—really saw her—was in the library. We both reached for the same book. The Collected Poems of Amy Lowell.” She gave a small, almost self-mocking laugh, shaking her head. “I know, it sounds like something from a dreadful romantic film, doesn’t it?”

Agatha’s mouth curved in the faintest smirk. “Only if you tripped, and the book went sliding in slow motion to the floor.”

“Nearly,” Cecilia replied with a flash of amusement. “Though in my memory, I think the moment felt slower. She let me take it, but she looked at me like she already knew I was going to read it twice in a week and come back for more. And she was right. I came back, and so did she.”

James chuckled under his breath. “She had a habit of doing that—spotting the people who were going to matter to her before they even knew it themselves.”

Rio’s hand, resting on the arm of Agatha’s chair, twitched slightly as if resisting the urge to reach for her wife’s fingers. “Again. Sounds familiar,” she murmured.

Agatha tilted her head toward her without breaking eye contact with Cecilia, the faintest arch of an eyebrow betraying that she’d heard it too.

“The next time we crossed paths,” Cecilia went on, “was at a protest on campus. Women’s rights. The administration called it ‘disruptive activity,’ of course.” A flicker of pride sparked in her expression. “She was wearing this enormous hat and absurdly oversized sunglasses so that, if photographs turned up anywhere, her family wouldn’t recognize her. She was carrying a sign that read: The personal is political.”

Rio smiled. “Sounds like her, from what we’ve heard so far.”

“Oh, it was her through and through,” Cecilia said, “We ended up walking back to the dorms together that day. She quoted one line from Amy Lowell—the same book we had reached for at the same time in the library. I remember it so clearly. It said “Tell me, was Venus more beautiful  than you are, when she topped the crinkled waves. »

The words hung in the air for a beat, like a ribbon drifting down before settling. Agatha’s gaze flickered to Rio for just a moment, and Rio, without looking up, brushed her thumb over the rim of her mug—both aware of the current moving between them.

Cecilia closed her eyes briefly, as if tasting the memory. When she opened them again to look at the younger couple in front of her, her expression carried a softness that made it impossible to tell whether she was still speaking to her audience or to the past

“And… well, from then on, we were in each other’s lives.” She paused for a moment, the words gathering weight. “We fell in love quietly—slipped notes under doors, met for tea in the common room long after everyone had gone to bed. We learned how to laugh without letting it carry too far down the hallway. We learned how to stand close without seeming to touch. That was the way it had to be.”

James, watching her, looked at her with a kind of open tenderness that made Rio’s chest ache. “They were—” he started, then stopped, and settled for, “They were good for each other. Even when they had to be careful.”

Cecilia nodded slowly, as though weighing each word before letting it go. “After graduation, we decided… not to keep it going in the same way. It was easier to part -- at least on paper. Safer.” Her gaze fell to the dark surface of her tea, where the steam curled and broke apart. “But we stayed friends. For years. Always in touch. Always… something more than friends, even if we both kept up the pretense.”

Agatha tilted her head slightly, her voice low but steady. “You were still in love.”

A faint, wistful smile touched Cecilia’s lips. “Yes. We were. And eventually—much later—we stopped pretending. By then, I was married to James. And before you ask—” she chuckled softly at Rio’s arched brow— “no, it wasn’t a tragedy. It was the arrangement that made the most sense for all of us. And we do love each other dearly.”

She turned toward her husband, her expression softening. James met her look without hesitation, his arm sliding easily around her shoulders in a movement so natural it felt like breathing.

“James had his own life to live,” Cecilia went on. “Our marriage gave each of us cover in a world that still wasn’t safe for two women or two men to live openly together. Eugenia and I… we took what we could. Stolen hours, quiet days, weekends that belonged only to us. Behind closed doors, away from the eyes that might have ruined everything.”

James gave a short, approving nod. “It worked. It wasn’t perfect, but it was freedom in its own way. We protected each other.”

Cecilia’s voice dropped softer still. “We protected her. She’d already been through so much with her family. More than I can say. We weren’t going to let them take any more from her.”

Agatha’s fingers tightened subtly around the wineglass she had just poured--needing sth stronger-- but she didn’t speak. Rio, sitting close enough to feel the quiet shift in her wife’s body, slid down the armrest and reached over and brushed her hand lightly over Agatha’s knee—just enough to anchor her there.

The lamplight had shifted warmer as the sun continued its course. It pooled across the room, catching in the curve of Cecilia’s cheek, in the soft shine of James’s wedding band where it rested against her shoulder. The air had taken on a sort of  stillness that arrives when a story stops being just memory and starts becoming confession.

For a fleeting second, it was as though the years folded in on themselves— the ppast and present meeting in a single room, four people sitting in the quiet knowledge of what it means to love someone in a world that doesn’t always make it easy.

Cecilia’s voice wavered then—only slightly—but enough for James to tighten his hand over hers, thumb tracing slow circles against her knuckles. Across from them, Rio’s touch on Agatha mirrored the gesture, almost unconsciously, two pairs bound by quiet solidarity.

“The last time I saw her,” Cecilia began, and already her eyes were glassy, “was not the way I wanted to remember her… but I do. I remember every second.”

Agatha sat forward, as if some part of her needed to be physically closer to the words.

“She was ill by then,” Cecilia said, her voice dropping into something both reverent and pained. “It happened so fast. She didn’t… she didn’t tell many people, not until she had no choice. That was her way—she couldn’t stand the idea of being pitied. Or worse, seen as fragile.” She let out a sharp exhale that tried to pass as a laugh, but it cracked halfway through. “When she called me, I thought she wanted to get coffee, maybe drag me to that terrible little café she loved. She just asked if I could stop by. And I knew—” she shook her head slowly, eyes unfocused, “—I knew when I saw her face that she wasn’t calling to catch up.”

James’s voice joined in from beside her, low and careful, as though volume alone could protect the memory. “I went with her. She… she looked so small in that bed. It was strange—she was never small, not to me. Still had that stubborn set to her chin, though.” His lips quirked briefly, but his eyes didn’t follow. “She gave me hell for bringing flowers. Said she had no use for something that would die before she did.”

The corner of Cecilia’s mouth curved faintly at that, though the ache didn’t lift. “We didn’t talk about the illness, not really. We talked about books—argued over which of the three Brontë sisters deserved more credit—complained about the latest nonsense in the papers. We even laughed about that disastrous play we had seen years ago, the one with the lead who forgot his lines so badly the stage manager nearly passed out. We talked about you both and your latest article, Agatha. And then…” Her fingers tightened on the edge of her teacup, the porcelain trembling slightly. “When James stepped out to make tea, she took my hand.”

Agatha’s eyes softened, almost imperceptibly, but Rio saw it.

“She told me she was tired,” Cecilia said quietly. “Not the kind of tired you fix with rest. She said she’d fought enough battles for one lifetime, that she was… ready for quiet.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, the sound too quiet to be intentional, and Rio shifted closer, her hand brushing against Agatha’s arm in a barely-there touch.

“I told her,” Cecilia went on, “that I wasn’t ready to lose her. I wasn’t. I still wasn’t even when I knew it was coming. And she—” Cecilia paused, the memory pressing against her like a physical weight, “—she smiled at me in that way she had. Like she was tucking a secret into my pocket for safekeeping. She said, ‘You’ll never lose me. Not really.’ And I wanted to believe her so badly that I did. Right there. I believed her. And I still do.”

James swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the carpet as though it could hold him steady. “She passed two days later. Peacefully. In her sleep. We were told it was gentle, and I… I like to think that’s true.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Agatha’s hands had tightened into loose fists, resting on her knees, but her eyes shimmered in the soft light. “I didn’t even…” She stopped, took in a breath, started again. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Cecilia leaned forward, her gaze steady and full of quiet strength. “She didn’t want you to see her like that, Agatha. It was her choice, the way she kept control until the very end. But she thought of you—more than you know. She made me promise to tell you she was proud of you. So proud.”

That broke something loose. Agatha blinked hard, and one tear slipped free. Before she could wipe it away, Rio’s hand was there, warm against her cheek, thumb catching the tear.

“It’s alright, love,” Rio murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “You can cry.”

And Agatha did—not in heaving sobs, but in quiet, steady tears that felt as inevitable as rain. Cecilia reached across the coffee table, laying her hand over Agatha’s for a moment, while James watched them all with a tenderness that carried his own loss.

