《Blood of the Gods: the Leaving》


 I:

    Estella was, to say the least, a surprise for her parents who were two young adults just learning how to take care of themselves let alone not even set up in life with a job or full education¡ªpractically children themselves. Fortunately for Estella, they had options and support. Her father¡¯s parents volunteered to take her, either wholly or partially until the young couple was ready. It turns out that they never were ready for the little girl they brought into this world. A world beyond their comprehension, which suited them both just fine. Jack de Luca had spent most of his life not looking too close at his parents, afraid of the way the air shimmered around them if he stared too long. And for much of his life they avoided being looked at. It was this very shimmer that Jack saw on the day of his daughter''s birth.


    It made for an awful parent-child relationship, to say the least.


    And so it is that Estella, from the time of her birth, was raised by her grandparents in a little house tucked into the woods on a small plot of land. Her grandparents set her up in their son¡¯s old room, repainted in a quiet purple, and hung soft Christmas lights on the windows and bookshelves. Unfortunately for her grandparents, Estella wasn¡¯t afraid to look too closely. She noticed a little too much, too young like that her grandmother¡¯s wooden spoons never quite touched the cabinet or that her grandfather¡¯s hand never fully reached the pages of his books to actually turn them¡ªand yet the pages turned. She noticed stains never stayed on their clothing no matter how deep and that she never once saw her grandparents touch the broom and yet the floor was always swept. Once, when she was six, Estella came into the kitchen after she should have been asleep and when her grandmother heard her¡ªjust before Estella was to round the corner¡ªshe dropped a bowl on the floor with a loud shatter. When Estella fully came into the soft yellow room she found her grandmother clutching her old family recipe book in her hands and the bowl several feet away on the floor, food scraps mixing with pottery shards.


    Staring at her petite fille, her little girl, Marguerite saw her son in the child¡¯s owl-like dark eyes. The son they put so much pressure on to be perfect, to be safe, to be human, to be so distinctly American and therefore foreign to them both, these immigrants from another place, even another time. Her son, who won¡¯t come home even for his daughter. It was at that point that her grandmother decided not to repeat the same mistake she made with her son. She wasn¡¯t going to pretend anymore¡ªshe was a witch and she knew that no amount of protection or hiding would keep Estella safe forever. Estella did not know it, but she was standing at a fork in the road, and her grandmother was tugging her by the hand through a very thorny path.


    Marguerite decided to tell the truth. Fortunately, Estella gave her the opening to do so.


    ¡°M¨¦m¨¦, what happened to your bowl?¡±


    Her grandmother knelt in front of her, still holding the family recipe book close to her chest, ¡°I dropped it.¡±


    Estella looked hard at the old recipe book, its cloth cover slightly fraying, ¡°But you were holding your book.¡±


    ¡°I was holding the bowl too.¡± Marguerite¡¯s eyes twinkled in the low light.


    The little girl scrunched her face like she ate a lemon, ¡°But how?¡±


    ¡°Like this,¡± and suddenly Estella felt a familiar air in the room. An air that hugged her at night and gently swept around her during the day, filling her up, being the air in her lungs. She always thought it was her grandparent¡¯s presence in the room, an aura that was bigger than their bodies that filled up the entire space with love and smelled like fresh herbs. Her grandmother always smelled like thyme and bread, her grandfather like sweet basil and citronella.


    Looking at her grandmother now, Estella thought she would walk over to the bowl and demonstrate some dramatic, theatrical drop or mime tossing it across the room, but her grandmother did not move. Did not even look away from her eyes. ¡°Why don¡¯t you go and see?¡±


    Estella was not quite big enough to see over the kitchen chairs blocking her view, and when she peeked through the legs only the mess on the floor was left ¡ª no bowl. Walking around the small blue table set she still did not see the bowl.


    ¡°Where is it?¡± she asked, whirling around back to her grandmother, her arms swinging about her body.


    The older woman looked suspiciously innocent, ¡°Well dear, you haven¡¯t looked everywhere yet. Have you checked all directions?¡±


    With the petulancy only a child could have, Estella pointed to the floor, ¡°Directions? It was here!¡±


    Her grandmother pursed her lips, ¡°You¡¯re right. It was right there and now it¡¯s not. So where did it go?¡±


    ¡°Well I don¡¯t know,¡± Estella huffed at her grandmother. Her shoulders coming up to her ears in a big child shrug.


    Marguerite smiled sweetly, seeing an opportunity. ¡°Estella, you do know.¡± Just when Estella was about to protest, she knelt in front of her and instructed the girl to shut her eyes and take a deep breath. ¡°Now, with your eyes closed tell me what you feel. Be specific now. I want you to search with your senses.¡±


    Estella tried her best, she really wanted to know where that bowl went. Her grandmother was acting so strange about it. Breathing deeply she thought about all that she smelled. First and foremost she smelled her grandmother, always of freshly baked bread that she made and minty like thyme. She felt the floor beneath her little feet and the presence of the dining set not far away. She knew the countertops and cabinets were close to her left ¡ª both it and the table set she could feel their physical boundaries pushing in on the air around her. In front of her she knew was her grandmother, who may as well be an extension of herself. Behind her was the living room and nothing felt different there.


    Estella struggled and got frustrated. She didn¡¯t feel any sort of bowl. What does a bowl feel like? Round? She stomped her foot. ¡°Calm down, Estella. Breathe in again and recenter. You will find it if you just look ¡ª but only with your eyes closed!¡±


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    If she had less of a grip on her temper the little girl would have kicked a kitchen chair. Instead, she did what her grandfather taught her when she got upset ¡ª¡±Come now bambina, let us breathe. Nel. Fuori. Nel. Fuori. Ci siamo.¡± ¡ª she took several deep breaths to center herself before trying again.


    Once calm, Estella restarted the process of searching with her eyes closed. Again she stretched out her senses and found the table, the cabinets, the refrigerator, the hutch across the room full of cookbooks and jars. She felt the floor beneath her feet and the bristles of the broom that always leaned against the corner and the pile of shoes next to the door. She found the edges of the living room again, felt the contours of the lamp and end table that marked its beginnings.


    She took deep breaths to stave off more frustration. She searched the countertops and the table, felt in the sink and found the dirty dishes there. Everything she sensed pressed in on her mind, feeling so real that Estella thought she might be able to touch the wine bottle on the counter if she wasn¡¯t so small and the bottle wasn¡¯t several feet away.


    ¡°Este, b¨¦b¨¦, que vois-tu?¡± baby, what do you see? The French slipped out of her grandmother easily, naturally flowing from her lips as wind through tree leaves.


    Estella understood the question and responded to her grandmother in kind ¡ª many languages were spoken in their home. Her grandmother was raised in northern France and her grandfather was from southern Italy where from a young age he learned many languages. When it was time for Estella to begin primary school in the United States her grandfather was insulted that not a single school offered a secondary language course, which speaks also to his absence during the youth of his son that this came as a shock to him. He drew the line and withdrew Estella days later when she was told to speak only English after counting her crayons in a mixture of her native tongues: English, French, and Italian. One deux tre four five six sept¡­ From then on Estella was taught at home by her grandparents, who created a world for their little granddaughter that they wished to see.


    ¡°M¨¦m¨¦, je vois la table et les comptoirs. J''ai trouv¨¦ le balai et la bouteille ¨¤ c?t¨¦ de l''¨¦vier mais je ne vois pas le bol.¡± Grandma, I can see the table and the counters. I found the broom and the bottle next to the sink but I don''t see the bowl.


    ¡°Este, b¨¦b¨¦, look up.¡± Estella knew her grandmother didn¡¯t mean for her to open her eyes and physically look but she couldn¡¯t help the instinct. She cried out when her m¨¦m¨¦¡¯s hand flew to cover her eyes.


    ¡°Closed, mon amour.¡±


    Stomping her foot again, she stretched her senses in a direction she had not taken them: the air above her head. It did not make sense to Estella to look in the air. How could a bowl be there? Still, Estella extended her senses upward, coming into contact with an unexpected object. Eyes flying open, mouth agape Estella pointed in the air:


    ¡°M¨¦m¨¦, le bol! Le bol is in the air! Comment?¡± Grandma, the bowl! The bowl is in the air! How?


    Her grandmother remained kneeling before Estella, her hand reaching out for the bowl ¡ª in one piece. Estella watched as the complete bowl slowly floated down to meet her grandmother¡¯s hand. ¡°La Magie. Estella magique.¡± Magic. Magic, Estella.


    And like that, a missing piece fit into the puzzle of Estella¡¯s life.


    It was near this juncture that her grandfather came home and found his wife and granddaughter in the kitchen. They had cleaned up the mess on the floor and were now leaning over the old recipe book her grandmother had been holding earlier. Upon her grandfather¡¯s entrance, Estella greeted him, throwing her arms around him as she jumped for his neck, her tiny arms encircling him, ¡°Nonno!¡± Grandpapa!


    His laugh reverberated through his chest, ¡°Estella, bambina, what are you doing up?¡±


    ¡°Magic, nonno! Grandmama is telling me about our magie!¡± The young girl squealed in child delight.


    Her grandfather looked then at his wife with her eyebrows raised, saw the excitement in her face, and threw his head back, ¡°finalmente.¡± It turns out that both grandparents had long grown tired of hiding themselves from their grandchild, afraid they would lose her the way they had lost their son who they never truly let know them ¡ª or himself.


    And so it was that little Estella began to truly learn about herself and her family.


    This letting go felt much like an unused bagpipe that had its dusty wind let out of it to fill again with clean air ¡ª the letting out was a bit clumsy at first but eventually the music came, sweet as a melody.


    The small family of grandmama, grandpapa, and young Estella, their b¨¦b¨¦, spent the night going over the family recipe book until Estella¡¯s small frame finally collapsed into sleep from the excitement. Her grandfather carried her up to her room and tucked her into bed before coming back downstairs to share a final glass of wine with his wife.


    ¡°Margherita¡± his Italian accent always struggled to say his wife¡¯s name properly, much like her northern French accent makes Estella difficult for her (it comes out more like Estelle). She always loved the way he said her name. ¡°Do you think it is right to let her in?¡±


    Marguerite reached for her husband and with her index finger caressed the back of his hand that was lying on the table, tracing the veins there, ¡°Timoteo ¡ª you helped raise our son. You know that we will only find out if this is right later. We know we made missteps with Jack ¡ª we didn¡¯t teach him our ways and were overly harsh.¡±


    Timoteo added remorsefully, ¡°And I was absent a lot.¡±


    Silence passed between them then before his wife responded, ¡°Oui. You are here now and we have been teaching her French and Italian ¡ª she¡¯s more European than American with how we¡¯ve raised her so far.¡±


    ¡°You know, I think she has a bit of an accent when she speaks English.¡±


    ¡°Mhmm. I¡¯ve noticed. Do you think we should have her watch more American television? She doesn¡¯t see many other people in person.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps we can put something on in the background for her to help her pronunciation.¡±


    Together they mulled over their wine a little longer, thinking of the days ahead. When they finally laid their heads on their pillows, Timoteo asked one final question for the night, ¡°Margherita, will you tell her when you were born?¡±


    It took his wife so long to respond that he thought she had already fallen asleep and began to do so himself when she finally whispered, ¡°if she asks.¡±

 II:

    The next morning, and the days that followed, little Estella asked her grandparents many questions about magic and what they could do with it. Mostly she wanted to see her grandparents do magic and so they showed her the basics of magie domestique, domestic magic, the most common type you will likely encounter in any witch household: how to hold items in the air next to you, to flip a page, use a broom, or water plants. If you¡¯re her grandfather it was usually a pen in the air that floated just behind him that he frequently lost sight of and so another pen would join its brother, lost in the air until the old man was being followed by a small army of black, blue, red, and glitter pens. He never did much more than hold objects in the air but her grandmother¡­ Marguerite worked spells to bring plants to life, spoke sweet words to them that enticed plump harvests.


    This simple magic, according to her grandparents, was the most fundamental use of their abilities.


    ¡°Most people now don¡¯t even bother with the harder stuff. If you ask them, they will guffaw and demand why you need to know more,¡± Timoteo told Estella with an angry wave of his hand. ¡°Witches have long memories. After the persecutions we pushed aside all that knowledge. Let it die.¡±


    When asked if she could use magic her grandmother told her, ¡°Why Estella! Of course, you can do magic, everyday life has its own magic in its rituals and love. That¡¯s true for anyone, witch, human, vampire, werewolf, whoever ¡ª they have access to the magic of mundanity.¡±


    ¡°But M¨¦m¨¦, I¡¯ve been trying to flip a page in my book with magic like nonno and I can¡¯t get a flutter!¡±


    ¡°Oh Este, no no ¡ª let me explain better. One day, when you are big and older, you will be able to do what I can do and what your grandpapa can do. Right now, you can only enjoy the magic of the¡­ of the bonds between people and the physical objects of those bonds.¡±


    Estella stared at her grandmother, a crease deep between her eyebrows that showed when she was trying to understand her grandparents ¡ª often the two adults in her life forget how to speak to someone so small. After a moment of hesitation, Estella told her grandmother, ¡°non. Je ne connais pas.¡± I don¡¯t understand.


    ¡°Let me try again.¡± Her grandmother told her, walking over to the cupboard that held her books she picked up the old family book ¡ª the one she had shown Estella on that pivotal night of truth ¡ª and invited her granddaughter to sit with her on the couch. ¡°Estella come look at this book and tell me what you see.¡±


    Estella studied the old book, with its homemade cover, frayed pages, and fading ink that wrote out foreign names of plants she was only just being introduced to by her grandparents ¡ª lavande, c¨¦lestine¡­ She focused on the inside of the front cover, wondering if there was a name there like in the other books of the house. Estella didn¡¯t find her grandmother¡¯s name but an inscription written in a poor hand, ¡°Pour mon centre.¡± For my center. She didn¡¯t understand what that line meant so she flipped through more pages and at the start of the recipes she found a name written next to each label, Estelle. Estella kept flipping through the book ¡ª she hadn¡¯t gotten to look so closely at it before. For many of the entries she found the same name, Estelle, over and over, in the same neat, small hand with blotches of ink here and there. Sometimes there were different names, a Genevieve, a Blanche, and even once a Matthieu.


    ¡°Who are these people, grandma? Who is Estelle? Why does she have my name?¡±


    In her particular French accent, which to a modern northern French person would sound a little off, a not quite right northern dialect ¡ª the accent her granddaughter is adopting in her own French voice ¡ª Marguerite explained to her grandchild, ¡°Those are my family members, Estella. Genevieve and Blanche were my older sisters. I was the b¨¦b¨¦ of the famille, like you.¡±


    ¡°And Matthieu and Estelle?¡±


    ¡°They are my parents. Your papa is named after our friend Jacques and my papa and you are named after my maman and godmother. Your parents did not know what to name you so your grandpapa and I settled on a name that respected both of our families ¡ª a moderne Italian version of my dear maman¡¯s name, Estella.¡± And then her grandmother laughed lightly, ¡°of course, with my accent I sometimes forget the a in Estella me amore.¡±


    ¡°Where are they now?¡± Estella watched her grandmother as she looked over the book. She looked¡­tender and sad as her veined hands lightly caressed and fingered the worn pages.