“We all lost her,” Cecilia said softly, glancing at James, who nodded in agreement. “The love of my life, the truest friend he ever had.”

James’s voice came low and steady. “Some people never really leave us. You just… learn to live with their shape inside your life—the spaces they carved out and the echoes they left behind.”

Agatha closed her eyes briefly, breathing through the ache. Rio’s arm slid around her shoulders, drawing her in until her head rested lightly against Rio’s temple.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

The weight in the room lingered for a few more beats, a fragile thread of grief still weaving quietly between them. Then Cecilia cleared her throat softly, a gentle smile blooming at the corners of her lips as if coaxing the atmosphere toward something lighter. “Well,” she said, her voice warm and tender, “since we’ve all shared our solemn truths—how about a change of pace? I think we’ve earned a little brightness this afternoon. Tell us something happier, something that makes your heart sing.”

James shifted in his chair, clearing his throat as well, his tone easy and inviting, like a skilled captain steering a ship away from rough seas. “Yes, yes,” he said with a small grin, “I’ve heard whispers about that new poetry initiative you two have been spearheading. Why don’t you tell us all about it? It sounds like something truly special.”

Agatha’s expression shifted immediately—still tender from the earlier conversation, but now tinged with the kind of pride that warmed from the inside out. “Ah, yes,” she said, her tone smoothing into that lilting cadence she used when speaking about something she truly believed in. “It’s become quite the heartbeat on campus already. Thanks to a very generous anonymous donor, we’ve been able to set up a program dedicated to showcasing queer voices—writers, poets, storytellers—both students and visiting artists alike. We offer workshops, reading series, and even publishing opportunities. It’s been a whirlwind of activity, but incredibly rewarding.” Her eyes glimmered with quiet joy. “To see the community come alive around this project… well, it feels like we’re nurturing something vital.”

James nodded appreciatively, his smile growing warmer. “I like the sound of that. There’s something powerful about creating a space where voices often pushed to the margins can finally be heard.”

Rio smiled. « Yes, we got put in charge of it after I came back from maternity leave. The dean told us the donors specifically requested us. We still don’t know why, but we’re trying to honor that trust. »

She smiled softly. “The latest workshop was fantastic. We finished with an open mic session, and I swear—one of the sophomores gets up, clutching her notebook like it’s a lifeline. She starts reading this heartbreak poem, all raw emotion and longing, about being betrayed—you could practically feel the ache in the room.”

She glanced at Cecilia and James, her hands painting the scene with theatrical flair. “Then, out of nowhere, halfway through the poem, she stops, fixes a fierce glare toward the back of the room, and says, ‘I hope you’re happy, Josh.’”

Cecilia let out a soft laugh, covering her mouth delicately, while James chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh no. Poor Josh.”

Rio’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Oh, in that case poor Nina and poor Josh. Apparently, Josh had made some ill-timed joke about Nina’s crush on some middle-aged actress and Nina took it as him making fun of her bisexuality. Knowing him, he was probably being stupid and awkward. And Josh was right there, sinking lower and lower in his chair, probably wishing the floor would just swallow him whole while the whole room was suspended between awkward silence and barely suppressed laughter.”

She turned toward Agatha, grinning. “And Agatha—always the composed professor this one—didn’t even twitch. Not a smile, not a flicker. She was the very picture of calm authority.”

Agatha gave a small, knowing shrug. “Someone had to maintain order.”

Rio rolled her eyes fondly. “Order, sure. Meanwhile, I’m in the corner nearly choking on my coffee because it was so perfectly timed. But don’t worry, Nina and Josh got back together like two days after that. They’re just dramatic,” she added, as if she needed to reassure the older couple about the relationship status of two students they absolutely didn't know. 

James shook his head with an amused grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. “Sounds like you’re running a very… colorful program,” he said, his voice warm with genuine admiration. “I imagine it’s not your typical stuffy university affair.”

“We are,” Agatha said, her smile turning almost private for a moment as she glanced at Rio. “It matters. It gives students—especially the ones who never see themselves reflected in the syllabus—the space to speak, to belong. I wish I’d had that when I was their age.”

Rio’s voice softened. “Me too. That’s exactly why we pour so much of ourselves into it.” She smiled, shaking her head slightly, as if both proud and a little overwhelmed by the responsibility. “These kids—” She paused, then corrected herself with a playful smirk, “Okay, these young adults—are brilliant. Some of them are going to reshape the literary world. We get to give them their first real platform. That’s huge.”

Agatha nodded, adding with enthusiasm, “And there’s another showcase coming up soon. We’re featuring work from both the students and the local community. It’s already grown bigger than we ever imagined when we started. One of our students, Emma, got a publishing opportunity with a little local editor and we’re trying to help her shape her first collection.”

Cecilia’s expression softened, the earlier sadness lifting as the warmth in their voices filled the room. Her smile was bittersweet but genuine. “Eugenia would’ve loved that,” she said quietly. “She believed so deeply in amplifying voices that might otherwise be ignored—those marginalized, overlooked stories. This program… it sounds like exactly the kind of work she’d have thrown herself into.”

Rio reached over, her hand finding Agatha’s knee. It was more than just encouragement, it was an intimate acknowledgment, a quiet ‘we’re doing good work, love.’

James smiled, watching them with gentle affection. “Well,” he said, “if that’s the kind of impact you’re making, I’m glad the university got the right people for the job.”

Cecilia nodded, her gaze steady. “Absolutely. It’s clear you’re not just teaching literature—you’re shaping minds and lives.”

Agatha’s smile deepened, the weight of everything they’d shared earlier lifting just a little more, replaced by the promise of what was still to come.

But then, Rio’s brow arched, suspicion mixing with curiosity.

“How do you even know about the initiative?” she asked, leaning back in her chair, one hand still in Agatha’s.

Cecilia and James exchanged a glance so brief and loaded it might as well have been a paragraph. It said, Well, here we go.

“That was us. The donation.” James said finally, his tone almost casual, though the way he clasped his hands betrayed a hint of nerves. “Well… mostly Eugenia’s idea. She insisted on keeping it anonymous so no one would make a fuss.”

Rio froze mid-sip. For a moment she looked like her brain had to reboot. Then she inhaled at precisely the wrong time and nearly choked, coughing once before setting the mug down with a thud.

“I’m sorry—what? You?!” She stared between them like they’d just revealed they were international jewel thieves.

Agatha blinked, her composure fracturing. The disbelief hit first, but it was quickly shadowed by something warmer, heavier— sudden emotion welling behind her eyes.

Cecilia leaned forward, her expression both fond and wistful. “Eugenia heard about it from an old friend—you remember Meredith Doyle? Her husband Leonard still golfs with Dean Montgomery when they’re down at the shore.”

Rio blinked at the absurdity of the chain of events.

“Anyway,” Cecilia continued, “Leonard mentioned over drinks that the English department wanted to fund something for queer poets, but the budget committee wasn’t approving it. Too niche, apparently.”

James snorted softly, shaking his head. “Same tired excuses they’ve been recycling for decades.”

Cecilia’s gaze softened, and her voice dropped to something quieter—something that carried both pride and a fresh edge of grief. “Eugenia didn’t even blink. She told us, ‘If we don’t make sure those voices have a place, who will?’ So the three of us made a decision. We pooled the funds, called it a donation, and told them to keep our names out of it. She wanted the spotlight on the poets, not the patrons. For once, all this money we didn’t earn in the first place was going toward something that actually mattered.”

Rio’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, like a goldfish. “You’re telling me… this thing—this beautiful, amazing thing—exists because you three just… decided it should? And you didn’t say anything?”

James gave a small shrug. “We thought about it. But Eugenia was adamant. She wanted the work to stand on its own. And she wanted you two—” He motioned to Agatha and Rio with a slight smile. “—to run it without feeling indebted or obligated to us. She said there was no one better to run it than her brilliant niece and niece-in-law. She was very proud of you both, you know. Said she could rest easy knowing the right hands were carrying it forward.”

Agatha swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady. “I… I don’t know what to say.” Her hands, usually so deliberate in movement, twisted together for a moment before she stilled them. “That project—it’s already changing lives. It’s given our students a place to be unapologetically themselves. And you—” She glanced at both Cecilia and James, her voice catching just slightly. “You made that possible.”

Cecilia’s eyes softened. “Eugenia made that possible. We just followed her lead.”

Rio passed her hand through her hair, her own expression a mixture of awe and gratitude. “Okay, but—wow. You realize you’re not allowed to spring something like this on us without warning, right? I mean, there should be… I don’t know. A drumroll? A ceremonial confetti cannon? Maybe a marching band in the driveway?”

“I’ll make a note for next time,” James said dryly.

“I’m serious!” Rio said, though her grin betrayed her. “You can’t just drop a bomb like ‘oh by the way we secretly made your dream program possible’ and expect us to sip our coffee like it’s a normal Tuesday.”

“It’s Sunday,” Agatha murmured from the side.

Rio shot her a look, half exasperated, half in love. “You’re not helping.”

James’s laugh deepened, the sound warm and full. “You two really are exactly how Eugenia described.”

The humor softened again into something quieter, heavier—but not in a bad way. Ibut in the way that came from being trusted with a legacy, from realizing you’d been part of someone’s plan long before you knew it.

Agatha felt Rio’s hand find hers again, their fingers interlacing automatically. Beneath the warmth of Cecilia and James’s confession, she could almost feel Eugenia there—not in a ghostly way, but in the solid, reassuring sense that they were carrying forward something she’d believed in with all her heart.

It didn’t feel like a gift dropped in their laps.

It felt like a torch being passed down.

Her gaze had drifted somewhere just past Cecilia’s shoulder, as if the wallpaper there had suddenly become fascinating. Her fingers remained threaded through Rio’s, the other hand resting loosely in her lap. When she spoke, it was quiet—almost like she was talking to herself rather than the room.

“She could have told me.”

The room seemed to still for a moment. Cecilia’s eyes softened, a faint, wistful smile curving her lips. “She didn’t think she needed to. She knew you’d shine without her saying it—or her name backing you up.”

Agatha’s throat tightened. She could see it so clearly—Eugenia hovering just out of sight, making sure the stage was lit but never stepping into it herself. Always pulling strings, always keeping the attention on everyone else. It was infuriating, in the way only love could make something infuriating.

“She had a maddening habit of doing that,” Agatha murmured.

Cecilia’s expression gentled. “She called it ‘making room for others.’ But between us, I think she just liked watching from the wings. She could see more from there.”

Rio glanced at Agatha, before turning back to Cecilia and James. She leaned forward, her mouth curving into a grin that was deliberately brighter than the moment, her voice taking on a mock-serious tone. “Well, now we have to name something after her. Even if she comes back from the grave to scold us.”

James chuckled, low and warm. “Oh, she would scold you. Thoroughly.” He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head at the thought. “And then she’d secretly keep a framed photo of the plaque with her name on her desk.”

Cecilia laughed, nodding. “She’d pretend it is all terribly embarrassing… but every time someone visited, she’d just happen to mention it.”

Agatha’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile at the image--Eugenia, pretending to be above such sentiment while privately tucking away every flyer and program like contraband treasures. “Yes,” she said softly. “That sounds exactly like her.”

Rio turned her head just enough to catch Agatha’s eye and squeeeze her hand again. “We’ll make it something good,” she promised quietly, her voice low enough that it felt meant just for Agatha. “Something she’d be proud of.”

Agatha’s gaze lingered on Rio’s face for a long beat before she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The grief didn’t leave—it wouldn’t, not really—but it shifted. It felt warmer now, threaded with gratitude, with the strange comfort of knowing this truth had found her at last.

“Fine,” Agatha said, her tone pretending to be brisk though her eyes were glassy as she looked at her wife. “But if she haunts us for it, you’re the one explaining to her why we ignored her very clear instructions.”

Rio’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Oh, I’m counting on it. I’ve got a few things to say to her anyway.”

James grinned. “Now that, I’d pay to see.”

 *

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Chapter Text

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The quiet warmth in the room—the lingering hum of shared memories and half-finished tea—was broken by the sharp click of the front door swinging open. A burst of cool air swept in from the hall, followed almost immediately by a bright, singsong call that carried down the corridor like it owned the place.

“We’re hoooome!”

The voice was unmistakable. Lilia never tiptoed into a room: she announced herself with a cheer that could bounce off walls, her tone threaded with the confidence of someone who had long since stopped bothering with knocking.

She appeared a moment later in the doorway, effortlessly balancing the little bundle on her hip. Violet, dressed in tiny denim overalls over a striped shirt, looked perfectly at home there, her small fingers wrapped possessively around Yellow Dragon’s slightly frayed wing. She was chewing on the corner of the plush toy with deep concentration, only glancing up when she heard Rio’s voice.

On Lilia’s other side, Nicky trotted in at a pace that was just shy of a run, one hand anchored firmly in hers. His eyes were bright and animated as he chattered, his words tumbling over each other in his urgency to recount something he had apparently seen on the walk back—a bird, maybe, or a cloud that looked like a dinosaur.

Lilia’s free hand gave the front of her coat a quick shake as if to scatter the chill from outside, her presence filling the living room with a sudden energy that made the earlier stillness feel miles away.

“Honestly,” she said with a grin, “you’d think the whole neighborhood hadn’t seen us in years, the way these two got waved at.”

Violet, entirely uninterested in the subject of neighborhood greetings, stretched her arms toward Rio with an imperious little “Mama!” while Nicky was already tugging at Lilia’s sleeve, mid-sentence about the incredible, absolutely enormous squirrel he’d spotted.

Agatha had just enough time to push herself halfway up from her seat before Lilia stepped fully into the living room… and stopped dead in her tracks.

The transformation on her face was so quick it was almost comedic—grandmotherly warmth and practiced, doting patience vanishing in an instant, replaced by wide-eyed recognition that bordered on disbelief.

Across the coffee table, Cecilia—midway to taking a sip of tea—froze with her cup hovering in midair. Her jaw fell open as if gravity had given up entirely. “Lilia?”

The name hung in the air like a small explosion.

Lilia blinked, her own surprise spilling into a startled laugh. “Cecilia?” she echoed, the words carrying that breathless half-gasp, half-laugh of someone confirming the impossible.

James, however, didn’t even attempt restraint. He let out a loud, full-bodied laugh that bounced off the walls, leaning so far back in his chair it looked like he might tip over. He jabbed a finger between the two women, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. “I’ll be damned. You have got to be kidding me. This whole time—”

Rio’s head snapped from one to the other like she was following a tennis match she hadn’t been invited to play. Her eyebrows climbed higher with each passing second. “Okay,” she said, voice pitching upward, “am I the only one here who has no idea what’s going on? How do you know my Mom?”

Cecilia lowered her cup slowly, as though afraid that any sudden movement might cause Lilia to vanish. “Wait—hold on—Lilia’s your mom?” She turned to Rio like this detail had upended the entire universe. 

Lilia gave a little shake of her head—half amusement, half disbelief—before setting the toddler down. Violet toddled toward the center of the room, clutching Yellow Dragon to her chest.

“Alright, you—” Lilia bent to Nicky’s level, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Go hang up your coat, sweetheart.”

“Okay!” Nicky darted off toward the hallway, his shoes squeaking faintly against the floorboards.

Violet, spotting her brother in motion, gave an indignant little squeal and hurried after him in her wobbly four-legged run, Yellow Dragon bouncing at her side.

Only when the children were safely occupied did Lilia straighten again, her eyes flicking between Cecilia and James with a slow, incredulous smile. “Well,” she said, her voice warm but edged with that old spark, “this is a small world after all.”

James grinned, utterly delighted, and turned toward Agatha and Rio with an expression that said he was about to drop the best reveal of the evening. He jabbed a finger toward Lilia like she was a long-lost celebrity.

“You two are looking,” he declared, “at one of the best debate partners I ever had. Sharp as a tack, could dismantle your argument in three sentences and still make you thank her for the lesson. We all went to college together.”

Rio’s eyes widened, her head tilting slightly as if her brain needed a better angle to process the words. “Wait—what?”

Cecilia’s expression softened into something warm and wistful, though she still seemed slightly dazed, like she was remembering a life that felt both far away and impossibly close. “Same friend group,” she said, gesturing vaguely between herself, James, and Lilia. “Same circles. Same late-night study sessions. I mean—remember the running joke about stealing Dean Sinclair’s parking spot—”

Lilia’s laugh burst out immediately, and she pointed at Cecilia in mock accusation. “God, don’t remind me! I always thought we were going to get caught and expelled.”