    ¡°My family? Oh they¡¯re gone, Estella, gone for a long time now.¡±


    Being so small, Estella did not yet grasp the meaning of gone. To her, that simply means her great-aunts and great-grandparents were not there but were still somewhere, much like her own parents. They weren¡¯t gone, just not here, never here. Estella had time yet to learn more about the finality of death ¡ª she would have a few more years to learn what gone could mean but for now she would get a start on that particular education.


    ¡°But can¡¯t they come back? Mama and papa are gone but they can come back or call if they want.¡± Poor b¨¦b¨¦, Marguerite was never more angry at her son than when she listened to her granddaughter speak of him.


    ¡°Oh Estella! No no, my maman, my papa, each and every one of my siblings are not gone like your maman and papa.¡± In a moment of revived fear of that fateful event that changed her life forever, Marguerite gathered her granddaughter into her arms and held her fast to her chest. ¡°Ma famille est morte.¡± My family is dead.


    Estella stayed silent, eating the word morte, tasting its form in her mouth, feeling its ugliness slide down into her stomach. She didn¡¯t understand the meaning. Morte? ¡°Qu''est-ce que cela signifie?¡± What does that mean? ¡°What happened?¡±


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    Her grandmother answered her in a deep voice that croaked with sorrow, ¡°When I was a girl, Estella, witches and magic were accepted as a fact of life but we were not always welcomed. And some men, some strangers, from outside our village decided we were no longer welcomed.¡±


    ¡°What did they do?¡±


    ¡°They came in the bright of day, with arms and beasts, and killed my family. When they arrived my maman and my sisters hid me ¡ª hid me so well that I didn¡¯t know how to go home again ¡ª so that I was the only one who survived. All I had was the clothing on my back and the family recipe book: this book¡­¡± Marguerite jostled the book in the space before her, her weathered hands holding tightly to the binding, the softness of her arms swinging slightly, ¡°to remember them by.¡±


    Estella didn¡¯t know what to say to her grandmother. She thought over what her grandmother told her and she said what she felt as the grief of her beloved m¨¦m¨¦ bled into her small heart. She wiggled around in her grandmama¡¯s lap and folded her little hands in front of her like her nonno does when he tells her something important, ¡°but m¨¦m¨¦ they¡¯re still with you. Are they not in the air? When you and nonno are gone I can still feel you around, like a piece of you stays with me always. Is that not how you feel about your maman?¡±


    Marguerite stared at her granddaughter for a moment in shock before breaking out into a low chuckle, ¡°you have a bit of knowing about you huh b¨¦b¨¦?¡ªfor one so young¡­but I suppose children are closer to the seams of life than we know. Donc let me show you something Estella.¡± Her accent became thicker the longer Marguerite spoke about seams and knowing so by the end of her sentence Estella came out more like I-stel. ¡°Let me show you something, mon amie.¡± And she proceeded to search through the family book until landing on a page with her mother¡¯s name written in the margin and what looked to Estella like a large inkblot. Pointing at it, the grandmother held it closely to Estella¡¯s face for her to inspect. ¡°See this? This splotch?¡±


    ¡°Oui, Estelle spilled her ink.¡±


    ¡°Yes, probably¡ªor papa was bothering her and caused her to spill it. They were always teasing each other like teenagers.¡±


    ¡°Like you and nonno!¡±


    ¡°Ha! Oui, like me and nonno. I like to think my papa and maman would like my husband¡­ Donc¡ªlook closer, Estella. What do you see in the inkblot?¡± She inspected it closely, not wanting to take as long as she did to find the bowl in the kitchen but still wanting to be right. ¡°Start with what you see, plainly.¡±


    In a quiet voice, Estella began ¡°well I see¡­a spot. It kind of looks like a spill, like what my paint looks like when I knock it over. I can¡¯t see it good, m¨¦m¨¦ ¡ª I need more light.¡± After shuffling around so the sunlight filtering in through the window shone on the page Estella resumed her inspection. ¡°The paper is weird and there¡¯s a pattern in it.¡±


    ¡°Ah! A pattern. Suivez-moi.¡± Follow me. Her grandmother led Estella to her ink stamp collection that she liked to use on her letters and pulled out a stamp tray and some paper. ¡°Donne-moi ta main.¡± Give me your hand. Estella provided the commanded appendage and complied as her grandmother took her forefinger and proceeded to fingerprint her. ¡°Look at the patterns of your fingerprint and the inkblot. What do you see?¡±


    Examining closely the two documents Estella saw what she thought was a similarity, ¡°Hey! The inkblot looks like my fingerprint! Is it a fingerprint, m¨¦m¨¦?¡±


    ¡°Oui! It¡¯s a fingerprint of either my maman or my papa ¡ª look at the past living with us now!¡± And then Marguerite turned somber when she looked at her granddaughter with a deep and unabiding seriousness. ¡°Estella what you said earlier, I had let go of that, had let it slip from me ¡ª you must never forget Estella that I will be with you always. And your nonno, he will always be with you, in the way you talk and hold yourself, in the way you have relationships with others, in the very way you love others and books and music, we will be there in the foundations of your life, holding you up when you do not know how to hold yourself.¡±


    This speech was very pretty and very heartfelt but Estella, being so young, did not grasp it yet but she did feel the magnitude of the love pouring out of her grandmother and so she threw herself around her waist.


    ¡°I will write that down for you so you won''t forget and put in our family recipe book that is yours as much as mine, no? We will call it a ¡®recipe for a strong foundation,¡¯ yes?¡±


    The kitchen table is where Timoteo found them, pouring over the names and searching for pieces of the lives of their loved ones when he came in from the garden.


    ¡°Grandpapa! Grandmama is sharing her maman and papa with me! Look at their names in the book!¡± With the pride and delight that only a child could display, she held up the pages to Timoteo, her tiny hands grasping the outside cover to hold the paper out to him. Those pages were very familiar and well worn to the old man who had held his wife as she obsessed over those names decades ago¡­longing for a life that was impossible for her to go back to. He smiled down as his grandchild and drank in the happiness of his wife. No, they were not making a mistake this time.


    He was pulled from his thoughts by a little hand grabbing his sleeves, ¡°Nonno! What about your family? M¨¦m¨¦ said that her family were all witches. What about yours? Do you have brothers and sisters too, nonno?¡±


    His old, gravely voice came down to her. ¡°Si, I did. I had two brothers and a cousin, Sophia, who I was very close to. Magic was there but it was unimportant to my family. Not at all like your grandmama whose family bled it from their depths, eh Marguerite?¡± One eyebrow quirked at his wife.


    ¡°Do they live in Italy now? Can we go see them?¡±


    Her grandfather laughed, delighted by his little grandchild¡¯s eagerness and then sighed. ¡°No, no. Estella, I¡¯m afraid that isn¡¯t possible.¡±


    ¡°But why?¡± As you can imagine, Estella asked ¡®why¡¯ for many things. From the trivial to the difficult. And then more quietly as she thought about her grandmother, ¡°Is it because they¡¯re gone like m¨¦m¨¦¡¯s family?¡±


    Her grandfather paused, grasping for how to explain the early twentieth-century Italian political landscape that destroyed his family to his young grandchild. ¡°You see Estella¡­My family and I¡­ we didn¡¯t get along very well.¡±


    ¡°But why?¡±


    ¡°Hmm. You know how your papa and mama¡­they call.¡±


    ¡°Yeah but they don¡¯t come to see me.¡± And the truth was, they barely called.


    ¡°Exactly. They love you but they don¡¯t¡­¡± He paused. Unsure of how to say what was on his tongue. ¡°They love you but they don¡¯t love you good. You know? Our friends Esther and Eleanor, they call weekly and ask after you. Or our friend Jacques, who we have spoken so much about.¡± Esther and Eleanor were old friends of her grandparents. Estella wasn¡¯t sure how long their friendship had existed but to her it felt older than the earth itself. She didn¡¯t speak to them much herself, but they brought her candies when the couple visited. What her grandfather was saying started to make sense to Estella in a sad, intangible sort of way. It was a feeling that you felt in the center of yourself. She knew Jacques better than either of her parents combined despite never speaking to him. Some of the books on their shelves bore his name or were annotated with his marks. Her grandparents spoke about him as family more than as a friend. ¡°When it came time for your grandmama and I to make a choice about who we wanted to be, we fled the country with Jacques''s help during the war and they stayed behind. My family never tried to reach out when it was over. And we wrote once. They wrote back. We did not like what they had to say and that was that. Sometimes people take different paths Estella and you have to let them or they might drag you along with them. If that¡¯s the case¡­then it¡¯s better to let go, bambina.¡±


    But Estella knew her grandparents didn¡¯t let go completely, not of their son or her mother. Many nights Estella left her bed to find her grandparents crying in the kitchen, whispering about her parents, wondering what they did wrong.


    She began to wonder if she should be the one to let her parents go instead.

 III:

    A few more years passed in this manner. Estella asked questions about magic and her family¡¯s messy and tragic past. Less and less she thought of her parents, who would stop calling completely by the time she was nine. The more she learned about the supernatural world around her the more foreign her human parents became. With each new lesson her grandparents taught her, Estella¡¯s mama and papa felt further and further away. Across an impossible chasm that she never wanted to cross. They were there and she was here and that was that to her.


    Her life was happy but it was small. Her grandparents never attempted to enroll her into school after Timoteo¡¯s frustrations. Instead they took her entire education upon themselves using homeschool teaching aids where they saw fit that they paired with bits of magical education that the two could share. But Estella never felt as if she was alone or lonely, after the reveal of their family history, their home opened up to a few visitors. Other witches who had escaped the wars, many gave up their magic upon their immigration to the states¨Cseeking a safe human life, giving up their magic as something they could control in the turmoil.


    After learning about her family¡¯s past, Estella began to feel haunted as time passed. She dreamt of huntsmen hunting the horizon, at dusk she could almost see their ethereal forms riding by. Her grandmother began calling her in at night and closing the windows. She left fresh food and wine out each evening. When asked why by her granddaughter, Marguerite told her simply, ¡°I am paying my debt.¡±


    Her grandmother, usually so open to answering her granddaughter¡¯s questions, would not welcome any from her on this topic. It was normal in their home to leave a meal out for the dead on Hallow¡¯s Eve but the shift towards every evening alarmed Estella.


    Her grandfather was only slightly more forthcoming about her grandmother¡¯s new habit. In the garden, in broad daylight he replied to Estella¡¯s inquiries similarly to Marguerite. ¡°She¡¯s paying her debts to the dead Estella.¡±


    ¡°But what debts could she owe them? They¡¯re dead.¡±


    He tsked at her. ¡°The dead are never far from us Estella. We carry them with us always and your grandmother feels as if they are closer now than usual. So, she takes care of them.¡±


    ¡°But grandmama seems like she¡¯s¡­¡± A deep rooted, innate fear tried to stop her from voicing her thoughts. ¡°...afraid of them.¡±


    Timoteo appeared as if he wanted to agree with his granddaughter¡¯s observation¨C knowing of course that she was correct but not wanting to scare her. Afterall, why scare the young who should have so much life before them? Still, they have grown accustomed to truth-telling between the three of them. Lying wasn¡¯t an easy act.


    He settled for a statement that was as close to the truth as he was willing to get, ¡°She is not afraid of them, Estella. Now dig up those carrots.¡±


    She did as she was told, letting the cathartic smell of garden soil fill her nostrils and the dirt gave way under her fingers.


    One by one they dug up the root vegetables together but once finished, instead of leading her to the garden hose to clean up their hands, her grandfather took her to the bench beneath their wisteria.


    ¡°Sit bambina, sit. There are things you must know. About your grandmama.¡±


    She sat in the crook of her grandfather¡¯s shoulder, his arm draping over the back of the bench.


    ¡°What is it nonno?¡±


    He breathed a heavy sigh, ¡°You shouldn¡¯t talk to your grandmama about this¡ªnot unless she brings it up. Okay? You understand?¡± At her accenting nod he continued, ¡°Marguerite, your grandmama, owes her life to her maman and older sisters.¡±


    ¡°They hid her.¡±


    ¡°Did she ever tell you where they hid her?¡±


    ¡°Non.¡±


    He leaned in close to her ear, she could smell his aftershave of citrus and aloe. ¡°They hid her in time.¡±


    Estella¡¯s eyes widened, breathing quickened. ¡°Time?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It is why she could not go home again. The people to go home to were long gone, the bones of her home itself lost to time.¡±


    ¡°But why?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°We do not know. Her mama comes from a very old and respected family. My nonna used to say that families like Marguerite¡¯s were called ¡®il sangue degli dei.¡¯¡± The blood of the gods.


    ¡°What does that mean?¡±


    Her nonno shrugged again. ¡°We don¡¯t know. Whatever answers existed were lost when your grandmama¡¯s family died. Many keepers of knowledge vanished during the time of the Hunts and Persecutions.¡± Timoteo then chuckled to himself, ¡°And of course, adults also know less than they think they do too.¡±


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    Estella didn¡¯t say anything to this new information. She thought of her grandmother, of her soft arms and warm hugs that engulfed her in the smells of fresh baked bread and thyme that made her feel so safe.


    She couldn¡¯t imagine how afraid she must have been.


    _____


    ¡°She knows something is wrong, Marguerite.¡±


    Twilight was casting its shadows across the yard, reaching for the husband and wife where they sat on their back porch. A fresh plate of bread, cheese, and wine sat out between them but Timoteo knew it was not for the living that the spread was for when he sat down beside his wife.


    ¡°Je connais.¡± I know. ¡°But I don¡¯t want to worry her. She¡¯s barely ten years old, Timoteo. We have time to sort it out. Time to pay my debt.¡±


    ¡°We both know it isn¡¯t only your debt, Marguerite. Your family¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, Timoteo. No. My family died. They have no debt. This is mine.¡±


    Timoteo reached his aged hand out to his wife, settling its weight onto her shoulder. She leaned her head against it, her cheek giving way to his shape, her graying hair falling across the arm of the chair. ¡°It is our¡¯s.¡±


    She let out a long sigh. ¡°I don¡¯t want her to have to pay for it, Timoteo. She can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°We will do what we have always done, Marguerite. We will do our best.¡±


    ¡°But how? How can we do our best when for so long we denied our history, denied ourselves learning about the wraiths? About magic? We denied our son his inheritance and perhaps that has saved him ¡ª but now we¡¯ve given it to Estella and the demons are circling. What do we do?¡±


    Her husband, usually the more nervous of the pair, knew that he had to balance out his increasingly desperate wife. Even-headedness is what has saved them both. Even-headedness is what will save their granddaughter.


    ¡°We will start with what we know.¡±


    ____


    Unfortunately for the little family the stake began to smolder, the smoke subtly closing in on their lungs without their awareness.


    Estella¡¯s father died when she was eleven years old. A terrible accident, truly. So tragic for the parents and daughter, never able now to bridge the chasm that had divided them. Marguerite and Timoteo bore the loss as well as any parent could but Estella who had never really known her father beyond the phone calls felt that the absence that always marked their relationship solidified into a tombstone upon their connection. She barely knew him in life, now she will barely know him in death.


    And her mother¡­well her mother didn¡¯t even come to the funeral and quickly after that sorrowful event she gave up any legal pretenses to guardianship of Estella that she had.


    Estella, though, did not feel these losses too deeply. Her father had always existed on the periphery of her life and her mother was wholly absent. She felt instead for her grandparents, who despite the distance between them and their child suffered the blow of his loss deeply.


    At the funeral, Estella watched the strangers as they came up and gave their condolences to Marguerite and Timoteo. Many smiled awkwardly at Estella, unsure what to say to the quiet child who lost her absent father. Some didn¡¯t even know there had been a child at all. Estella simply stared back.