James shook his head, smirking. “Not once. Not even close. We had an alibi for every occasion.”

“Multiple occasions,” Cecilia corrected, grinning. “Some of them more believable than others.”

Rio glanced between the three of them like they’d just started speaking an entirely different language. “Okay… so let me get this straight. All three of you were friends in college. Good friends. And… none of you mentioned this before?”

Lilia gave a small shrug, as if the answer was perfectly obvious. “Didn’t exactly come up. And I certainly didn’t expect to walk in here tonight and see these two in your living room. Also—” She lifted a brow at Rio, her voice dipping into that fond-mother tone. “—I didn’t even know you knew them until right now, sweet girl.”

Cecilia leaned forward slightly, her smile deepening. “It’s been decades, but I’d recognize her anywhere. Same eyes. Same spark. Same ‘I dare you to underestimate me’ energy.”

That earned a soft laugh from Agatha, who had been watching the whole reunion with quiet amusement, one arm stretched along the back of the couch. Nicky barreled back into the room at that moment, coatless now, with Violet toddling close behind him. Immediately, Violet clambered up beside Agatha, pressing into her side, while Nicky leaned his head against Agatha’s knee like it was his personal anchor.

“Well,” Agatha said dryly, running a soothing hand down Nicky’s back, “that explains why you all looked like you’d just witnessed a live plot twist.”

James threw his head back and laughed again. “Plot twist is right. Imagine—three members of the same college friend group, all in this house, decades later, and none of us had a clue it was coming.”

“Honestly,” Lilia added with a chuckle, “if someone had told me back then that I’d be standing in my daughter’s living room while my daughter-in-law’s family turns out to be my long-lost college friends, I’d have assumed they’d mixed me up with someone else.”

Rio huffed a laugh, still trying to catch up. “Yeah, well… join the club. I’m still processing the fact that my mom apparently has secret college friends who just happen to also be my wife’s family.”

James grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, ‘secret college friends’ is a story in itself, trust me.”

Rio huffed a laugh, still shaking her head in disbelief. “I swear, I feel like I’ve stumbled into the middle of some weird reunion novel—one where the protagonist just keeps finding out everyone knows each other for no reason. If you tell me one of you had a secret affair or love story with my mom, I’m walking out.”

Lilia grinned at her daughter, her tone warm but edged with that unmistakable maternal mischief. “Welcome to the club, sweetheart. Now you get to hear the real stories. The ones you won’t find in anyone’s résumé. And I promise you, no love story on my part.”

Cecilia’s eyes glinted as she exchanged a conspiratorial glance with James. “Oh yes, we do have plenty of stories.”

James nodded solemnly, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “And I remember most of them in alarming detail.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly—not the quiet, heavy nostalgia from before, but something far lighter, almost fizzy, like someone had uncorked a bottle of shared history. It was the sound and feeling of old friends leaning into a familiar rhythm, ready to pull each other back into the chaos of their twenties.

Lilia’s laugh bubbled up first—warm, unapologetic, and contagious. “Oh, I remember you—” she shot Cecilia a mock-accusing look “—skipping entire lectures just to meet Eugenia in that tiny café near campus. What was it called? The one with the mismatched chairs and terrible espresso?”

Cecilia’s cheeks flushed deep pink in record time, and she pressed a hand over her mouth like that could somehow push the memory back in. “Oh no. No. We are not bringing that up.”

“Oh, we are absolutely bringing that up,” James said, already chuckling as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he was settling in for front-row seats. “I remember the whispers, Cecilia. You weren’t exactly discreet.”

“I was very discreet,” Cecilia protested, glaring at him over her teacup.

“Mm, sure,” Lilia said, drawing out the syllables. “Because everyone meets their ‘study partner’ by candlelight in the middle of the afternoon.”

Agatha, who had been quietly observing this with Violet perched on her lap and Nicky tucked against her side, let her brows rise in perfect dramatic timing as the kids got down from their position as her personal barnacles to join the floor. A slow, feline smirk curled her lips. “Well, this is interesting. I’m learning entirely new sides to my aunt and apparently my mother-in-law today.”

Cecilia groaned, burying her face in her hands for a moment. “You’re all impossible.”

Rio, eyes wide and very much enjoying this newfound power imbalance, leaned forward with mock innocence. “So… is this the part where we start a round of ‘Most Embarrassing College Story’?”

“Oh, no,” Cecilia said flatly. “Because if we start that game, I will retaliate.”

Lilia, clearly enjoying herself far too much, continued without mercy. “I used to sit with James in the library while I was waiting for my own study group to show up—half the time they were late—and we’d just… watch you two. You and Eugenia were so obvious. You thought you were being subtle, but it was more like…” She gave an exaggerated wave of her free hand, the gesture big and theatrical. “…a walking romance novel, badly disguised as study sessions.”

Cecilia made a strangled noise, somewhere between disbelief and a groan.

James grinned like a cat who had just found the cream, leaning back in his chair as though to savor the moment. “We even made a game of it,” he said. “How long before one of them found an excuse to ‘accidentally’ brush hands or share a notebook. I think the record was forty-two seconds.”

Cecilia pressed her palms to her face. “Oh my God.”

Rio, cross-legged on the rug with both kids now halfway climbing her, looked like she was about to combust. Nicky had slung himself around her neck like a living scarf, tightening his grip every time she tried to adjust him, while Violet was scaling Rio’s knee like it was a rock wall, squealing with delight each time she got higher.

“Hang on—wait—” Rio sputtered, looking from Lilia to James to Cecilia. “You’re telling me you all… just sat there in the library making fun of her love life?” Her eyes flicked to Agatha, who was lounging on the couch with the faintest amused smirk, and pointed dramatically. “They were practically Alice and Jen.”

Agatha’s brows rose with feigned innocence. “Oh, please. Alice and Jen are far less subtle than what’s being described.”

“I mean yeah, but still,” Rio shot back, laughing despite herself. “They literally started throwing balled-up papers at me once when they thought I wasn’t direct enough with you. That’s—” She pointed back at Lilia. “That’s you and James. Tell me I’m wrong. And Eugenia and Cecilia are Agatha and me. I feel so proud.”

« You’re all mocking me. We had a great time, » Cecilia added, a flush still present on her cheeks.

“Affectionately,” Lilia corrected with a grin. “It was all in good fun. We liked you, Cecilia. And Eugenia was sweet.

“Oh, she was very sweet,” James said, with the tone of a man about to cause trouble. “Do you remember the Valentine’s Day she showed up with that enormous bouquet—”

“James,” Cecilia warned.

He plowed on anyway, his grin widening as he turned to Rio like they were plotting something together. “This thing was so big she could barely fit through the library door. She was practically hiding behind it. And she pretended the whole time it was from her boyfriend—kept up the act for hours—until Cecilia realized it was actually for her.”

Lilia was already cackling.

James leaned forward conspiratorially. “Her face? Like someone had just proposed in the middle of calculus class, but she had to pretend nothing happened for the rest of the hour. I swear she was vibrating.”

Lilia threw her head back and laughed so hard she had to clutch her side. “Oh my God, I’d forgotten about that! And the whole library went dead silent—like, what are we witnessing right now?”

From his spot wrapped around Rio’s neck like a koala, Nicky popped his head up. “Was it roses?”

Cecilia sighed, resigned to the fact there was no saving this story. “No. Red azaleas.”

Nicky perked up instantly. “Mom gets them for Mama sometimes too!” he announced proudly, leaning so far forward he nearly toppled off Rio’s lap.

It was Rio’s turn to flush, her smile tugging higher despite herself. “Developing passion, elegance, and feminine beauty,” she said softly, because of course she knew the meaning—Rio had a whole mental encyclopedia of flower symbolism ready to deploy at any moment.

Agatha’s mouth curved in quiet amusement, the kind that made Rio’s blush deepen.

“And chocolate,” James added gleefully, unable to leave the memory alone.

At the word “chocolate,” Violet—who had been busily smacking her palms against Rio’s knee—gasped dramatically and clapped her tiny hands. Agatha crouched down to scoop her up before she could make a grab for the cookie plate. “Not for you yet, little one,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s soft hair.