    In this sea of strange faces dressed in various shades of mourning Estella saw something ¡ª or someone, rather, who looked out of place. The burial was in a small graveyard that was tucked into the edge of the forest. The feeling started with a cold prick at the back of her neck, like the cool breath of the freezer hitting her in a single spot. At first Estella thought the ghosts of the dead were out and about in the middle of the afternoon. They were at their eternal home them after all. What does one say to the ghost of their father they barely knew? Hello, thank you for the Christmas cards? Do you like beef burgundy too? And in English the conversation would be. Jack de Luca would not speak either of his mother tongues.


    Estella tugged on her grandmother¡¯s sleeve, ¡°Grandmama, are you cold?¡±


    Marguerite, bless her, couldn¡¯t fathom the question at a time like this.


    Estella tried to ask her grandfather, tugging on his jacket, ¡°Nonno, don¡¯t you feel cold?¡±


    Timoteo, bless him, gave his granddaughter his suit jacket in silence.


    The chilling sensation was constant throughout the reception. Estella felt like she was being watched, as if the cold was an alarm sent by the dead she stood above. Get away little girl. Run, run now. Instead she tried to locate the object of her alarm, twisting this way and that, peering through elbows and around torsos, peaking over the ones who weren¡¯t that much taller than her twelve year old frame. If she could understand what was causing her unease maybe she could overcome it.


    Eventually she saw them. Or she thought she did anyway, Estella wouldn¡¯t be certain until later. During one of her jerky efforts to see through the crowd she saw, at the edge of the forest, a blur move through the trees. It looked like a person, tall (everyone was tall to her still), dressed in a dark colored t-shirt and pants. It was the shirt that gave them away to Estella, the color stood out to the pale coloring of their skin. Caught by the little girl, the person stared back at her. His dark eyes recessed into a gaunt face exaggerated by the shadows he hid in.


    The chill feeling on her neck turned into a prickling sensation across her shoulders and chest. Her father had died in an accident, but what kind? How? Fear began to make its way up her throat, suffocating her words.


    She didn¡¯t look back at the forest until they drove away and there at its edge Estella saw him again, watching them. The man looked a little taller than Timoteo, with chin length dirty hair, dressed in a dingy t-shirt and jeans that were colored brown from the dirt on them. When asked later how she felt in this moment Estella would say she couldn¡¯t describe her feelings. All she could recall was a sense of foreboding. It was as if a door had shut upon her life, a pathway she didn¡¯t even know she could have taken had been closed and all she could think as her and her grandparents drove away was strange, he doesn¡¯t have any shoes.

 IV:

    The shoeless stranger haunted Estella in the following days. For some reason she felt as if there was a person pushing at the boundaries of her existence, looking for the seams of her life so that they could rip the stitches out. Her grandparents in all their grief (and perhaps arrogance) were unaware of the danger searching for the very edges of their lives.


    The tearing up of her life officially intruded upon her person a full six months following her fathers funeral.


    If someone had asked her how she felt after the death of her father¡ªa man so absent she didn¡¯t truly feel the label as it applied to him¡ªshe would have said that it was life changing. But if you pressed her, she couldn¡¯t have explained how the death of such an absent person would radically alter the course of her life. It wasn¡¯t him exactly but what came after. What came before.


    Estella rubbed her hands over her arms while her and her grandmother were walking through the woods. She was cold. And anxious. Marguerite was beginning Estella¡¯s practical instruction in the magical properties of the natural world and she was barely paying attention to any of it.


    ¡°Estella, tell me, what is this?¡± Pointing to an early spring flower Estella knew that she''d seen but could not remember.


    Estella responded in mumbled English, not wanting to stay silent but not wanting her grandmother to know that she did not know the answer.


    ¡°What? What are you saying Estella? Be clear, my old ears cannot hear your words.¡±


    Estella again mumbled but only slightly louder than a moment before.


    Marguerite¡¯s eyes narrowed and then her hand flashed out, gripping Estella¡¯s chin to make her granddaughter look her in the eyes. She pointed angrily at the inoffensive flower. ¡°Do you know? Do you know what the flower is?¡± Estella thought her grandmother had always been intense but she¡¯s gotten more so these last few months.


    Against the pressure of her grandmother¡¯s firm hand on her chin Estella shook her head ¡®no.¡¯


    Marguerite let go then. ¡°You do not pretend to know more than you know Estella. Magic is dangerous and must be done with the comprehensive knowledge of what you are using and what you are doing. One day it could be the difference between life and death. If you keep your ignorance quiet then you do not give yourself the opportunity to learn. Or to develop the abilities to help. Instead you harm yourself and those who might seek your aid. So. With words, Estella, do you know what this flower is?¡±


    ¡°No, I do not know.¡±


    ¡°Good, it is good to be honest, no? And so helpful.¡± Marguerite crouched next to the flower and Estella joined her, expecting her grandmother to begin instructing her on the particularities of its properties to help her identify it in the future. ¡°Pull out your book and begin searching. As a witch, books will be your best friend.¡± At the white face of her granddaughter Marguerite sighed, ¡°you should carry your magic aids with you Estella. You never know when you might need one.¡±


    ¡°Do you have yours on you?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Marguerite replied, grinning like a cat spoiling her granddaughter¡¯s attempt at catching her off guard. ¡°And you can¡¯t have it. Walk back to the house and get your copy. A witch must always have her materials about her.¡±


    Estella huffed but made her way back to the house. Upon her return to the woods, Estella felt a change in the air. She had walked in these woods her entire life, had just come through them even, so why now did the air feel so electrified, like static rippling across her skin? The deeper she went the more closed in the woods felt around her, as if the trees were telling her no, go back. No further.


    It happened very quickly.


    One moment Estella was marching back to her grandmother, early spring ferns grasping at her jeans trying to slow her down. The next she was in a vice grip, staring up into the face of the shoeless stranger from her father¡¯s funeral. He smelled like damp dirt and moldy clothing in his stained red t-shirt.


    His eyes bored into her, his mouth not moving, but Estella swore the faintest word left his still lips. ¡°Endlich.¡±


    In a flash his head snapped down at her like a snake striking for the kill. Estella reacted instinctively, her free arm moving to block the blow but still catching his teeth.


    God, his teeth. It was like being cut by a blunted knife. An acute yet rusty kind of tearing instead of a clean cut. A ripping of her skin.


    The quick searing pain brought her back to her body. Estella screamed. It was a blind panic kind of noise that belonged to the feralness of the soul. A strong gust blew through the woods then, picking her up and throwing her backwards. She put everything in her into that scream, releasing an unexpected force unto the man who was pushed back by it.


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    Forced back by a child! Dear God he had done it. He had found the line.


    The unknown man posed to strike again, the young girl still crumpled on the ground.


    And then something happened very fast that neither stranger nor girl could easily recall.


    One moment he was poised to jump at the girl. Estella was still breathless, her vision tilted and the ground lopsided. Her lungs burned with a debilitating intensity.


    Another moment and the air smelled acrid. Her grandparents were there. There was a commotion the likes of which Estella, in her state, could not describe. Her grandmama¡¯s and nonno¡¯s voices boomed through the woods but what they were saying she could not hear, what language they were in she could not say. They felt powerful, those words. Like they could tear the world apart.


    And in a moment the stranger was gone. Estella couldn¡¯t see exactly what had happened but she noticed when the air cleared, when the oppressive atmosphere in the woods lifted, and of course she knew the moment her grandparents kneeled on the ground in front of her, their presence ever the comfort.


    ¡°Are you hurt? Show us where it hurts.¡±


    Her entire back hurt but God her arm. Her arm is what made her whimper as she clutched it to present to her grandparents.


    She only moved it half an inch.


    ¡°Your arm, b¨¦b¨¦? Let us look at it¡­ Mon Dieu! Il l¡¯a mordue!¡± My God! He bit her!


    ¡°Mio Dio¡­ Rapidamente! Dentro!¡± My God¡­ Quickly! Inside!


    Of the two grandparents, Marguerite was the better versed in magic and the wider supernatural world but Timoteo had heard the stories. Stories about little children taken in the night. Stories about children turned into immortal soldiers to serve in vampire armies. Stories about¡­ Rapidamente! Quickly! Quickly! They weren¡¯t moving fast enough, Estella¡¯s life was in that bite.


    If you asked Estella to describe what followed next she would not be able to give you a clear answer. To her, the following moments were what she could only characterize as loud. Her heart hammered in her ears, her grandparents labored breathing filled the air around her as they carried her, the words flowing from their mouths sounded like an echo chamber but their meaning didn¡¯t land on Estella.


    It was, simply put, overbearing. The pain. The noise. The pain.


    Until it wasn¡¯t. And then it was nothing.


    ____


    Marguerite collapsed into the chair beside Estella¡¯s bed, exhausted from the effort to save her granddaughter from her fate.


    She was only partially successful.


    ¡°Marguerite, my love, what do you need?¡± Timoteo was at her side, sweat beating on his brow.


    Her chest hurt, like her rib cage was wrapped in constricting bandages. ¡°I need¡­I need to go back in time and save her. That is what I need to do.¡± She had to go back. She had to save Estella from what will be.


    ¡°You know you cannot change what has been, Marguerite. We¡¯ve tried that. The gods, they will not allow it.¡±


    Her hand violently smacked off the rocking chair, ¡°I know that dammit! I know¡­ I don¡¯t know what to do, Timoteo. We¡­we have worked so hard to protect her. To keep her from paying my price. I have left offering after offering to stave off those vicious wraiths. But¡­this? This I don¡¯t know. Vampire.¡± She spat the last word like a curse. ¡°Where did he come from? What corner of Hell did this taker of children crawl out of?¡±


    Timoteo saw that his wife was losing the plot in her anger. ¡°Perhaps, Marguerite, it is time then.¡±


    Marguerite closed her ancient eyes and let out a painful breath. ¡°Timoteo¡­I cannot.¡±


    ¡°Not even for our little bambina?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°We have time. We have time to look for answers before the magic reacts to her magic.¡±


    Timoteo could have shaken his wife¡¯s shoulders then. ¡°Time? We have time? Do we? Do we have time Marguerite? We are old. Our bones are becoming more brittle by the day. Saving Estella tonight has driven you into exhaustion and how will you feel tomorrow? Our bodies are not what they were. Your condition will take your life in time and soon, my love. And I gave up my magic to follow you.¡±


    ¡°Timoteo..¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Marguerite drew back at her husband¡¯s sharp tone. Rarely did he challenge her. ¡°We do not have time, Marguerite. We will be lucky to see her begin to bloom into adulthood.¡± He paused in his speech because the truth had settled within him, right into the marrow of his bones. ¡°We will not live that long, Marguerite. We will not.¡±


    ¡°Timoteo¡­mmmm merde.¡± She knew what he wanted. Who he wanted to solve their problems. ¡°We will try. We will try to find him.¡± She shut her eyes, leaning back further into her chair. Her voice came quietly now, less fierce, more vulnerable. ¡°But where to start? We cannot leave her and I will not take her to France. I cannot go back to that haunting place and you¡­you tremble at the thought of returning to Italy.¡±


    ¡°We can start with Jacques. Maybe we should ask him to visit first? Finally tell him the whole of it.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Jacques is a good place to start. There have never been many such as Estella will become. My mama told me a story once about how others have made their lives very difficult. Tried to turn them towards their own gains, not realizing how life-threatening the transformations of witches and vampires are when combined. And then later¡­if they survive¡­¡± A shakey, terrified breath escaped Marguerite¡¯s chest. ¡°Perhaps we should test the waters with Jacques.¡±


    ¡°He is an old friend, he will not hurt her.¡±


    ¡°No, no hurt her. But he could choose not to help her.¡±

 V:

    Estella recovered slowly. For days she lingered in her bed. Occasionally she would wake to moan in pain or request water. Her grandmother was her constant companion, seeing to the compress on her head, holding her hand, and easing her aches when Estella woke up. Her grandfather constantly went in and out of the door, up and down the stairs carrying the things for Estella¡¯s and Marguerite¡¯s needs: cloths, medicinal rubs, bandages, water, food, blankets. Whatever either needed, he received.


    What went through the girl''s unconscious mind? To her grandparents the groans resulted from her injuries but to Estella they were screams. Wraiths haunted her unconscious, the thundering of their horses¡¯ hooves clapped and echoed across her mental landscape.


    She was the debt. You are the payment. She was the debt. You are the payment.


    Estella couldn¡¯t escape the demons on her heels. Once, in her mind, she thought she had escaped them under thick foliage, hooves roaring past her. She turned to run in the opposite direction only to find herself in the grips of the stranger, his foul breath hot on her face. He grabbed her arm, it was still bleeding from his bite.


    This is the secret. This is the blood of the gods.


    Estella woke up in a cold sweat. Hyper alert but still caught in the fear of her visions she pulled her hand away, wrenching it out of her grandmother¡¯s who held it. To the girl who just woke up, it felt like the stranger¡¯s.


    ¡°Este! Este! Este!¡±


    ¡°Bambina! Shhh shhh it¡¯s okay. It is M¨¦m¨¦ and nonno. It¡¯s alright. You¡¯re alright, bambina.¡± Her grandfather cooed.


    Coming back down to earth, back down to her bedroom under her quilt and her grandparents where she was loved and protected, Estella launched herself into them and began to weep.


    ¡ª


    Her grandparents did not ask Jacques to visit immediately. They waited for Estella to recover fully, for the physical wounds to heal and the mental wounds to scar over.


    Estella did not tell her grandparents about her dream. Like many afraid children before her, she stayed silent on that matter but she did ask them about the stranger.


    ¡°Who were they?¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know who they were, Estella, or we may have protected you better.¡±


    She gripped her bed sheets tightly. ¡°Why did they attack me?¡±


    To this Marguerite believed she had an answer. She just wasn¡¯t sure she wanted to share it with her young, traumatized grandchild.


    Timoteo filled the gap where his wife hesitated, ¡°You see the cut on your arm? It is a bite. The stranger was a vampiro.¡± Vampire.


    Estella mouthed the word vampiro, let it roll around on her tongue before the meaning dawned upon her face. She had seen movies. Her grandparents told her about their friend Jacques, about his immortal family. ¡°I¡¯m going to be a vampire?¡± Does this mean she had to live with Jacques now? She grabbed the nearest reflective surface to examine herself for any changes in her appearance. She was horrified¡ªEstella had always wanted to be a witch like her grandmother. Vampirism was not among her youthful hopes.


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    ¡°No no, bambina! You are not turning into a vampiro.¡± Left unspoken in that statement? Yet. ¡°They wanted your blood.¡±


    ¡°My blood?¡± This is the secret. This is the blood of the gods. ¡°He followed us for my blood?¡± Her voice had gotten noticeably high.


    ¡°He followed¡­ Estella, have you seen this man before?¡± Asked her grandmother, her dark eyebrows stretching towards her graying hair.


    ¡°Do you recognize that man bambina?¡± Timoteo was tense, what had they missed? What had they chosen not to see?


    ¡°He was at papa¡¯s funeral. At the edge of the woods. He watched us drive away.¡± Estella said it like it was the most obvious statement in the world. He was right there. Didn¡¯t you see?