Rio, still holding Nicky in place with one arm, shook her head with mock disbelief. “This is literally the plot of every enemies-to-lovers slow burn, except you weren’t enemies. So it’s just… lovers-to-more-obvious-lovers.”

Agatha arched a brow at her wife, voice deceptively calm. “And how exactly would you classify us, then?”

Rio smirked and, without warning, clapped her hands over Nicky’s ears. “Student–teacher,” she said shamelessly. “It’s its own category. Or—chaotic-to-even-more-chaotic lovers. With just as much library, and more—”

“Don’t,” Agatha cut in, narrowing her eyes in that way that always made Rio’s grin turn downright dangerous.

“…more office doorways and empty hallways,” Rio finished innocently, earning a full-on eye roll from her wife, as she released Nicky’s ears and pressed a kiss on the top of his head.

Cecilia groaned into her hands, pointing a finger at Lilia like she was handing down a sentence. “You liked us so much you turned us into your entertainment.”

James raised his cup in mock toast. “That’s what friends are for—mercilessly mocking your romantic escapades, then pretending it’s out of love.”

“Pretending?” Lilia gasped in mock offense. “Please. It was out of love. And maybe a little boredom while waiting for study group. But mostly love. And maybe a little envy. You two had the whole forbidden-lovers vibe. It was like watching live theatre—except with more blushing and… occasional disappearing acts.”

Nicky frowned. “Mom, what’s a disappearing act?”

Rio pressed her lips together to hide a laugh. “Ask me when you’re older.”

“Much older,” Agatha added.

Nicky, still dangling from Rio’s shoulders, frowned in thought. “Mommy, did people make fun of you and Mama too?”

“Constantly,” Rio said cheerfully before Agatha could open her mouth.

“And we deserved every second of it,” Agatha added dryly, earning another peel of laughter from Lilia.

As everyone settled back into their seats, Agatha looked like a queen holding court—one elbow draped over the arm of the couch, chin tilted, the faintest curl of a smile playing at her lips.

“I have to say,” she drawled, eyes sweeping the room, “I’m amazed at the sheer volume of stories bubbling up today. It’s like opening a bottle of champagne that’s been shaken for ten years. Honestly… this is the best thing that could have happened.”

“That’s because we didn’t think we’d ever have a reunion like this,” Lilia said, still grinning like she was seventeen again. “We all went our separate ways, and I assumed all those stories would stay locked away in the ‘college antics’ file, gathering dust.”

“Until now,” James said, smirk firmly in place, like he was about to pull out another tale at any moment.

Rio finally managed to peel Nicky off her shoulders and settle him onto her floor, though Violet immediately wriggled out of her Mama’s lap to run to her Mommy, claiming the newly freed space, wedging herself between her mother’s knees and patting at Rio’s cheeks like she was testing clay for sculpture.

“I swear,” Rio said, staring at them all, “my brain is trying to process the fact that my mom, my wife’s aunt, and this random man and woman who turns out not to be random at all… were basically some kind of snarky college quartet. You understand that this is sitcom material, right?” She threw her hands up—well, as much as she could with Violet still squishing her cheeks. “Like… I’m living in a crossover episode nobody told me about.”

Nicky giggled. “Like the one with the funny dog?”

“Yes, exactly like that,” Rio said solemnly, though her eyes were sparkling with disbelief. “Only instead of a dog, we have fully grown adults with way too much dirt on each other.”

Cecilia laughed, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, Rio. We don’t have that much.”

James snorted so loudly it almost made Violet startle. “Speak for yourself. I have plenty.”

Lilia’s smile was utterly unapologetic. She reached over to take Violet from her daughter when the little girl made grabby hands, bouncing her on her knees. “What can I say? College was memorable. And so, apparently, were we.”

Rio groaned, head dropping forward until her forehead hit Nicky’s shoulder. “I need a manual for this family.”

Nicky patted her back. “I can draw you a map.”

“A map isn’t going to cut it,” Rio said into his sweatshirt. “I need a fully annotated guide with diagrams and emergency exits.”

From her spot, Agatha’s smirk softened. She reached over, brushing a stray curl out of Rio’s face with a touch that made the teasing drop away for just a heartbeat. “You wouldn’t follow it even if you had one, love.”

“She’s right,” Lilia chimed in, rocking Violet. “You’d skim it, decide it was boring, and go find your own trouble instead.”

James raised a finger like he was making a closing argument. “Which is exactly how all good stories start.”

Cecilia sighed in mock despair. “And that’s exactly why none of us ever got any work done back then.”

Rio straightened with a grin, bouncing Nicky on her lap. “Well, you’re all very lucky I wasn’t there in college with you, or you’d have twice as many stories to regret.”

“Oh no,” Agatha said dryly, “I think we have quite enough already. And I like you in my era, thank you very much.”

The room dissolved into laughter again, the sound spilling easily over the years that had passed, until it felt as if those library days weren’t in the past at all—but simply waiting in another room, ready to pick up right where they left off.

Agatha leaned back into the couch cushions, letting her eyes drift over the room as her mind churned. Threads—bright, frayed, tangled—were suddenly weaving themselves into a tapestry she hadn’t known existed. Pieces of a puzzle she’d been holding for years without realizing it now slid neatly into place, each story from Cecilia, James, and especially Lilia filling in the blanks with startling precision.

How had she never seen it? How had the events of her aunt Eugenia’s youth—these little rebellions, these flashes of personality so vividly painted—remained hidden from her until now? Especially considering Lilia had known her but never connected her to Agatha? It was like finding a secret room in a house she thought she knew by heart.

Her gaze moved to the three of them, old friends sprawled in easy familiarity, trading memories as if no time had passed. And then, like a flicker of light, the answer came. The corner of her mouth lifted.

“She went by a different last name,” Cecilia said, as if plucking the thought right out of Agatha’s head. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, her tone halfway between amusement and admiration. “Purely to spite her family. It was her way of cutting the cord—making sure she could live without the constant shadow of that name. She wanted no one to have a claim over her except herself. So she used her mother’s maiden name for the whole four years.”

James nodded, his smile crooked but fond. “She was… well, determined is the polite way of putting it. Stubborn as bedrock. The name change was her way of planting a flag and saying, ‘This is my life. My rules.’ She went back to Harkness after college, but only when she decided it was hers to take back.”

Lilia crossed her arms and gave a little chuckle, the sound tinged with respect. “That’s why I never made the connection, Agatha. She was surgical about it. Thorough, deliberate… and just smug enough to enjoy the fact that she’d fooled even me apparently.”

Agatha’s laugh came unexpectedly, spilling out warm and unrestrained. She shook her head, almost seeing her aunt’s sly smile in her mind’s eye. “Of course she did. That’s exactly an Aunt Eugenia move—quiet rebellion disguised as perfect composure. I mean, who else changes their name not in a fit of drama but with the precision of a chess player planning ten moves ahead?”

Cecilia’s expression softened into something quieter, her voice dipping with memory. “That was her through and through. Never loud about her defiance, but you always knew it was there. Like a match kept ready in her pocket.”

For a moment, the room seemed to fold in on itself, the air thick with nostalgia—not the rose-tinted kind, but the sharp-edged variety that reminded them all that some people were unforgettable because they refused to be anything else.

The atmosphere around the room shifted then, moving from revelations to the gentle comfort of old friendships reconnecting. Cecilia and James leaned closer toward Lilia, their voices dropping into the easy cadence of longtime companions catching up after years apart.

“We got married shortly after college,” Cecilia began, her eyes flicking toward James with a small, private smile before turning back to Lilia. “James and I… well, you remember how things were back then.”

Lilia’s lips quirked knowingly. “I can imagine. And I also imagine it wasn’t just for the wedding cake.”

That got a laugh from James, but Cecilia only rolled her eyes fondly before continuing, her tone more earnest now. “It was survival. We needed the arrangement to live our truths safely. The world wasn’t ready for us, and that piece of paper gave us cover. It meant James could love who he wanted without question, and it gave Eugenia and me the space to… be.”

Something in her voice lingered on that last word, soft but heavy.

Lilia’s expression gentled, the kind of warmth that came from recognition and respect. “I can see that. And I’m glad you found a way that worked for all of you.” Her gaze flickered toward Agatha and Rio—sitting close, Rio’s back leaning against Agatha’s legs—and then back to Cecilia and James. “It’s… hard to remember how different things were back then. The risks you had to take just to be happy.”

James exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly, his voice quieter but no less firm. “We made the choices we thought were necessary. And we stuck by each other through it all. We didn’t have the luxury of waiting for the world to catch up to us.”

Cecilia’s hand found Lilia’s in an unspoken moment of solidarity. “What about you? You… vanished after graduation. No word, no postcards, nothing.”

Lilia’s laugh was soft, tinged with a little guilt, as she adjusted Violet on her lap—who had stayed  on her lap like she had a magnetic pull toward her grandmother. “I know. I moved away. Took a job offer I couldn’t turn down. I thought I’d be gone a year, maybe two.” She shook her head, smiling faintly. “And then life just… kept happening. I traveled a lot. Met people. Learned a few things. Made mistakes. And one day…”

Her gaze shifted toward Rio, sitting across the room, watching her intently as if hearing the story for the first time.

“…one day I met this sweet, scrappy girl who was sixteen and absolutely certain she didn’t need anyone.”

Rio let out a small huff of amusement, ducking her head. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were worse,” Lilia teased, though her eyes softened with pride. “You came into my life like a hurricane—no warning, no asking permission—and somehow… you fit. You needed a home. I had one. So I gave it to you. And from that day, we never let go of each other.”

Violet, catching the shift in tone, patted Lilia’s chest and babbled something approving in toddler-speak, earning a round of quiet chuckles.

Cecilia looked toward Rio, her expression almost wistful. “You’re so lucky to have her.”

Rio’s cheeks warmed instantly, and she gave a little shrug as if trying to downplay it, though her eyes betrayed the emotion swelling there. She glanced down at Nicky, who had finally stopped climbing her like she was Mount Everest and was now sprawled on the floor, arranging toy cars in a neat little row.

“I know,” Rio said softly, almost to herself. Then, after a beat, she looked back up—first at Lilia, then at Cecilia and James. “I am. More than I can explain. She saved me in ways I didn’t even understand at the time.”

Lilia’s smile was tender but teasing. “And I’m still saving you, whether you admit it or not.”

Rio laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t start making a scrapbook about it.”

James grinned. “Oh, I think we all need a scrapbook after today.”

“Please don’t encourage them,” Agatha said dryly, though the corner of her mouth curved in amusement. She reached over to rest her hand briefly on Rio’s knee. “Some of us prefer to live in the present.”

“And some of us,” Cecilia countered with a sly smile, “like to remember exactly how we got here.”

Agatha felt her chest tighten, a mix of awe and something heavier, at the thought of all the women who had shaped her life—and the lives of the people she loved so fiercely. Eugenia, with her quiet defiance and clever cunning. Lilia, with her unwavering devotion and gentle strength. Rio, who had come into her world like the spark she didn’t know she needed. And now Cecilia, whose warmth and courage rippled through the stories they shared, connecting past to present.

The legacy of these women—quiet rebellions, love kept safe in shadows but fierce in its intensity—stretched across generations like an unbroken thread, fragile yet unyielding.

“So many pieces I didn’t know were missing,” Agatha murmured, her voice soft, almost lost, as her eyes traced the faces around her.

Cecilia reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over Agatha’s hand. “She would have wanted you to know. Eventually,” she said, her tone gentle but firm, as if passing on a small, precious inheritance.

Lilia’s gaze softened, a shimmer of moisture catching the light in her eyes. “Some things are never gone, Agatha. They just wait for the right time to appear.”

Agatha glanced at Rio, who smiled.

She thought of Eugenia’s fearless independence, of Cecilia and James’s unwavering support for each other and those around them, of Lilia’s steadfast, quiet devotion. It was a mosaic of resilience and care, each piece shining brighter because it was joined with the others. And now—here, in this room, surrounded by laughter and memory and the echoes of love—they were adding their own pieces to it. Agatha and Rio, bound together, intertwined with this history and this legacy, part of a lineage of women who loved boldly, quietly, and without hesitation.

It was in their blood. And it was in their hearts.

Agatha lifted her glass, a small, trembling smile on her lips. “To the women who came before us,” she said softly, “and to the ones who will carry it forward.”

Cecilia’s eyes sparkled. “And to those who get to stand beside them now.”

Lilia nodded, holding Violet a little closer. James smiled, a quiet warmth spreading across his face. And Rio, reaching across to squeeze Agatha’s hand, whispered, “And to us. To love. »

It was slowly sinking in, like a tide creeping in over warm sand: their lives, once separate threads, had always been part of the same fabric. Two families, bound by time and circumstance, now fully and undeniably woven together through Agatha and Rio.

Cecilia was the first to break the silence, her voice low, almost reverent. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How our paths were always tangled together, even when we didn’t notice?”

Lilia nodded slowly, her gaze drifting to the children on the floor—Violet wobbling between stacks of blocks, Nicky explaining the “proper” way to build a tower with all the authority of a city architect. “I suppose Eugenia was always keeping us close, in her own way. Even when we didn’t see the pattern, she was stitching us together. She had her secrets, yes… but she made sure we never forgot we were part of something bigger.” She looked toward her daughter and daughter-in-law, her eyes warm and certain. “And now you, my girls, you’re the ones holding us all together.”

Her words lingered in the air, more than sentiment—they felt like a passing of the torch.

Agatha swallowed, her heart pulling tight in her chest. “That’s… a lot to live up to,” she murmured, though her lips curved into the smallest of smiles.

“Oh, come on,” Rio broke in, refusing to let the atmosphere turn too heavy for too long. With a dramatic flourish, she threw her arms wide as if about to make an important announcement. “Do you realize what this means? We’re basically an academic dynasty now.”

The sudden burst of theatrics was like someone opening a window. Laughter spilled through the room—bright, warm, contagious. Cecilia’s cheeks flushed with amusement, and even Lilia, who so often kept her humor understated, let out a soft, unguarded laugh.

James raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face as he wrapped an arm around Cecilia. “A dynasty, huh? That’s one way to put it. Professors, poets, musicians, secret rebels… I suppose we’re ticking all the boxes.”

“And don’t forget ‘dramatic scene-stealers,’” Agatha added, side-eyeing her wife affectionately.

Rio pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Excuse me, I am not a scene-stealer. I am… a scene-enhancer.”

“Oh, please,” Agatha said dryly, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her smile. “You’re one dramatic hand gesture away from applying for your own reality show.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Rio shot back with a smirk, “because I would win an Emmy.”

The laughter came again, lighter this time, less about the joke and more about the sheer ease between them all.

“It does feel like something special,” Agatha said once the chuckles faded, her voice softer but sure. “Knowing Eugenia’s story isn’t just hers anymore. That it’s part of all of us now. That we carry her—her spirit, her courage—forward.”

Cecilia reached across the space between them and took Agatha’s hand, her touch warm and steady. “She’d be so proud of you, Agatha. You’re the living proof of what she wanted—a voice that can’t be silenced, a family that holds each other up.”

Lilia’s nod was slow and deliberate. “And you too, Rio. You’ve both got that strength in you. Not the loud kind… well,” she glanced at Rio, her lips twitching, “not always the loud kind. But the kind that lasts.”

Rio slid her arm around Agatha’s shoulders and gave her a playful squeeze. “We’re stronger together. That’s the real dynasty. We’re like… the Avengers, but with more bookshelves, more wine, more make-up and more queerness.”

“Bookshelves and wine,” James added, raising his glass.

“Bookshelves, wine, and family,” Lilia finished, her voice warm and final, as though naming the things that mattered most.

They all raised their glasses again then, the cristal catching the low light, and for a brief, perfect moment, it felt as though all the years, all the twists and turns, had led exactly here.

For a moment, the five adults sat quietly, watching the children laugh and play, feeling the deep hum of connection that stretched through the room. Generations intertwined by love, struggle, courage, and hope. A family made not just by blood, but by choice, by loyalty, and by the courage to live authentically.

Cecilia wiped a tear from her eye, a soft smile breaking through. “Thank you. For letting us in. For being part of this.”

Agatha’s smile was steady, full of warmth. “Thank you—for sharing everything. For trusting us.”