    Marguerite was baffled and mildly violated. How dare someone intrude on their most vulnerable moment? ¡°Why didn¡¯t you¡­¡± She took a breath to steady herself. ¡°This man, did he scare you?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know what I should have been afraid of¡­¡±


    ¡°But you were afraid?¡± Timoteo followed up.


    ¡°I was¡­I don¡¯t know. I thought they were strange. He didn¡¯t have shoes on. It was cold outside and he didn¡¯t have shoes.¡± She kept repeating this fact, as if solving it would solve her problems.


    ¡°If¡­Estella, if someone raises the hair on your arms you tell someone. You tell us. Why didn¡¯t you feel you should tell us?¡± Her grandmother sat next to her now, arm around her shoulder.


    ¡°I tried but you were both so upset about¡­¡± She didn¡¯t want to say it. Didn¡¯t want to remind them of the loss they suffered everyday.


    Her grandfather felt the same way. ¡°Well then. What is done is done. Time for a refreshment, no?¡± Off he went to retrieve two glasses of wine and one of apple juice.


    ¡ª--


    Timoteo and Marguerite took their time calling Jacques. They took their time telling Estella what her future likely holds. They wanted her to have time to heal, to feel comfortable coming out of the house, before properly introducing her to the vampire part of her world ¡ª even if he was an old friend.


    In the meantime of taking their time, Marguerite worked on securing their boundaries and making unwelcomed guests unable to find their house. She created wards and omens from natural resources, used strings of her hair to create a boundary that she embedded as much of her life into that she could give. She hoped the magic would send strangers three states over instead.


    The grandparents convinced themselves that they had time. To be fair, they did ¡ª at first. The problem with taking time is that eventually you will have none left.


    Later, in her grandparents¡¯ final moments they would consider that fact. Timoteo would think of Estella, his bambina, and Marguerite, his beloved, miracle of a wife who carved a life for herself in the inhospitableness that is a foreign time. His last sensation would be the light pressure of his wife¡¯s hand on his cheek. He wondered where Estella was.


    Marguerite would have more regrets. She would think of Estella, of the things she taught her and the things she could not; she thought of the things she should have told her. She thought of Jacques and how she never did get around to introducing him to Estella. She wondered if he would recognize Estella as her own. She thought of her papa and how going home was the only fear she could never conquer. She hoped he would forgive her. She wondered if he would leave an offering out for her on All Hallows Eve. She hoped her godmother would adore Estella as much as she had adored her when Marguerite was young. Her last sensation was the warmth of her husband¡¯s cheek upon her breast. That was always his favorite spot. She wondered where Estella was.

 VI:

    She felt¡­timeless. Weightless. Disconnected.


    Estella was somewhere else again. Somewhere vibrant. Bright light filtered through sky high trees while she trekked through a sea of ferns dampening her clothes.


    Like before when she lay unconscious after her attack and creatures hunted her in her dreams. But this time there were no hooves thundering in her ears making the earth beneath her feet vibrate softly; no decaying flesh of a man breathing down her neck. Instead, Estella felt¡­not easy exactly but an emotion like it ¡ª just off from comforting.


    In the vibrant forest around her birds were chirping, there was a creek babbling, and¡­singing? All coming from the same direction.


    Estella¡¯s feet walked her towards the sounds ¡ª as if drawn by some sort of magnet. It was like this place itself was untethered and tilted the very earth she stood upon so that gravity led her towards the source, the waves of ferns drawing her deeper in.


    After a time, she found herself approaching the edge of a small clearing, bright light shining like a beacon through the brown trunks of trees and ferns. Through the trees she could see the top of a stone building, the beginning of symbols or characters peeking out at her from the top from a decorative frieze. It reminded her of the ancient structures her grandfather showed her in their history studies.


    The chanting was getting louder ¡ª for it was chanting that she heard, not singing. Estella could just begin to make out the cadence of the words, like a prayer or an incantation. To witches there wasn¡¯t always a difference.


    The birds were drowning out all other sounds of the forest, the brook was like a river in her ears, surrounding her, suffocating her.


    Estella stepped through the clearing.


    Deafening silence pressed in on her now from the woods, save for the lone person kneeling before an altar. Their head was covered with a deep green veil, a gold chain anchoring it to their head, a similar colored fabric was tied across their waist tying the robe together. Tassels and bells hung as their waste. Bracelets glistened off their wrists, clinking softly together.


    The person¡¯s chanting was so quiet that Estella instinctively drew closer into the small clearing to catch their words. Near and nearer she crept, trance-like to be part of the ceremony but not to disrupt. It needed to end. She needed to see how it would end.


    She couldn¡¯t identify the language, it wasn¡¯t anything her grandfather introduced her to. Not her native French, Italian, or English. Not the Spanish, Latin, or Greek nonno insisted she should learn. It was mellifluous, silvery and drew Estella ever closer. She tried to mimic the sounds, forming and feeling the words in her mouth.


    She must have made a noise, the next moment the person had Estella in a death grip. The young girl didn¡¯t even see them move. They were before the altar and then simply weren¡¯t. Their eyeless sockets bored down on her, their skin stretched over bone, their jaw tendons and ligament exposed. Words hissed through their bloated purple tongue, ¡°This is not your time, child of the gods! This is not your time!¡±


    Estella doesn¡¯t know if she wrenched her body backwards, if the priestess hurled her away, or if it was a combination of the two but regardless, the world came screaming back as violently fell backwards.


    The birds. The creek. The chanting. All roared in her ears.


    Then she fell.


    Then she fell.


    Then she fell for a very long time.


    ____


    Estella woke up in a hospital, sitting up on a bed with a nurse checking her chart. She did not know how she got here. She did not know where she was.


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    ¡°Is there someone we can call, sweetie?¡± The English the nurse spoke grated on her ears after the melodious hymns she had just heard.


    ¡°?Pardone?¡± Someone to call? Why was a nurse talking to her? Why was there a nurse at all? Someone to call? She felt sick. She would be sick. She was sick.


    All of the contents of her stomach were now on the floor. What did she even have in her to throw up, she wondered. When was the last time she ate? What day is it?


    ¡°Oh dear. No worries, no worries. We¡¯ll get that all cleaned up. You just lean back now.¡± The nurse repeated her question carefully, slowly. ¡°Is there someone to call?¡± she mimed the action to the girl, wondering if she didn¡¯t speak English very well.


    Estella¡¯s chest tightened. Someone to call? What about ¡ª this is not your time.


    But it was someone¡¯s time. The car accident. She shut her eyes against the onslaught of memories. The rain. The squeal of tires. The stranger. The priestess. Is there someone to call?


    Her grandparents believed that when a person died their soul wandered the earth in a ghostly procession. It was why they put out food and drinking offerings for the dead, so that the spirits may replenish themselves on wine and bread.


    One would not wander the afterlife without the other. Where one soul went, the other would follow so bound together her grandparents were.


    Is there someone to call?


    ____


    It took twenty hours for Jacques to arrive from France. He was younger than Estella thought he was. As her grandparents'' oldest friend she imagined him gray and soft like her nonno. But looking at him now, his youthful appearance felt right. It was the energy, probably, that made his youth acceptable to her. There was a magic about him. His age too was off set by the gravity in his eyes, which were slightly reflective in the harsh lights of the hospital room. Is this how she will be in time?


    ¡°Bonjour Estelle.¡± His voice was smooth and deeper than she expected. His pointed features made her think that he might squeak like a mouse.


    Sharply, too sharply she corrected him, ¡°It¡¯s Estell-a. Italian.¡± Was now the time for correction? What is proper when one is stuck in the throes of grief and its shocking numbness? How is she supposed to act right now? Besides, she heard about this man her whole life. He was her grandparents oldest friend. Surely he knows her name. ¡°Didn¡¯t they tell you my name?¡±


    He looked at her hard for a moment, searching before answering, ¡°No, they did not.¡±


    ¡°Did you know who I am before now?¡±


    ¡°Yes. You¡¯re their oldest friend.¡±


    ¡°At least they told you something.¡± Was that a hint of bitterness she heard in his biting tone?


    She was too exhausted to search for the deeper meaning in his statement but there was something there, simmering under the surface. Her grandparents were dead. There were things to do and Jacques was their executor and her guardian now.


    ¡°What do we do now? Plan a funeral?¡± Her grandparents had few friends but surely those they did have would want to say good-bye.


    She wanted to say good-bye.


    Jacques ignored her question in favor of a different one, ¡°Have you eaten?¡± Not ¡®are you hungry¡¯ but ¡®have you eaten?¡¯


    ¡°No.¡± Truthfully, she didn¡¯t remember. Maybe the nurse fed her.


    ¡°Do you want hospital food? Restaurant? Home?¡± He said ¡®hospital¡¯ and ¡®home¡¯ like her grandmother, without the initial h. ¡®ospital. ¡®ome.


    ¡°Home.¡± Home without m¨¦m¨¦. Home without nonno. Was that really home then? What was home without your loved ones in it?


    Jacques must have read Estella¡¯s thoughts on her face because his hand hovered in front of her, unsure of how to comfort this girl he¡¯s never met. He settled on resting his hand on her forearm.


    It wasn¡¯t enough. The scarcity of touch, the brevity of it too made her loss unimaginably keen.


    As if sensing her pain, Jacques leaned into the edge of her hospital bed, propping his chin on its railing. ¡°How about we get you out of this hospital and get you home with a big bowl of risotto? Your grandparents would never be without the ingredients for risotto. It was Timoteo¡¯s favorite dish.¡± He was right, they could always make risotto on a whim in their kitchen.


    Estella nodded her acquiescence, her throat tight again. He knew they loved risotto. It was better than nothing.

 VII:

    Twenty four hours after losing her grandparents Estella was back in their home, in fresh clothes, watching Jacques rummage around their kitchen. She should help him. Tell him where everything was but she couldn¡¯t find it in herself to speak. She felt numb.


    Neither of them wanted to break the silence. Estella was hardly present enough to be aware of it and Jacques wanted to leave her and him to their thoughts. They were both overwhelmed enough without disturbing her.


    Instead he focused on the methodical making of risotto. First you must cook the rise in butter until the edges of the rice are translucent, then you add a bit of wine. Once that is boiled out you add chicken stock, a little at a time until the rice is nice and al dente. Finally you cut the heat and add shredded cheese like parmesan to cool the dish down. You have to carefully balance the addition of liquid and its boiling off, stirring constantly through five cups of chicken stock. If you were slow and cautious you could stretch out the cooking time to forty minutes.


    Jacques took fifty.


    If he was honest, he wanted to take his time with the risotto. Jacques wasn¡¯t prepared for the scents of the house. It smelled like Marguerite and Timoteo. Their scents embedded into the house¡¯s very structure.


    A vampire always took for granted that they will meet their friends again. He would never meet them again. Most of his friends were not vampires, he should have been prepared for this. He should have held onto their friendship more.


    His friends had been quiet, reserved for a few decades. Not since they welcomed their boy into the world, christened him ¡®Jack¡¯, had he heard from them. After that, Marguerite and Timoteo fell into a quiet family life¡ªor Jacques assumed. God knows, they deserved a quiet life after surviving the wars. They all did.


    Theodora and Matthieu poked at him to reach out to his friends, to invite them and his namesake to France. ¡°Relationships are like gardens, Jacques, they don¡¯t tend to themselves.¡± His family often chided him. Most vampires will go decades at least between seeing or speaking to their friends or acquaintances. His family rarely ascribed to such nonchalance but then again, they could hardly be considered the average vampire coven.


    Jacques¡¯s shoulders loosened at the thought of his friends back home at Saint-Tourre.


    Marguerite and Timoteo didn¡¯t leave Estella to him thinking he¡¯d take care of the girl on his own. They would expect him to take her to Matthieu and Theodora¡ªand indeed, they were quickly making a room up for her at this moment. The documents were clear, Marguerite and Timoteo were the legal guardians of Estella and he, Jacques, was the next in line should they die. Her parents, if there were any, had no grounds for her and none have come forward.


    She was his responsibility. And with him, she will gain Theodora and Matthieu too.


    Feeling slightly better about the path forward, Jacques set a grand bowl of risotto next to Estella¡¯s glass of water.


    ¡ª-


    In an effort to not stare at the grieving girl as she ate, Jacques looked around the kitchen in silence. The cabinets were a sweet baby blue, an attractive color with the pale countertop and light yellow walls. It was a color palette Theodora and Matthieu would like. A hutch stood against the wall besides the stairway holding a small collection of books and tin storage containers.


    His eyes flicked back to his new charge. What is someone supposed to do with a child they did not know but were suddenly responsible for? He didn¡¯t know Estella. He didn¡¯t know she even existed until the state government called him yesterday.


    After Estella finished her risotto she fled upstairs without a word. Jacques did not try to stop her.


    He called Matthieu and Theodora. ¡°She is in shock. She is in pain. Let her feel her pain. Let her process. Right now your job is to be a reliable presence in her life and to see to the burial of your friends.¡±


    ¡°How do I reassure her about my presence? I am a stranger to her and she to me.¡±


    ¡°Did she say that to you?¡±


    Jacques paused, ¡°No¡­she did not say that exactly. In fact she hardly reacted to me at all.¡± He thought about that exchange for a beat, didn¡¯t they tell you my name? ¡°Actually, she might believe that we¡¯ve spoken since she was born. I asked her if she knew who I was and she called me her grandparents¡¯ oldest friend.¡±


    ¡°C¡¯est possible.¡± Matthieu acknowledged.


    Theodora cut in, ¡°Donc what she knows and what she doesn¡¯t is hardly pressing, Jacques. Make sure she¡¯s fed, watered, and bathed. Be present. That is your job. We have a bathroom to update.¡±


    ¡°Okay okay, I see your point tata. Au revoir.¡±


    ¡°Au revoir, mon amie. Oh, and try to find out what colors she is partial too. Salut.¡±


    Reassurance. How do you reassure a child? And one you barely know at that? Jacques thought about his clients and what he does to make them more comfortable at his office. Perhaps a warm drink? Tea, maybe? Where would they keep their tea? He didn¡¯t see any earlier but he didn¡¯t open every container to inspect its contents.


    He began his search of the kitchen anew, ruffling through the cabinets again. Opening every container to inspect and sniff its contents.


    A nice herbal tea, preferably chamomile, would be a nice gesture for Estella.


    Nothing in the cabinets.


    He turned to the hutch. He fingered the books on it, curious about the early modern printed magic books. Regular humans got their hands on the few written magic treatises during the age of persecution and printed them to assist witch and demon hunters. Most modern witches didn¡¯t read so far back and certainly didn¡¯t need herbal references; instead their knowledge was often handed down from parent to child in an oral tradition that has existed since time out of mind.


    But Marguerite and Timoteo didn¡¯t have family to pass knowledge down to them. They had to source the knowledge elsewhere. Jacques¡¯s chest felt heavy, the couple was so young when they came to him.


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    If they wanted to learn, why didn¡¯t they take up his offer to come to Saint-Tourre to study? They had the biggest magic library in Europe¡ªmaybe that was the problem. Perhaps they couldn¡¯t bear the memories of the place. He certainly couldn¡¯t blame them for that. Mass graves, decaying bodies, destroyed buildings, flicked across his mind like a broken film reel.


    No, he certainly couldn¡¯t blame them.


    He went back to sniffing. On the sixth tin he hit luck¡ªchamomile.


    Ten minutes later he stood in front of Estella¡¯s door with a hot cup of tea balanced on a plate with some cream and sugar. In his other hand he held a kitchen chair. He carefully set the chair down off-center to her door and set the plate on top of it. Before knocking, he ran downstairs for some crackers, peanut butter, and a glass of water. Observing his care package, Jacques nodded to himself hoping that he¡¯s supplied enough to get Estella through the night.


    He knocked on the door, waiting just long enough to hear her move towards the door before retreating quickly back down the stairs.


    A soft ¡°thank you¡± floated down the steps, followed by the rattling of his makeshift tea set and snacks, then the shutting of the door.


    ¡ª--


    Eventually the noise from upstairs subsided and Jacques felt confident that he could move about without disturbing Estella. The living room was full of books and not only literature. There were history books, grammar books, religious treatises, math texts on algebra and geometry, instructional astronomy, and herbology and botany books stuffed around plants. The corners of the room were padded with literature: French, Italian, English, Spanish, Latin, Greek, Arabic. The books never seemed to stop. Paperbacks and hardbacks lined the walls, decorated doorways, and filled out the furniture in the room. Were they that avid of readers or was something more going on here? Jacques suspected more based on the folders of notes written in a child¡¯s scrawl. Were Marguerite and Timoteo homeschooling Estella? Did she not go to school with other children? The subjects were similar to what Timoteo would have learned in the Italian schoolroom and he knew they were educating her about magic because of the books in the kitchen.


    Why would they hide her? And hiding her they were. Jacques might not know as much about magic as Theodora and Matthieu but he could identify it and their home was wrapped in it. He fingered the record player in the corner, how far did the obscuring magic go? Did it extend to the boundaries of the property? He stepped out onto the back porch, eyeing the edge where the garden met the forest. If he investigated the property line, would he find magic similar to what protects the bounds of Saint-Tourre? Could someone not invited only find the house with great difficulty or was it completely shut off from unwanted guests like their home in France?


    And then Estella. Why not tell him he was her godfather? Her guardian in case something happened? Surely it would have been better to inform him about that. Marguerite and Timoteo decided to age like humans when they had Jack, who they planned to raise as only human. Why change their minds? And where was their son? Why was he not with his child? And her mother? If something happened, and his elderly friends were left to raise their grandchild, did they truly think their youth would hold off until Estella came of age? He shook his head. Was it witch¡¯s hubris or was something more going on here? He had nothing but questions and the dead often refused to answer to the living.


    Leaving the back door open, he collapsed into a wire porch chair rather than exploring the property. He wouldn¡¯t leave Estella alone.


    His new charge.


    Tomorrow he will have to arrange a funeral to bury his friends. How does one do that in America?


    He rested his face in his hands. He would die for a glass of wine but apparently Marguerite and Timoteo didn¡¯t entertain vampires if their lack of vampire friendly options said anything.


    He groaned, this time tufting his hair in his hands. Did Estella know about vampires? If she did, what did she know? She was learning about magic but how much of the world had they told her about? If she did know, did she recognize him for what he was?


    He leaned back into the chair, letting out a slow sigh. ¡°Mon Dieu, what am I supposed to do?¡± he asked the air.


    As if in answer, a gentle breeze blew across the porch towards the open door.


    Jacques propped his feet on the empty chair across from him, his legs too long for the space and bending at the knee.


    The slide of his heel across the seat was accompanied by the sound of sliding paper. Qu''est-ce que c''est? What is this? A thick cream envelope with his name scratched across the front was pinned beneath his shoe.


    Jacques glared at the trick of magic at his feet. Apparently his friends did think to leave him something beyond their grandchild. What had they been up to?


    He leaned forward and picked up the letter from the chair where he knew it wasn¡¯t there before.


    Inside he found the same messy handwriting. Marguerite. She never did learn to write well.


    ¡°Dear Jacques, mon amie, there are too many regrets I have in this life. I, we, have not been good friends to you. We abandoned you when we had our boy, Jack. Maybe if we had not left all we had behind he would not have turned into a stranger before our eyes. But enough! Enough about our lost boy. We can only help those who are with us and I must ask that you do not hold my sins against my granddaughter, sweet Estella. If you are reading this, we are no longer with you.


    Oh how I wish we were in France at home with papa! The wolf finds a reason to take the child¡­Our Este is caught in the middle of other people''s choices. If only maman lived to see this. Surely she would not have done this.


    I should not reveal more. Ask her to show you what the Stranger gave her.. She will know. Then take her to Saint-Tourre. Take her to Matthieu. Take her to Theodora. Tell them I am sorry. Tell her I am sorry. Tell her I love her. Over and over and over. Tell her I love her. I love you. I love them. I am sorry I could not be stronger. She is yours now.


    O Lord, watch over our paths with guiding love; that among the snares which lie hidden in the path wherein we walk, we may press onwards so that we may come to be where Thou wouldest have us.¡±


    He threw Marguerite¡¯s opaque letter onto the table. He never held it against Marguerite and Timoteo for cutting him out. He let them go too. They chose a different path. It happens often in immortals¡¯ lives: witches or humans come and go as the tides of their lives take them away into different waters. But Marguerite and Timoteo! They made him Estella godfather. That role held no small meaning to him, nor would it to his friends. And they didn¡¯t tell him. The state government had to call him! And she leaves a letter that leaves questions neither can answer.


    Jacques took a deep, calming breath. No sense in arguing with the dead. Instead, he took stock of what he knows.


    First, there was something about the family of Marguerite. If only maman lived to see this. Whatever it was, the problem seems to stem back from her mother.


    Second, whatever it was about Estella, it warranted keeping her hidden, even from friends, potentially family, and people who could help her.


    Third¡­Third, Marguerite specifically requested him to take her to Matthieu and Theodora at Saint-Tourre. Jacques rubbed his forehead. The gift of immortality did not bring with it the curse of perfect recall but he was fairly certain he had never discussed his family members with Marguerite and Timoteo. His elders had enough of a name for themselves without him unnecessarily including them in conversations. His family held a very important position in their world. It is possible that his friends knew of them and were now seeking their help, which would mean that whatever was happening with Estella was severe.


    Jacques reached out and picked up the letter again, rubbing the edges smooth. He wished Marguerite had been more explicit but he understood her recalcitrant attitude. Witches didn¡¯t always trust committing words to paper, suspicious of incidentally invoking magic or worse beyond their control. Strange though, he thought, that concern was more prevalent in older witches. Most witches born after the Age of Reason were less suspicious about committing words to paper and Marguerite and Timoteo were born well into the nineteenth century.


    The final point, and it is not disconnected from the former, is that Marguerite suggested that she knew Matthieu and Theodora: Tell them I am sorry¡­I love them. I am sorry I could not be stronger. After two hundred years, there are very few people his elder family members know that he does not. If the connection, why hide it?


    A tearing sound drew his attention down to the letter in his hands, where a small rip now marred the corner of the paper. Carefully he folded the document back up and slid it into its envelope.


    All questions. No answers.

 VIII:

    It wasn¡¯t until late into the day two days later that Jacques sat Estella down. He spent the previous day organizing a joint funeral and between his own grief and Estella¡¯s he could not bear another potentially heavy discussion with the girl


    But it needed to be done. That letter from Marguerite was the only instructions he had to follow: take her to Matthieu. Take her to Theodora.


    ¡°How long have you known about me, Estella?¡±


    She shrugged her small shoulders. She was small for a twelve year old, her feet barely touched the ground as she sat on the edge of the couch. ¡°I don¡¯t know. M¨¦m¨¦ and nonno talked about you a lot. You helped them leave Europe during the war.¡±


    Jacques rubbed his hands over his thighs and cleared his throat, ¡°Then you know I¡¯ve been your grandparents¡¯ friend for a very long time.¡±


    She nodded, wondering what his point was.


    ¡°Are you surprised that I am not the same age as them?¡±


    Again she shook her head, but in the negative.


    ¡°Why?¡± If Estella already knew then that would make the future at least slightly easier but he needed her to say it. Situations like this could be delicate. While he and his family lived the¡­traditional lifestyle of their world, the Commission did not like it when humans were brought unnecessarily into the fold. And while Estella was certainly a witch¡¯s child, she was still a child nonetheless.


    Estella moved her mouth around, feeling the word in her mouth. In English, in French, in Italian, looking for the right language for her.


    ¡°Vampiro.¡± she said.


    ¡°How did you know? Did your grandparents tell you?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she replied in a quiet voice.


    Jacques leaned back, bracing himself for an impact he didn¡¯t know the source of, ¡°How did you know, Estella?¡±


    She fidgeted.


    She fidgeted.


    His chest tightened, ¡°Please, Estella. This is important.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not supposed to tell anyone.¡± she said, kicking her feet against the sofa.


    ¡°Here, here. Look at this.¡± He pulled the letter from Marguerite out of his pocket and showed it to her. ¡°I sat outside last night and this letter appeared, addressed to me,¡± he explained. Estella acted as if a magically appearing letter was completely within the norm. Definitely raised with magic then.


    If Jacques was a less-experienced man he might have shaken the child¡ªgently but still. The girl is unnaturally calm, she should be raging, wailing, weeping. Anything that normal grieving children do. Aside from that first night home, Estella had been relatively quiet. She mostly followed him around and watched what he did.


    Instead she¡¯s merely¡­unsurprised. Expectant, almost.


    ¡°Is there any for me?¡± she asked.


    He immediately regretted showing her the letter. Of course she would wonder if her grandparents left any final message for her. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, none that I saw.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± But still, she hoped, ¡°Of course not.¡±


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    He cleared his throat again, convinced he was going about this all wrong. That somehow he¡¯s hurting the child more. Unfortunately for both of them though, they weren¡¯t done with the conversation about her arm. It is bad luck to ignore favors of the dead. ¡°Marguerite, your m¨¦m¨¦, told me to ask about your arm. That you should show it to me. Estella, would you please show me your arm?¡±


    Estella took the letter from him, then nervously looked up. ¡°Okay¡­ I don¡¯t want to talk about it though.¡±


    Jacques paused before speaking, weighing the situation. He couldn¡¯t promise that they wouldn¡¯t need to discuss what her arm would reveal. But he also needed the girl to trust him. ¡°If it isn¡¯t necessary to talk about then I won¡¯t ask you to do so. How does that sound to you?¡±


    ¡°Only if it¡¯s necessary you¡¯ll ask?¡±


    ¡°Oui.¡±


    Biting her lower lip, she slowly held out her arm and proceeded to pull up her sleeve, exposing her flesh there.


    A raised scar skidded across her delicate skin as it subtly wrapped around her lower forearm. The tissue was shiny and smooth as it jutted over her skin. Jacques reached out his hand but did not touch Estella, seeking silent permission for a closer look. Gingerly, she laid her arm in his hands. Using his eyes, he followed the pattern of the scar as he carefully twisted the appendage to trace its development. He found beneath her wrist a mark more raised than the rest that seemed to be the source of the original wound. It was like a parentheses written by a poorly bent quill, with one end a blotted circle like a bleeding pen.


    Mon Dieu. Was this what they were hiding? It¡¯s a wonder his friends didn¡¯t take her to France sooner.


    Jacques worked to hide his shock. A vampire bit her and she was not a vampire. He had heard stories from Theodora of such things that vampires used to do during the dark days of superstition and warfare. When vampires thought they could gain the upper hand by claiming witches for their covens and their wars. Vampire bites were ineffective on a fully mature witch but the young were still human and susceptible.


    Jacques fought back a shudder. According to Theodora, the prospect of witch magic embedded into the more durable body of an immortal was too tempting. Some war lords would steal witch children just to bite them. They would return the child to the family but return years later to take the now young adult when it was time for them to become what you could call a dhampir or simply a hybrid. It was incredibly dangerous for the nascent witch with the bite as the different magics in their system fought for balance¡ªor dominance¡ªwhen they aged. Estella will need care in a few years when she comes of age and those magics collide in her system.


    She¡¯ll need Mattieu and Theodora. No two vampires are more educated in the history, training, or rearing of magic as those two.


    He kneeled in front of her, ¡°You don''t have to talk about it but I need you to tell me, is the vampire who bit you still alive?¡±


    She swallowed, taking her arm back and digging her fingers into the couch. ¡°Yes. He¡­um¡­he. I saw him. At the crash. M¨¦m¨¦ told me that if I saw him again I should tell them and if they weren¡¯t around I should tell you. I¡¯m sorry I forgot. They even made me memorize your phone number and address.¡±


    ¡°And he was at the accident?¡±


    ¡°I think so but I¡­ passed out.¡±


    He nodded. Everything was more complicated than he thought.


    They had to leave. Quickly.


    Estella bit her lip as she watched Jacques rub a hand over his face, his expression grim. ¡°What does it mean?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Your bite?¡±


    ¡°Oui. They wouldn¡¯t tell me.¡±


    He thought about putting her off, about telling her not to worry too much about it for now but that¡¯s exactly what her grandparents had done and look at where they are now: lying in a coroner¡¯s office waiting to be put six feet under.


    He took a deep breath, ¡°It means you will likely live with your feet in two worlds: witch and vampire.¡±


    ¡°Both?¡±


    ¡°There are stories of children who get bitten but not changed. They become a sort of hybrid. A half-existence. One half witch. One half vampire.¡±


    Her mouth fell open into a rosy ¡®O¡¯.


    ¡°Mais,¡± But, ¡°we have a few years to prepare for that, I think. The more pressing matter is why someone would do this to you.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I know.¡± She ducked her head, ¡°Or at least I know what grandmama and grandpapa said.¡±


    ¡°And what did they say?¡± He was skeptical about any piece of information the two passed on. It all seemed to be shrouded in half-truths and vagaries.


    ¡°That he was after my blood.¡±


    Jacques sneered, ¡°I¡¯m sure he was.¡±

 IX:

    The funeral was two days later. Of all the information that his friends could have left, Marguerite and Timoteo had clear instructions in their will to be buried together in a plain pine box. There was no contingency if one outlived the other. They always intended to go together. Estella would get everything. He still had not asked after her father who remained conspicuously absent in every discussion, decision, and documentation.


    Jacques arranged for the burial to take place at their home, per their request, and asked Estella to choose the plot. She selected a spot beneath their wisteria vine, ¡°They loved to sit here. Nonno made us take our family photos in front of the oak tree after the wisteria bloomed.¡±


    It¡¯s good that Jacques had to wait a few days for the funeral like he wanted. Neither of them knew how to let people onto the property.


    ¡°At Saint-Tourre we have a register. It¡¯s like a book full of names. It records visitors but also will allow specific individuals to approach the main house. Have you seen anything like that?¡±


    Estella countered his question with her own. ¡°There¡¯s magic protecting the property line?¡±


    The only book that came to her mind was the family magic book, but according to Estella the only names in it were grandmother¡¯s dead family members. Estella did remember seeing her grandfather digging near the gate at the start of the driveway once before her grandmother pulled her away. Together her and Jacques pockmarked the ground around the gate, looking for any foreign object. Eventually, Estella¡¯s garden trowel hit a large rock not easily unearthed. On the slab were names:


    Timoteo de Luca


    Marguerite Theodora de la Fleur de Luca


    Jack Matthew de Luca


    Abigail Karen Summers


    Esther Violet Morrissy


    Eloise Berdie Corbett


    James Anton Davis


    Jacques Francois Allard de Saint-Tourre


    Matthieu Bernard de la Fleur  de Saint-Tourre


    Theodora Constantina de Saint-Tourre


    Estella Theodora de Luca


    Estella pointed at Esther and Eloise, ¡°They¡¯ll come but no one else will. James and Jack died, I don¡¯t know who Matthieu and Theodora are, and Abigail hasn¡¯t been in contact for years.¡±


    The blood drained from Jacques¡¯ already pale face as he struggled to compose himself. The news that Jack died was suspected but Marguerite¡¯s full name was not. It was a coincidence, surely, that she shared Matthieu¡¯s family name. Afterall, how many de la Fleurs existed in France? Matthieu¡¯s family all died in the persecutions of 1584¡ªMatthieu personally identified the bodies. If he had had any hope that a family member survived, Matthieu and Theodora would have torn the world apart looking for them. But the name and the way his friend wrote about his family members left an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.