Lilia added gently, “This isn’t the end of the story, my loves. It’s just the beginning.”

Just as the room was humming with warmth and laughter, Violet—radiating the kind of fearless certainty only a toddler can possess—made her move. She toddled across the carpet, hips swaying with determined little steps, clutching Yellow Dragon in one hand like a prized treasure. Without so much as a glance for permission, she climbed into Cecilia’s lap as if she had been doing so all her life. There was no hesitation, no testing of boundaries—just the instinctive, unshakable belief that she belonged there too.

Cecilia’s expression softened instantly, her lips curving into a smile that reached her eyes. She let out a quiet, delighted laugh as her arms closed around the tiny, warm body now settled against her. “Well, hello there, darling,” she murmured, brushing a curl of hair from Violet’s forehead. Violet answered with a stream of happy babble, her free hand patting Cecilia’s cheek with the solemn concentration of someone discovering a brand-new toy.

“You’ve made a friend,” Lilia teased from across the room, her tone carrying that smug little lilt only a mother and grandmother could pull off.

“Oh, this one’s trouble,” Rio said, grinning at her daughter. “She sees a lap, she claims it.”

“Clever girl,” Cecilia replied, giving Violet a gentle bounce. “Never waste an opportunity.”

Agatha closed her eyes at hearing the term of endearment again, directed at her own daughter this time, from the mouth of the woman who had loved her aunt the most.

Meanwhile, Nicky, who never tolerated being outshone by his baby sister for long, had zeroed in on James. The boy was in full performance mode, hands waving animatedly as he explained in exacting detail the anatomical quirks of prehistoric giants.

“So, the T-Rex?” Nicky began, standing on his tiptoes for emphasis. “Everyone thinks it’s silly ’cause of the tiny arms, but they were actually super strong. Like, rip-a-dinosaur-in-half strong.” He pantomimed the act with great enthusiasm, complete with dramatic sound effects.

James chuckled, leaning forward in his chair. “Short but mighty, huh? Sounds like someone else I know,” he said, shooting a glance at Rio.

Rio gasped. “Excuse you—are you calling my son a T-Rex?”

“I was thinking about you from what I’ve seen, but sure. Him too. Only in the most flattering way,” James said with mock solemnity.

Nicky plowed on, oblivious to the banter. “And the Stegosaurus? Those plates weren’t just for defense--they were for showing off. Like…” He glanced at Rio again. “Like your shiny earrings, Mommy.”

“Okay, first I’m a T-Rex, now I’m a Stegosaurus?” Rio sighed, placing a hand ovr her heart. “The disrespect in my own home…”

Agatha, lounging with a cup of tea, arched a brow. “I’m just waiting to hear which dinosaur I get compared to.”

Nicky squinted at her seriously, clearly giving it real thought. “Probably… a Velociraptor. ‘Cause they’re super smart, really fast, and kind of scary when they want to be.”

“That,” Agatha said, sipping her tea with a satisfied smile, “might be the best compliment I’ve ever received.”

Cecilia was laughing by now, Violet’s soft giggles muffled against her blouse as the little girl clapped her hands for no reason other than joy itself and as if enthusiasm was her life’s calling. “Looks like the next generation of this tangled web is already going strong,” she said, glancing between the children.

“They’re the continuation,” Lilia agreed softly, her gaze lingering on Nicky and Violet with a quiet, almost reverent pride. “Every stubborn streak, every big dream, every ounce of mischief—passed down and repackaged for round two.”

Rio, leaning back with a grin that practically screamed chaos incoming, raised an eyebrow. “And possibly round three,” she said, drawing curious looks. “Nicky is already smitten with one of our student’s little sisters, so the dynasty might be continuing—” she dropped her voice into a conspiratorial stage whisper “—if you know what I mean.”

Agatha’s head turned toward her wife in slow, deliberate disapproval. “Rio,” she warned, in that velvet tone that was somehow both affectionate and threatening.

“What?” Rio asked, all innocence, batting her lashes. “I’m just saying! Love is in the air! He shares his fruit snacks with her. That’s practically a proposal in kid language.”

Nicky, who had clearly been listening despite pretending not to, looked horrified. “Mom, no! Sophie just likes dinosaurs and frogs!”

“Mm-hmm,” Rio said, unconvinced. “And next thing you know, we’ll be planning a wedding reception with a Jurassic Park theme.”

James chuckled into his drink. “I’d come to that wedding. Bet the cake would be shaped like a volcano.”

Violet squealed at the word cake again, which she clearly recognized, and clapped her hands again as if fully supporting the idea.

Agatha shook her head but couldn’t hide the twitch of a smile. “You two,” she said, looking between her wife and son, “are going to be the death of me.”

“See?” Rio said, leaning toward Cecilia. “Round three practically confirmed. The matchmaking starts young in this family.”

As the afternoon waned and the sky outside softened into the gentle hues of early evening, the group drifted toward the kitchen, naturally congregating around the worn wooden table that had witnessed so many conversations and quiet moments. The air filled with the scent of the last pot of tea steeping, mingling with the subtle sweetness of the pie Cecilia had brought. Plates were passed around without ceremony, slices already cut by Rio in what could only be described as “generous rectangles.” Forks clinked against ceramic, and the conversation rose and fell like the tide.

Cecilia and James settled side by side, their comfort with each other apparent in every small movement—how James leaned just enough to let Cecilia rest her elbow on the back of his chair, how her hand brushed over his without thinking when she reached for her tea.

Lilia, standing with the teapot in hand, moved between them all like a conductor of a quiet symphony, refilling cups without needing to ask who wanted more. Her eyes twinkled when Rio began recounting yet another misadventure from their poetry workshop—this one involving a very earnest student who had written a sonnet about the tragic death of his goldfish, that he insisted had been a gay icon.

“He compared it to the fall of empires,” Rio was saying, unable to keep a straight face. “And then—this is the best part—he recited it with background music he’d composed himself.”

Cecilia nearly choked on her tea from laughing. “Was it… was it good music?”

“Oh, absolutely not, Max—bless him— doesn’t have an ounce of musical talent in him,” Rio said without hesitation. “But it was committed music, which I respect.”

Even Agatha smirked at that, shaking her head as if privately wondering how she ended up married to someone with such a flair for finding chaos.

Halfway through yet another story of their student’s shenanigans, Cecilia’s gaze snagged on a frame perched on the windowsill— a candid photo of Rio, heavily pregnant, standing in the backyard with one hand resting protectively on her belly and the other holding a mug.

“Oh my God,” Cecilia said suddenly, smiling as she reached over to pick up the frame. “Look at you, Rio. You were glowing.”

Rio, mid-bite of pie, glanced over. “Glowing? Please. That was sweat. It was the hottest Spring ever. I was a human oven carrying a smaller human oven inside me.”

“That’s not true,” Lilia countered fondly. “You were beautiful. And stubborn as a mule. Wouldn’t stop rearranging the nursery even when you could barely bend down.”

Agatha smirked into her tea. “She made me move the furniture. Twice. Because apparently, the first layout was’ too crowded’ and the second was too ‘bare’ ».

Cecilia laughed, setting the frame down carefully. “Oh my….”

“Oh, and the cravings,” Lilia added, eyes sparkling. “She went through a phase where she had to have peanut butter on everything. Toast, apples, crackers, celery, pretzels, pizza…”

“And pickles,” Nicky chimed in from the end of the table, his mouth full of pie. “You ate pickles with peanut butter once. I saw it.”

“Don’t expose me like this in front of company,” Rio said, pointing her fork at him. “Pregnant people are allowed to be culinary visionaries.”

James chuckled. “Visionary is one word for it.”

“And the energy swings,” Agatha said, her tone equal parts affection and exasperation. “Some days she’d nap for four hours straight. Other days she’d be reorganizing the kitchen at two in the morning. I once found her alphabetizing the spice rack while wearing my old college sweatshirt and crying over a documentary about penguins.”

“They were separated for mating season!” Rio protested, throwing her hands up. “It was tragic.”

The table erupted in laughter, Violet squealing along from her highchair even though she didn’t understand a word, banging her little hands in approval, as if she knew she had been the cause of all this chaos, even hidden deep in her mommy’s belly.

Lilia shook her head, smiling softly at the photo still on the table. “Every stubborn streak, every ounce of mischief—she had them even before Violet was here. Some things never change.”