    Jacques set aside the name. He can talk to Theodora about after he gets Estella safely to France.


    Still, there were other reasons for the slab to give him pause. To do permission magic, even in this rudimentary form, required a set of magical skills that should have been beyond the reach of Marguerite and Timoteo. As far as Jacques knew, Timoteo was human. As part of their plea for him to help them flee Europe during the war they told him that they wanted to begin a new life in America¡ªa life without magic and that Marguerite intended to give her¡¯s up. She should not have been able to build a barrier, not to mention set a trigger for a letter to appear. Some tricks would have been left to her in her human state, but nothing this elevated (despite the lack of finesse of the slab, Jacques had to admit, it got the job done). With every new piece of information Jacques gained, the truth became more obscure.


    Jacques shelved his curiosity and handed the slate to Estella who was craning her neck to get a better look.


    ¡°Is that it?¡± She asked, pursing her lips. ¡°How do we add more names? We need to add Father Michael and the funeral people.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the easy part.¡± He said, handing her the stone. ¡°You simply have to scratch the names into the slab.¡±


    She looked up at him, eyes wide. ¡°I have to do it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, because you are family. Only family or those with express permission can influence permission magic.¡± He explained slowly.


    Estella pouted, ¡°But you¡¯re family too.¡±


    Jacques smiled tightly, unsure about that statement. He tried to remember that he had been a figure in Estella¡¯s life for much longer than he¡¯s known she existed (five days to be exact). ¡°I think you should do it, Estella.¡±


    She observed the cold slate in her hands, ¡°What if I ruin it?¡± Her grandparents made this stone. Damaging it felt like destroying the remaining parts of them. She started to cry, ¡°I don¡¯t¡ªI don¡¯t want to hurt it.¡±


    ¡°Oh mon amie, it¡¯s alright.¡± He told the sniffling girl, ¡°I will help you. It will be okay.¡± Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder until Estella slowly calmed.


    ¡°How do I do it? Do I need a special tool?¡±


    ¡°Non, we¡¯ll find something in the house or among the tools.¡±


    ¡°And then we¡¯ll dig the grave?¡±


    ¡°Oui.¡±


    The slate updated and buried, Jacques and Estella began to work on the grave. Jacques was unsure about Estella assisting him but the manual labor seemed to give her a silent purpose.


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    Estella would not say that she was distracted. She had not been so present since the crash. She was viscerally aware that they were preparing the ground for her grandparents final resting place.


    It was cathartic. Some might find it morbid but for Estella, it brought home the loss that was still so difficult for her to grasp. How could life go on when the people who made up her whole world ceased to exist? It certainly felt like life ought to have been over in the days following but¡­


    Those in her world had expanded just as the people who were her world ceased to be. Estella had heard about Jacques her entire life. He had always, through the realm of stories, existed on her periphery because her grandparents kept him present in her life¡ªand now he was here and telling her about his family members who are now her family members and not to worry too much about formally defining their relationships. What matters is that they are family and that she would not be alone.


    And so Estella had a future she could focus on when the collapsing of her current life became too unbearable.


    Which is how Jacques was three feet deep into the earth and being asked by a child about his age. She also wondered what her role would be in his family but she thought they¡¯d just have to figure that out among themselves.


    ¡°Pardone?¡± His head shot up. He looked a touch absurd dusted with dirt and dressed in a button down with black trousers and oxfords.


    He belonged in Goodfellas with his attire. The only thing missing was an overcoat thrown off to the side.


    Estella repeated her question as she organized the dirt pile Jacques put her in charge of. He dug, she made the mound.


    ¡°Ah.¡± He breathed, punctuating the air with an exaggerated wobble of the shovel in his hand. ¡°Is that the question you mean to ask?¡±


    Now it was her turn, ¡°Pardone?¡±


    He waved his arm, shovel and all as he explained, ¡°Do you really want to know my age or do you want to know how long I have walked the earth? Those are different categories.¡±


    She blinked at him. ¡®They are?¡±


    Quickly he brought his shovel hand back to his chest. ¡°Oui. They are very important categories to distinguish. One is about how old an individual is, meaning their personal age. The other is about how much life experience they have.¡±


    Estella wasn¡¯t sure that she understood the point he was trying to make. ¡°Um, both.¡±


    ¡°I am twenty-nine years old but,¡± Jacques held up his index finger for emphasis and, she swears, bowed at her, ¡°I have nearly two hundred years of experience.¡±


    Estella¡¯s eyes mimicked an owl. ¡°Two hundred years?¡± She repeated in a quiet voice.


    Jacques scrunched his eyebrows at her. ¡°Oui. Vampires do not age and witches¡ª¡±


    ¡°Vampires don¡¯t age?¡± She squeaked, her eyebrows very nearly reaching her hairline.


    ¡°No. And¡ª¡±


    ¡°And witches?¡±


    Jacques took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was not the only one his friends kept secrets from. ¡°Witches have choices. They¡ª¡±


    ¡°Choices?¡± Estella interjected again. He thought the child had been better informed in their strange waltz but apparently not. How much had they not told her?


    Jacques, for his part, was very patient with the girl as he explained, ¡°Oui. A witch has two options in their life when they magically come of age. A witch may either have a long life that spans two to three centuries or they may live with a normal human lifespan but limited magical capabilities. These are the options for a witch and once you choose the shorter, human life there is no going back.¡±


    ¡°Why would someone choose the human life?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°Why would someone choose a longer life? Both have their appeals depending on the person.¡±


    Estella tilted head as if trying to get a better view of him, ¡°Do you wish your life was shorter?¡±


    Jacques chortled. Here he is digging a grave, and a grieving girl asked him if he wished he was dead or would one day die. ¡°Honestly? No. I am quite fond of my life and my family. Though I have friends who leave this world, there is always comfort in knowing the lives that they lived.¡±


    ¡°And my grandparents?¡±


    He paused, the idea that he was not the only person Marguerite and Timoteo kept in the dark kept gaining traction in his mind. ¡°Your grandfather was human. Marguerite gave up her magic to spend their lives together.¡±


    Estella blinked at him for a moment before stating, ¡°No, she didn¡¯t.¡±


    Jacques pushed down the impulse to bicker with the child. ¡°That is what I was told,¡± he explained.


    This seemed to set something off in Estella as her face turned pink. ¡°If she gave up her magic¡ªand nonno was human¡ª who secured the property? Who made the slate we dug up earlier? Who made the brooms and mops and hand rags that clean the kitchen? Or made the cookbooks float in the air around her as she made dinner?


    And nonno¡ªnonno wasn¡¯t human either. Or wasn¡¯t always. He told me himself that he came from a family of witches in southern Italy. He said he preferred to not do magic.


    And who¡­and who would have saved me if not my grandparents?¡± She was panting by the end of her speech, her little hands balled into fists at her side.


    Jacques stood there, absorbing the information Estella had just shared with him. He supposed that all the magic he had seen was done by a human witch¡ªthat the rudimentary slate was Marguerite¡¯s work around to compensate for her lack of magic. But the basic magic could also be the product of a witch who knows the fundamentals. He had to admit, he didn¡¯t know which was more likely and it¡¯s already well established that he knew less about his friends than he thought he did.


    All the pieces of their deception were in his face from the moment he stepped into their home. But with the proper knowledge a limited witch could be a formidable foe and extraordinarily clever.


    The bite on Estella¡¯s arm should have given it away but he didn¡¯t want to see it. His throat was uncomfortably tight. Why didn¡¯t they trust him?


    For Estella¡¯s part, she worked herself into a full on cry.


    It felt like her grandparents only existed to her. Jacques, this man, her guardian now, supposedly their oldest friend did not know them. Were they even real to anyone else?


    Amidst the wracking of her body came a steadying force that wrapped around her shoulders.


    Jacques was holding her from his position in the grave, which made his tall frame level with her crouching form. After a week bereft of the physical touch she was so used to, his warm hug gutted her further and carved out her insides. His weren¡¯t the arms that she craved¡ªthey weren¡¯t the soft, plump arms of her grandmother or the citrus of her grandpapa. Those arms were gone, only to be felt in haunting memory.


    In a few moments, when they pull away from each other, they will find themselves on more stable ground with the other. But for right now, they were giving in to the grief and despair that comes with such a confusing and terrible loss.

 X:

    The funeral came and went. Eloise and Esther saw to the tending of Marguerite¡¯s and Timoteo¡¯s bodies, ensuring they were prepped in the fashion of continental witches with the proper adornments.


    Timoteo was dressed in a simple, rural fashion¡ªtrousers, an off-white button up that was out of date, and a Saint Christopher medallion resting on his chest. His left arm was laid out and in its crook lay Marguerite. It was a fitting final scene for a couple whose lives so blended together that one did not know where they ended and their partner began.


    Marguerite wore a simple long gown of the lightest blue, a green sash tied across her waist. A Saint Jude medallion rested in the hollow of her neck.


    On the eyes of both, pennies rested.


    Both were wrapped in a shroud. At their feet, Eloise and Esther let Estella finish the sewing. A final act of love, of devotion.


    It was simple, it was personal. It was nothing like what Estella saw at Jack¡¯s funeral. He was dressed formally, impersonal with no trinkets of his life to see him through to the afterlife. No evidence that he had lived except for his corpse and the mourners. Her grandparents would go to the grave with not only each other, but in clothing and objects that they wore.


    They were alive. Were loved. And the tears on her cheeks was evidence that they loved in return.


    Jacques stood silently over her during the closing of the shrouds. And he watched over her during the procession of the bodies to their final resting place. Esther and Eloise led the procession and Jacques carried the coffin on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around the base to balance it. When he first lifted the plain box up, Estella squeaked in fear that he would drop them.


    When he rose to his full height from his crouched position, he gave Estella a reassuring smile before taking his place in their small line. Estella joined him on his other side and he put his free hand on her shoulder. She held onto the feeling of his warm hand like a lifeline, keeping her in place lest she fly off to join her grandparents.


    They had no priest. Instead, Jacques asked Matthieu to send him a copy of a Mass to read. Matthieu, Jacques told her, liked to study religion. He gave her a wry smile and said, ¡°while I could scandalize Mary Magdalene.¡±


    When he was done reading, Estella threw the first handful of dirt onto the plain wood. Followed by Esther. Then Eloise. Then Jacques.


    Estella sat down before their grave, an offering of bread, cheese, and wine at her side and an herb bouquet in her lap.


    She silently watched Jacques as he continued to fill in the grave. Every once in a while she would throw in another handful of dirt herself to join his mounting pile. Maybe part of herself will stay in the grave with them. At some point, Esther and Eloise returned to the house.


    He carefully finished laying the soil back over the bodies, gently finishing his part in putting his friends to rest.


    Estella gave extra care to their offering. She poured them two glasses of wine, sliced their cheese and bread, sat a bowl of butter for her grandmother, and another bowl of olive oil for her grandfather at their feet. She set the herb bouquet in a small vase.


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    It is their final farewell, let it be kind.


    Barbara Bonney¡¯s rendition of ¡°Ave Maria¡± poured over the scene. Someone¡ªprobably Esther¡ªstarted the record player inside.


    ¡°Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild,


    Erh?re einer Jungfrau Flehen,


    Aus diesem Felsen starr und wild


    Soll mein Gebet zu dir hinwehen.


    Wir schlafen sicher bis zum Morgen,...¡±


    Tomorrow they will leave. Estella suspected it would be a long time before she came back again.


    _______________


    Ever together, Esther and Eloise went with them to the airport. They told Estella it was to prolong the goodbye but Jacques said it was a matter of safety. That two witches plus one vampire is better against one dangerous vampire. The women had glared at Jacques for being so candid about the dangers of the situation but Estella appreciated it. His honesty made her trust him. It reminded her of her grandparents.


    The two women had stayed the night, cleaning the house, covering the mirrors, and preparing Estella¡¯s bags. They also spoke to Jacques. She could hear the muffled sounds of their voices deep into her restless night.


    In the morning, Esther and Eloise helped her pack the last of the things she was to bring with her. ¡°You do not know what you should bring¡ªwho knows when you will return.¡± Esther said, patting her head.


    Eloise insisted, ¡°You must at least have a witch¡¯s traveling cloak. Your grandmere would insist upon it.¡±


    That was how Estella ended up in a deep green cloak that Eloise ¡°shook out¡± to Estella¡¯s size. A few flicks of the old witch¡¯s wrist and the cloak went from fitting a grown woman to her small frame.


    ¡°Bon voyage, Estella.¡± Esther told her, kissing her left cheek.


    Eloise smiled and kissed her right cheek. ¡°We will meet again, in a different time.¡±


    This is not your time.


    ____


    Estella picked at the fraying fabric of her jeans while she waited for the flight attendants to serve their dinner.


    A rolled up copy of Time Magazine poked her hand. ¡°You¡¯re going to need a new pair soon enough, Este.¡± Jacques had started using the nickname after he heard Eloise use it when she showed her how to finish the shrouds.


    Estella fisted her hands and looked up at him. Jacques tilted his head, giving her a small lope-sided smile. She scrunched her face up at him.


    ¡°What did you all talk about last night?¡±


    His eyes widened and then he leaned in close, ¡°We must discuss that later.¡± He whispered.


    Catching on, Estella ducked her head into her shoulders and whispered back, ¡°But we will discuss it?¡±


    ¡°Oui.¡±


    ¡°You promise?¡± That question felt vital to her. Would he promise?


    ¡°I promise.¡±


    She looked at him hard, trying to find what she didn¡¯t know in his gray eyes.


    He stared right back at her.


    Flashes of images flared behind Estella¡¯s eyes. Other girls with gray eyes, black hair, and pointed, heart shaped faces in old dresses. They were happy, dancing, giggling, sick, dying, dying, dead. It came on so sudden and disappeared so quickly that it disoriented Estella and forced her to break eye contact. She looked away and blinked furiously out the window to clear her vision.


    Their food came then. She stole Jacques roll and cookie. But she avoided eye contact until she fell asleep. She was afraid to see dead girls with strikingly similar gray eyes again.

 XI:

    What struck Estella first after landing in Paris was that all the signs were in French and English. In the United States, everything was in English. Sometimes Spanish. But never French.


    The second observation she made was that like Atlanta and JFK, the Paris airport was impossibly large and filled with people. The corridors felt as if they would go on for ages, like her legs would give out before she ever reached the baggage claim. It was a small country of travelers, all operating on different internal clocks and customs. Would her new home feel as unbearably large as these airports?


    On the flight over, Jacques told her a little bit about Saint-Tourre.