“And thank goodness for that,” Cecilia said warmly.

The conversation slipped easily into more stories—late-night ice cream runs, the infamous “too crowded/too bare ” furniture saga, and the time had Rio tried prenatal yoga and ended up napping on the mat instead.

Rio leaned back, eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, but let’s talk about you for a second, dear wife. Should we tell them about the overreaction to my Braxton Hicks contractions?”

Agatha’s smile stiffened. “I was being cautious.”

“Cautious? You were halfway to calling an ambulance before I could finish my toast. And when I sneezed? You made me sit down for an hour. An hour, Cecilia. Like sneezing was going to launch Violet into orbit.”

James chuckled. “Protective much?”

“Oh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Rio said. “She followed me around the grocery store once, holding my elbow like I was an elderly duchess in danger of keeling over in the frozen food aisle.”

“I didn’t want you to slip,” Agatha defended, though her ears were faintly pink.

“You didn’t want me to reach for the ice cream, which you’d already hidden behind the frozen spinach. I still found it, by the way.”

The group dissolved into another round of laughter, Lilia shaking her head with affectionate exasperation.

“Every stubborn streak, every ounce of mischief indeed,” Lilia repeated softly, looking between them and then at the photo still on the table, “it’s a miracle Violet turned out so sweet.”

Between bites and laughter, the conversation took on a softer tone.

It was Lilia who first let the laughter fade into a more thoughtful silence. “You know,” she said, glancing between Cecilia and James, “we can’t let it be another forty years before we do this again.”

James gave a small huff of amusement. “At my age, forty years would be more than a miracle. But your point stands.”

The three of them exchanged a look—a look that held decades of missed birthdays, unwritten letters, and quiet what-ifs.

“We owe it to Eugenia,” Cecilia said softly, her voice steady with conviction and grief for her lost love. “To keep this connection alive—for all of us, but especially for Agatha and Rio, and for the children who deserve to know the strength of this family.”

Lilia nodded, reaching across the table to squeeze Cecilia’s hand. “Agreed. No more waiting. We’re family now, and families don’t let time or distance break the bonds they’ve fought so hard to create.”

James smiled warmly, raising his teacup in another quiet toast. “To family, then. Old, new, and everything in between.”

Glasses and mugs met gently in a soft clinking chorus, echoing the sentiment that filled the room.

Agatha settled Violet into her lap, pressing a kiss to the baby’s dark curls. “Well,” she murmured, “if this family intends to reunite more often, you’d better all be prepared for chaos. My wife thrives on it.”

Rio, already mid-bite of pie, pointed her fork at her. “Don’t drag me into this. I’m delightful chaos.”

Cecilia laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, I have no doubt. And I can’t wait to see more of it.”

Just as the sun’s final rays spilled like liquid gold across the worn floorboards, the day’s noise softened into the gentle hum of chairs shifting and the faint scuff of nearly departing footsteps.

It was in that hush—warm and heavy with the intimacy of shaired hours—that Cecilia reached into her leather satchel. Her movements was unhurried, almost ceremonial, as she pulled out a slim, slightly worn envelope.

She didn’t speak right away. She simply held it in both hands, her fingers brushing over the paper’s softened edges.

Agatha caught the look first. Their eyes met across the table, and in Cecilia’s gaze was a quiet spark of significance, the kind of unspoken weight that made Agatha’s breath catch in her throat.

“I wanted to give you this,” Cecilia said at last, her voice low, threaded with tenderness and something close to reverence. “After today… it feels even righter.”

Agatha’s brow furrowed faintly, curiosity blooming. She reached out, her fingers taking the envelope softly.

Then, with deliberate care, she slid the photograph free.

The paper was cool beneath her fingertips, the surface slightly textured from age. When she turned it over, her breath faltered.

Rio, leaning in over her shoulder, gasped. “Is that—?”

“Oh my god,” Agatha murmured, smiling brightly.

In the black -and-white photograph, young Eugenia and Cecilia stood front and center, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders in a casual yet intimate embrace. Their smiles were wide and full of mischief, as if they shared a secret so deliciously theirs that the world might never understand. They looked young and radiant—free in a way only youth and love could make possible.

To one side, a younger James stood half-smiling, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his coat, his posture relaxed but leaning ever so slightly toward a younger Lilia, who was caught mid-laugh. Her head tilted back, eyes sparkling with amusement at the person behind the camera, as though the moment had been snatched from a perfect day.

The candid nature of the photo breathed life into the room. There was chemistry between them—layers of friendship, love, and unspoken stories hanging in the air like the delicate warmth after a fire has burned low.

Agatha’s thumb brushed lightly over Eugenia’s image, her voice soft. “She looks… happy.”

“She was,” Cecilia replied, her own gaze fixed on the picture. “We all were. That day was… ours.”

Rio glanced between them, smiling faintly but with a question in her eyes. “What happened that day?”

Cecilia’s lips quirked. “That,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “is a story that begins with stolen wine, a broken bicycle chain, and the world’s worst attempt at flirting.”

Her fingers brushed the edge of the photograph as she spoke, her voice carrying that tender lilt that came from sifting through old, beloved memories. “James took a truly terrible photo just before this one,” she said with a soft, nostalgic laugh, her eyes crinkling. “Eugenia nearly burst a vein looking at it—said he made us all look like we’d just stepped out of a crime report. So, we waved down a passing student and begged them to retake it. That’s why Lilia was laughing… Eugenia had just declared James ‘the worst photographer alive.’”

The table rippled with laughter, gentle but full, like a tide coming in.

Lilia shook her head, her smile one part amusement, one part sentiment. “Some things never change,” she said, her voice warm enough to wrap the whole table in it. “James could’t take a decent picture. I swear, if a masterpiece unfolded right in front of him, he’d find a way to crop off the important part.”

James, from his seat, gave a mock-offended scoff. “I’ll have you know, my talents lie in other areas.”

“Like losing your glasses in the fridge?” Cecilia teased her husband, earning another wave of chuckles.

Amid the laughter, Agatha stayed quiet, her gaze fixed on the photo in her hands. Her thumb traced the outlines of the four young faces. The weight of the image pressed deeper into her chest, anchoring something she hadn’t realized she was missing: the living proof of the bonds that had shaped her aunt’s life, and Rio’s mother’s life, long before she and Rio had even existed in the same world.

It wasn’t just a relic—it was a fragment of the foundation she and Rio were now building on, without even knowing they’d been given blueprints decades ago.

As Lilia gathered her bag, smoothing her coat and adjusting the scarf around her shoulders, she leaned down to kiss her grandchildren, lingering a moment on Violet’s soft cheek and ruffling Nicky’s hair. Then she kissed her daughter and daughter-in-law, her eyes glinting with both affection and a touch of wistfulness. She paused at the door, hand resting on the frame, and turned back to the group.

“Let’s not wait another lifetime to share more moments like this,” she said softly, her voice carrying the quiet gravity of someone who had seen how fleeting time could be.

Cecilia nodded, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. “Agreed. No more letting years slip by.”

James, always the one to try and lighten a serious moment, raised a brow and said with mock solemnity, “I suppose that means more bad photographs in the future as well.”

Lilia laughed, shaking her head. “Only if James insists on taking them.”

After everybody had gone, Agatha looked down once more at the photograph—Eugenia and Cecilia’s laughter frozen in time, Lilia’s loud joy and James’ easy attitude—and smiled to herself.

Nicky appeared suddenly at her side, tiny feet padding across the floor, eyes bright as he pointed at the photograph. “Wow! Grandma looks so young!” he exclaimed, voice full of awe.

Violet’s squeals echoed from across the room, where she was determinedly pulling herself up using a low bookshelf. Nicky’s face lit up, and he dashed toward her, arms outstretched. “Vivi! I’m gonna catch you!”

Rio let out a soft laugh, wrapping her arms around Agatha from behind. “Well,” she said, chin resting near Agatha’s shoulder, “that was quite the surprise.”

“One more reason to think we were meant to be.”

And when great souls die,

after a period peace blooms,

slowly and always

irregularly. Spaces fill

with a kind of

soothing electric vibration.

Our senses, restored, never

to be the same, whisper to us.

They existed. They existed.

We can be. Be and be

better. For they existed.

(Maya Angelou – When Great Trees Fall)

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