    ¡°It is the name of both the village and the chateau.¡±


    ¡°Which came first, the village or chateau?¡±


    He shrugged, ¡°The people of course.¡±


    ¡°So¡­are you all aristocrats? Do you have tenants and tithes and all of that?¡±


    Jacques chuckled at her, ¡°Please, ask Matthieu if he is an aristocrat. I would love to see his face.¡± He composed himself, ¡°But no. My father was only a successful lawyer in Paris. We were not poor by any means but we certainly were not rubbing hands with la royaut¨¦. Theodora might be the closest to an aristocrate. Her family were politicians in Byzantium but that was a long time ago. Not that she¡¯s fallen too far from the proverbial tree. Matthieu was the furthest from aristocracy. He was a tenant farmer himself with his wife Estelle. Saint-Tourre village was their home.¡±


    He gave Estella a curious look, ¡°Until she and their children were murdered, that is. Then he left. Theodora talked him into coming back after the Revolution to reclaim the land. The chateau was built over their plot, you see. Their graves even.¡±


    Estella gasped, ¡°That¡¯s horrible!¡± She lowered her voice when she noticed an American man in a ball cap turned to peer at her through the seats and sleeping passengers. ¡°What happened?¡±


    ¡°They were murdered for being witches. Matthieu wasn¡¯t home.¡± He¡¯s never forgiven himself for that either.


    ¡°Just like my grand-m¨¨re. You know, her mother¡¯s name was Estelle too.¡± Jacques was quiet while she considered the circumstances, ¡°It¡¯s awful. They were only living their lives and people had to come in and destroy them. I mean, why would you do that?¡±


    ¡°Sometimes Este, humans are worse than the monsters they dream about.¡±


    ____


    Matthieu and Theodora greeted them at the airport in Paris.


    She saw them first. They stood out among the humans, a little too still, a little too aware of the space they were in with their shrewd eyes taking in their surroundings.


    The man, Matthieu, was not as tall as Jacques but closer to her nonno¡¯s height. If Estella had to guess his age she would guess fifty with his slightly graying brown hair and spider lines on his face. She thought he looked kind, and maybe a little sad.


    Theodora was the same height as Matthieu, but everything else about her felt bigger¡ªher hair, her waist, her personality. She exuded big. Her presence filled the space around them at the baggage claim.¡ªand it was warm, she felt so warm¡ªlike her grandmama.


    Up close, she could see that they both had eyes like Jacques. Not the same gray color, but bright and slightly reflective. On the plane Estella notices that Jacques¡¯s dark eyes shone under the poor lighting of the airplane lamps.


    Matthieu and Theodoa had the same light to their eyes.


    ¡°Bonjour, Estella.¡± Theodora held her hand out for Estella to take, ¡°Mon nomme es Theodora et c¡¯est¡± waving her hand at the older man next to her, ¡°Matthieu. May we give you a proper French greeting?¡±


    Estella nodded cautiously, uncertain what a proper greeting required but curious all the same.


    Theodora smiled, ¡°Merci, we will give you a double cheek kiss my new friend.¡± Then she grasped Estella by the shoulders and firmly pressed a kiss to each cheeks. She felt warm¡ªlike her grandmama. Estella leaned her head into Theodora''s chest and felt a hand come up to cradle the back of her head. ¡°There there, cheri. There there.¡±


    Matthieu followed the same procedure after her. Each kiss seemed to say, ¡°We are here. You are here. Welcome. Welcome.¡±


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    __________________


    The car ride to the house was off-balance and Estella could not place why. Perhaps it was the conversation¡ªmostly provided by Theodora and Jacques who alternated describing the scenes that flew past the car window. Maybe it was Matthieu, who did not contribute to the conversation but who she felt was paying close attention. Maybe he knew Estella wasn¡¯t listening or that his family was merely filling the silence, uncomfortable with their new charge.


    Really though, it is that as a former father of six children he knew travel wore on young bodies. Estella needed to rest after such a trip, and so soon after such tragedy.


    Rest. Yes, he will postpone Theodora¡¯s tour for after a nap¡­and a petite dejourne.


    __________________


    Theodora was ahead of Matthieu¡ªa normal place for her to be. The dark night provided the perfect cover for the house¡ªno need to distract la petite Estella with the magnificence of her new home. No, they will see to the girl¡¯s needs first: a bath, a meal, rest, before taking her on a tour of the house and property. Usually, Theodora preferred to take guests through the grand hall to watch their faces as they eyed the opulent displays leftover from the former owner that they left standing.


    It reminded visitors of whose home they were in. So what if the gaudy gold was not to their tastes? It was useful.


    But petite Estella deserves no such treatment.


    No, they will lead her in through the side entrance¡ªthe one they regularly use. Formerly, it was part of the servants routine to use these side and back ways but they were the most intimate parts of the house and it fitted the three of them well.


    Just because they have conserved the opulent display of certain parts of the house does not mean that they actually want to live in it.


    Through the servant halls they will go.


    She was right, Theodora believed, Estella did not notice the house through the thick night.


    _______________


    Estella noticed the outline of a large structure as the car came around the final bend in the long driveway leading from the road. The mysterious building was the first sight to really interest her since leaving the United Stated.


    But no one commented on what she quickly realized was a country estate, so she didn¡¯t mention it either. Her grandparents always told her that the smartest witch was the witch that kept their eyes open and their mouths shut.


    They didn¡¯t take Estella to the garage, instead driving the car to a single, unsupposing door around the side of the house.


    Inside the kitchen greeted her. The first detail she noticed was the ceiling¡ªshe had never seen one so tall! It felt endless, that ceiling.


    And so bright! with its soft wall coloring, white countertops and blue cabinets. On closer look, Estella would realized that the wall was wall-papered with polished silver detail.


    A hand found her back, gently guiding her to a small staircase in the back. ¡°Come, Estella. We will get you settled upstairs and bathed. Afterwards, you can come back down for food¡ªMatthieu has created a lovely stew for you.¡±


    She whirled around out of Theodora¡¯s guiding hand, ¡°Vampires cook?¡±


    ¡°Of course, how else will we fatten our meals?¡±


    Estella gaped. Matthieu grinned. ¡°No, we do not take from humans here but we do like to feed our friends. Jacques is not the only person to know people after all¡±


    Jacques nudged Matthieu in the ribs, ¡°Yeah, Theodora has had much more time than we have to make friends.¡±


    She must have looked as if she had follow-up questions for the trio of vampires because Matthieu waved her away, ¡°Later. Later mon amie, first you must take of yourself and then you may ask all the questions you want.¡±


    Theodora¡¯s hand again found her back. She guided Estella through the door and up a set of stairs illuminated by night lights and decorated with photographs¡ªof what she was not certain, the images were too shapeless in the dim light.


    Up the stairs they entered into a wide hallway. ¡°We will show you the house in more detail tomorrow¡ªI can see you straining to look at the walls. They are green and decorated with the faces of our loved ones and landscapes.


    Just as Estella was about to ask the question ¡°of what?¡± Theodora cut her off: ¡°I will personally tell you the stories tomorrow, petite Estella.¡±


    Stopping at the first door on the left, ¡°this is your room¡± she leaned down conspiratorially, ¡°it is closest to the kitchen.¡± Theodora opened the door and turned on lamp. Like the kitchen, the ceiling was high. The walls were a soft blue, ¡°JAcques told us your room in America was blue. We thought you would like this color. Very calm, no?¡± Estella could only nod. The bed was a canopy and so tall she wasn¡¯t certain how she would get into it. There was a trunk at the foot. She turned to face Theodora¡ªto thank her, to cry¡ªbut she was alone in the middle of the room.


    Theodora had not gone beyond the doorframe.


    Upon seeing the suddenly distressed girl she stepped forward slowly, ¡°Forgive me, we do not want to crowd you but if you want me to come into your room and help you settle in for bed I am more than happy to do so.¡±


    Estella couldn¡¯t find her voice among the tightness in her throat. Her grandparents always saw her off to bed. Suddenly, she wasn¡¯t sure what she should do.


    Theodora crossed the threshold, ¡°Come this is the bathroom. You¡¯ve had a long day. Let¡¯s get you in the bath, into fresh clothes, and a little bit of food in you. Then you will rest for as long as you need. Sound good? An affirmative nod. ¡°Good.¡±


    Afterwards, Estella found herself in a bed as big as the ocean, swallowed by waves of pillows and blankets. Theodora left her inside the curtains, the dark swatch of bed illuminated by the soft glow of string lights.


    ¡°Here is the control for your lights. The battery should last through the night if you leave them on.¡± Then she patted her hand and was gone.

 XII:

    Estella crouched under a bulging tree root thick as her head. Damp earth filled her nose and accumulated beneath her finger nails. Her breathing misted in the air before her.


    It was dark¡ªthe trees snuffed out any light.


    ¡°Come here little girl, I won¡¯t hurt you.¡± It was the Stranger. That¡¯s right. They were looking for her, hunting for her. ¡°Where did you go little one? I have so much to teach you.¡± He was passing above her now, loudly sniffing the air. ¡°Tsk tsk. What did you do to your scent? This makes it so much harder to find you¡­¡± closer still, ¡°but not¡­¡± hot breath on her ear, ¡°impossible!¡± His hands reached for her neck.


    Estella jerked away violently, her legs tangling in the blanket while her upper body got caught in the curtains of her bed.


    ¡°Jacques! Jacques! Jaaaccccqquuueeeesss!¡± She cried over and over again. The Stranger was here or is here or will be here. Her grandparents said Jacques could help. He had to help.


    She was fighting the fabrics, the bed, her fears when her newly minted guardian crashed through her door with the two other new additions to her life on his heels.


    ¡°Estella,¡± throwing of fabric, ¡°mon Dieu. What is the matter, sorellina?¡± He grabbed her elbow and shook her gently. ¡°It is me. It is Jacques. Your friend.¡±


    Someone turned on the lights, ¡°Please, tell us so we may help.¡± It was Theodora.


    Through fits and tears Estella told them about her nightmare. ¡°He¡¯s here! He¡¯s here. He killed them and now he wants me. He¡¯ll find me in the forest.¡± Her words came out in a rushed cry.


    Estella covered her face with her hands and missed the look Jacques gave his friends before pulling her small hands into his bigger one. ¡°Shh. Shh. Estella, he cannot be here.¡± He reassured her. ¡°It is impossible. The boundaries of Saint-Tourre are magically fortified. No one can simply walk onto the property and definitely not the house. Not without permission.¡±


    ¡°But our home in Georgia had boundaries! And he got to me there!¡± She felt so small being afraid of her own personal boogeyman. Her grandparents were gone. She couldn¡¯t be afraid anymore.


    But she was.


    Jacques nodded, ¡°Yes, he did find you in your borders but the magic at Saint-Tourre is different. It is¡­ more advanced than what your grandparents did. There is no stone buried next to the gate here.¡± He looked at Matthieu who stepped forward.


    ¡°It¡¯s true, Estella. The magic that protects Saint-Tourre is some of the strongest you can find in Europe.¡± He pressed his hand to his heart, ¡°Even witches now don¡¯t know how to replicate it.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡± She insisted.


    ¡°But you are not alone.¡± Jacques cut her off. He gestured at all the adults surrounding her, ¡°How many vampires is this Stranger? One.¡± He said, waving his pointer finger in the air. ¡°How many are in this house? How many are here to see to you? To your care? To your safety? Three.¡± Now he was wagging three fingers at her. ¡°We are all here, you are not alone Estella.¡±


    She couldn¡¯t help but giggle at his ridiculous finger wagging.


    ¡°There you see. It will be alright.¡±


    ¡°Will you tell us about your dream?¡± Asked Matthieu. Jacques glared at him over Estella¡¯s shoulder. ¡°The forest, perhaps?¡± The older man suggested.


    Estella nodded but Matthieu intervened before she could begin, ¡°but tomorrow in the light of day.¡± He gave her a commiserating smile as he leaned in close, ¡°forgive an old man his eccentricities but I believe it does not do to discuss these matters in the dark.¡±


    ¡°No, it does not.¡± Theodora agreed as she dramatically draped her body over a chair at Estella¡¯s new table. ¡°Jacques, mon cheri, close the curtains. We will sit with petit Estella tonight on guard against what the moon cannot.¡±


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    Estella blanched. She wanted to be brave. She wasn¡¯t a small child. She shouldn¡¯t need adults to sit with her until the monsters disappear from under her bed.


    She wanted to not be alone.


    The room dark once more, Theodora began to hum softly. Estella focused on that gentle noise, trying to catch the notes until eventually it all slipped away.


    ____


    Once the two older vampires were confident the girl was asleep, they turned narrow eyes onto the formerly youngest member of their family.


    ¡°What have you not told us about the girl?¡±


    He thought about responding to their indignant tone with an equally unpleasant one but decided better of it. They were concerned and alarmed. Neither would ever never dream of turning the girl away.


    He bit his tongue, his body deflating against a chest of drawers. ¡°She was bitten by a vampire. We don¡¯t know who. Her grandparents stopped the transformation but the vampire lived. Estella says he came back and caused the crash that killed Marguerite and Timoteo.¡±


    Theodora and Matthieu both hissed out curses.


    Jacques nodded, ¡°but there¡¯s more¡­¡± He recounted all he saw in his friends¡¯ home, the evidence of magic that they shouldn¡¯t have had, ¡°...and there was a letter. I was sitting on their terrace. When I went to rest my feet in the spare chair I heard the slipping sound of an envelope sliding and hitting the floor.¡± He reached into his back pocket, ¡°And there it was.¡±


    Theodora took the proffered envelope. Matthieu reached for a candle resting on the window behind them and struck a match to light it.


    ¡°They left you a letter?¡± Theodora made a long face and weighed the envelope in her hands, ¡°They must not have a lot to say to you after decades of silence and leaving you their only grandchild.¡±


    She opened it then and Matthieu leaned over her to read it with her. The pair were already predisposed to a serious disposition but their intent expressions deepened as they finished the letter. When she ended, Theodora rubbed her brow, a frown marred her features.


    Matthieu took it from Theodora¡¯s hands and lightly traced the handwriting with his fingers. His dark eyebrows were also knitted together.


    ¡°She loves us? Pour quoi?¡± He asked. ¡°And why is she apologizing to us?¡± Matthieu gestured between himself and Theodora, who nodded her head in agreement to his questions.


    Jacques sucked in a breath and leaned back into his chair. He had not looked forward to this conversation. His suspicions would open old wounds. He looked over at Estella but she remained peacefully unaware of their conversation. ¡°Perhaps we could discuss this later?¡±


    Matthieu and Theodora looked at each other and in a movement that would have been imperceptible to an unaccustomed observer, they shook their heads.


    Theodora turned back to Jacques, ¡°No. We think now is the time.¡±


    Jacques leaned forward on his elbows, ¡°Like I said, I learned some information about my friends that did not add up to what I thought I knew.¡±


    ¡°You mentioned the basic spell materials and books and the boundary slate.¡±


    ¡°But I did not tell you about the names on the slate.¡±


    Matthieu cocked his head and Theodora narrowed her eyes. ¡°What of the names?¡±


    ¡°The names were¡­interesting. Your full names were listed.¡±


    They both drew back, Theodora covered her heart with her hand. ¡°Our full names? Why would she know our full names?¡±


    ¡°How would she know?¡± Matthieu interjected.


    Jacques swallowed hard. There was not telling how Matthieu would take what he said next. Or Theodora. The loss of Estelle and his children was a constant bruise on his heart. ¡°I have a theory. Marguerite¡¯s full name was listed on the slate as well. They wrote it out as ¡®Marguerite Theodora de la Fleur de Luca.¡¯¡± Matthieu sat in silence, his jaw tight.


    Theodora, usually so composed, had her mouth hanging open.


    ¡°And Estella¡¯s middle name is Theodora.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not an usual name,¡± she hissed.


    ¡°If you¡¯re an old woman,¡± he bit back.


    He turned his attention back to Matthieu who still had not said anything, ¡°On the plane we spoke a little bit. About Saint-Tourre. I told her about your family connection and the tragedy. She said her grandmother¡¯s family suffered the same fate.¡±


    Still he could not speak. Theodora intervened instead, ¡°Many families suffered that fate, Jacques.¡±


    ¡°Many families were murdered by witch hunters in the nineteenth century? We all know the time for that kind of slaughter had passed.¡± He challenged.


    ¡°Enough,¡± Theodora hissed. ¡°It is impossible.¡±


    Jacques hoped Matthieu would say something, give him some indication of his thoughts. There were few in Europe with his kind of supernatural knowledge, resources, or experiences (being married and mated to one of the most powerful witch families had its benefits). If it was a possibility he would know.


    Matthieu held onto his stoic expression. The only tell he showed that was listening to Jacques was his absentminded rubbing of the corner of the letter.


    Jacques leaned across the table, ¡°I am only saying that it is worth investigating.¡±


    Theodora waved him out of the room, ¡°Leave us. We will watch over the girl. You¡¯ve distressed us enough tonight, Jacques.¡±


    He did as his godmother requested and left them in the dark. Estella would be safe with them.

 XIII:

    Estella woke up with a start¡ªdemons were chasing her in her dreams. She ripped open the curtains that hung heavy about her bed, seeking the safety of the pre-dawn light.


    Outside her windows an illuminated haze settled over the landscape. Through the fog Estella could see an expansive lawn, a tamed wild habitat encroaching the boundary of the yard that was filled with gardens and small buildings. Looking closer at the area around the house, she could see late summer flowers and vibrant bushes decorating the ground before the courtyard.


    A knock sounded behind her. She turned to look at at the solid dark wood door to her bedroom, ¡°Come in,¡±


    Theodora stepped through the door, her dark hair done up in a series of braids. ¡°Good morning, mon amie. How was your night?¡±


    ¡°It was okay.¡± She bit her lip before asking, ¡°And you?¡± Estella wasn¡¯t raised around a lot of people but she could be polite.


    Theodora smiled, ¡°Acceptable.¡±


    They stood in silence for a few moments after that, the girl gazing out the window again and the woman watching the girl.


    Theodora cleared her throat, ¡°Matthieu is downstairs preparing you breakfast. Would you like me to unpack the rest of your things while you go downstairs or shall we do it together?¡±


    Estella studied Theodora for a moment, her eyes were like a deep caramel and her face was lightly lined with age. She was draped in loose clothing like Dorothea from The Golden Girls. She had a slight accent to her French.


    ¡°We can do it together.¡±


    There was a lot of furniture in Estella¡¯s room that she wasn¡¯t sure where to put her small collection of clothing. Theodora helped her decide where most things should go: pants and shorts into drawers. When she tried to fold her two dresses and a few shirts into a drawer the older woman quickly stopped her and directed her to the closet.


    When Estella went through her personal effects, she stood by, patiently handing Estella photos, nicknacks, music, and books. Theodora watched indulgently as she flitted between her main bedroom and private seating room testing various spots to display her wares.


    Until finally Theodora picked up a book at the bottom of the box that stopped her dead.


    It was a recipe book.


    A very familiar recipe book.


    Her back straightened. Has Jacques seen this?


    ¡°Theodora, what do you think of these photos here?¡±


    Slowly she walked into the seating room where Estella¡ªEstelle¡ªcalled for her attention. She held the book firmly in her grasp¡ªit was the closest she had been to her dear friend in centuries. Keeping her face pleasant, Theodora observed the photos before her. Which one was connected to Estelle? Who was the link? The man was not very tall, with dark hair and a long nose¡ªhe didn¡¯t look familiar but in all the photos they were already grandparents. Features change over a human life. Noses and ears grow, cheeks droop.


    The woman had the marks of Estelle and Matthieu¡¯s brood: blond hair, large expressive eyes, a narrow nose, and a square set chin.


    It had to be her. Marguerite.


    Theodora looked down at Estella. How many generations were between this girl and Matthieu? Was it true? Her grandmother was his child? Could they even recognize themselves in the other now?


    In the car last night, she felt like Estella was familiar to her but had given it up to her two thousand years on this earth. She had met and loved many humans in that time, and while each was unique, features could blur together.


    Theodora took a closer look at the girl now.


    She had dark hair and dark eyes, much like the grandfather in the photographs. She had not yet grown into her nose and her face was still overall cherubic, the baby fat still clinging to her cheeks.


    Theodora could just huff in frustration but that would be taking out her own confusion and grief on an innocent child.


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    Jacques said he had helped them immigrate to the United States at the start of the War, which put them in the nineteenth century at the earliest. But Theodora could not imagine Marguerite remaining in Europe and not reaching out to her papa or godmother. She must have fled somewhere, maybe returned, and then her family left again.


    Theodora tried to ignore the feeling that she was spinning tales.


    ¡°Tell me about your grandparents. Jacques tells me he helped them leave Europe, or was it only your grandfather?¡±


    Estella shook her head absently as she straightened a photo, ¡°No, they immigrated together with Jacques¡¯s help. They were worried about Mousellini.¡±


    Weren¡¯t we all? ¡°So they were both Italian?¡±


    ¡°No, nonno was but meme was French.¡±


    Thedora had to remind herself to not crush the precious object in her hands. ¡°How did they meet? Was she from the south in the Alps?¡±


    ¡°No, she was from the north.¡± For the first time since leaving her home in America, Estella¡¯s eyes lit up with excitement. ¡°From this area, actually. Around Paris.¡±


    She scrunched her face, ¡°I don¡¯t remember what she said the village was called. But apparently it was destroyed in the war. That¡¯s how she met nonno. She found herself in Italy after the first war. She lived in bisnonno¡¯s barn for a while until nonno¡¯s older brother discovered her and their mama brought her inside. That¡¯s how she met nonno¡ªhe was the youngest in the family.¡±


    ¡°What about her family?¡±


    ¡°She didn¡¯t like to talk about it. They were murdered by bad men, except for her papa who wasn¡¯t home.¡±


    Theodora had to push, had to know more. ¡°By soldiers?¡±


    Estella shivered. ¡°No, by witch hunters.¡± Witch hunters in the twentieth century? Unlikely but this girl didn¡¯t know that. ¡°She said her mama and older sisters hid her away where no one would find her while her brothers fought outside.¡± Her voice lowered, ¡°she never saw them again. She learned later that there were no survivors.¡±


    ¡°But what about her papa?¡±


    Estella struggled for the words and recalled her grandmother: ¡­my maman and my sisters hid me¡ªhid me so well that I didn¡¯t know how to go home again. ¡°My grandmaman, she didn¡¯t¡­¡± Her chest hurt, unwilling to form the words she should say, suddenly feeling a deep kinship with her grandmother. Like young Marguerite, Estella could not imagine going back to the empty home in Georgie. How do you go back when you¡¯ve lost so much? Tears pricked her eyes. She looked at Theodora with large, imploring eyes. ¡°When you¡¯ve lost so much, how do you go back again?¡±


    The older woman was struck by the question and the expression of the girl. After all, she too has lost everything. So has Matthieu. And many others in her acquaintance. The girl was not only channeling her grandmother¡¯s experience but her own. Theodora kneeled down slowly, maintaining eye contact with Estella as she carefully thought through her next words. They needed to be right, to give and not take.


    ¡°Look at the carpet beneath your feet. If someone ripped it out from under you, what would remain?¡±


    ¡°The floor.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right, the floor. The people who love us, they are the carpet beneath our feet. They cushion our lives and provide us with warmth. When they leave us, we still have the base floor underneath. We must build again. The home may look different, but it¡¯s filled with the memories of our love. Perhaps we cannot go home again, but we can always build a new one that carries the old one with us.¡±


    That must have been the right thing to say because Estella nodded and continued to place pictures around the room.


    Suddenly she swirled around back to Theodora, her large eyes taking up much of her face in the moment. ¡°The men won¡¯t come for me, will they?¡± Fear clutched her heart, what if they already had?


    Theodora gripped the girl¡¯s shoulders and peered into her eyes, ¡°Not on our lives.¡±


    She felt she had dug up enough for the morning but Theodora had one more question she needed to ask before letting Estella go. ¡°I know your grandmaman¡¯s name was Marguerite but who were her parents? If she is from this region, perhaps we knew them.¡±


    ¡°Oh, oui. Her papa was Matthieu and her maman was Estelle.¡± She scrunched her nose, ¡°I think her papa had a surname that had something to do with flowers but I don¡¯t remember.¡±


    Theodora smiled indulgently at the girl. Matthieu came from a family called de la Fleur. ¡°Are you named after her maman?¡±


    ¡°Oui! Meme and nonno wanted a name that honored both sides. So they gave me the Italian name of my French grand-mere but I also have a middle name in honor of her godmother.¡±


    Theodora¡¯s chest felt tight, this might be too much and yet could be the coincidence that pushed it all over the edge. After all, many men and women named Matthieu and Estelle lived in France and Theodora was not so uncommon a name. If you¡¯re an old woman. ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Oui, I am Estella Theodora de Luca.¡± The girl tilted her head to the side, ¡°Theodora are you alright?¡±


    She was, in fact, quite unwell. Theodora felt as if a cannon had ripped through her abdomen from the shock and grief that gripped her. She knew it was coming, but still the knowledge was a shock.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m fine. Are you hungry? I¡¯ve kept you up here longer than I should. I am sure that Matthieu is frantic that your breakfast is getting cold.¡±


    Estella took the distraction, but not before reclaiming her family recipe book from Theodora to place it on her bedside table.


    Theodora eyed it as they left the room.

 XIV:

    Matthieu made quite the morning feast for little Estella. Theodora stood aside to watch them while he showed her the buffet he created.


    He met her at the base of the stairs with a big grin, ¡°Come in! Come in! I wasn¡¯t certain what you like so I made a bit of everything for you: Eggs, bacon, sausage, crepes, pancakes, waffles¡­ There are some croissants, muffins, and even those tall American biscuits with different jams, marmalades, and preserves that we have.¡±


    He looked so pleased with himself that Estella didn¡¯t have the heart to tell him the American biscuits were unfamiliar to her. She made a point to select the tallest one and lather it with blackberry jam before picking up any other item.


    It turns out that biscuit and jam is a beautiful combination.


    Matthieu watched her closely when she sat down at the small kitchen table, ¡°How was your night?¡± he asked.


    Estellas answered around a big bite of biscuit, ¡°It was okay. And you?¡±


    ¡°Oh? No more monsters after that first scare?¡±


    She shook her head ¡®no.¡¯


    ¡°Bien! We will consider it a small win that it was not bad. The first night in a new place can be very difficult for people.¡± He looked at her curiously then, as if trying to see through a sheer curtain, before breaking out into a smile. ¡°Would you like some whipped cream with your crepes?¡±


    Jacques came in as Matthieu handed her a bowl of luscious cream. ¡°Ah. I see I¡¯ve missed breakfast. I thought Theodora had already taken you for the day, Estella. How was your night?¡±


    ¡°It was okay, Jacques. And you?¡± Did everyone care about her night? They were all there, afterall. When she thought about her outburst and cry for protection, Estella¡¯s stomach twisted.


    Like Matthieu, the younger man eyed her for a moment. ¡°Mm. Nice to hear. How about when you are done with breakfast I take you around the grounds before our beloved matriarch shows you every nook and cranny of the house?¡±


    ¡°Actually Jacques,¡± Theodora cut in, ¡°I would like to speak with you first. Let Estella help Matthieu in the kitchen and then you can take her.¡±


    Estella noticed Jacques¡¯s straight back and long stare at his grandmother before he agreed to Theodora¡¯s suggestion. He threw a reassuring smile at her over his shoulder as he followed the older woman from the room. She returned it despite the pang of disappointment in her chest. Estella had hoped to have breakfast with Jacques, who had been her constant companion since she woke up in the hospital a week ago.


    She turned to look at Matthieu who sat opposite of her at the table.


    He watched her in return. Their eyes flicked from physical detail to physical detail. Matthieu noticed the same traits the Theodora had: the dark hair and dark eyes, though where she saw cherubic cheeks he saw the beginnings of a square jaw line and a delicate nose.


    In the morning light, Estella thought Matthieu looked familiar. The graying brown hair of last night was an ashen blonde this morning and she could clearly see his light blue eyes set into a square face with a long, thin nose taking up the middle. He reminded her vaguely of her grandmother, if someone took his features and rubbed them out with an erasure.


    He asked, ¡°What do you eat, Estella? What does your family prepare on a regular basis?¡±


    Estella didn¡¯t have a lot to say that helped Matthieu plan his next grocery trip. Any American specific treats she didn¡¯t eat or drink ¡ª except for baked goods. Her family loved chocolate chip cookies and sweet fruit pies.


    They ate a lot of pasta, roasted meats, and stews. Timoteo taught her how to make fresh pasta and Marguerite showed her how the same basic ingredients, when combined differently, can make a wide array of delicious stews and roasts.


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    ¡°Grandmama had some favorite recipes that she kept in the family recipe book. Do you want to see it? I¡¯ll help you read it. She didn¡¯t write like you see in cookbooks.¡± Estella¡¯s face scrunched up, ¡°No clear instructions. Most of the time she didn¡¯t even write down how much stuff you¡¯re supposed to use.¡±


    At the mention of the recipe book, Matthieu leaned further across the table. His hands steepled under his chin while his eyes glittered, ¡°I would be honored.¡±


    Estella ran up to her room. In the hallway, she noticed a closed door to a study down the hall. If she were home, if her grandparents were here, she would sneak up to the door and listen. She wanted to know what was so serious that the door had to be shut. But she¡¯d had enough, Estella decided, and turned away from the tempting shut door with a huff. She ignored all spying instincts and stepped into her new room for the family book.


    When she popped out of the stairwell into the kitchen, Matthieu popped up from the table just a little too quickly, making her scurry backwards on instinct.


    He stopped and stepped back, his hand working over his face for several moments before speaking in a strained voice. ¡°Where? Where did you get that book?¡± he asked, waving his other hand at her.


    For a moment, Estella wondered if she called for Jacques if he would hear her. ¡°It¡¯s my family recipe book.¡± she answered. ¡°My¡­my grandmama¡¯s family, they¡¯re French. Her maman gave it to her before the¡­ bad men arrived.¡± For some reason, with the way Matthieu was staring at her with wide eyes and quickened breath, Estella didn¡¯t want to say ¡®witch hunters.¡¯ It felt dirty. It felt cruel to remind this man of those monsters'' existence when he had lost his own family too.


    ¡°And who were the ¡®bad men,¡¯ Estella?¡± He said her name with such force that it made her retreat one step closer to the stairs.


    She fidgeted on her feet. Matthieu leaned towards her but did not take a step, ¡°Estella, were the bad men chasseurs de sorci¨¨res?¡± Witch hunters?


    Something about the way he said it, about the way he looked while saying it made her look away. ¡°Oui.¡±


    The crevasses of his face seemed to deepen, throwing shadows over his features. ¡°And who is your family? It should be written in the book. Inside the front cover, perhaps?¡±


    Estella was frozen, suspended in time. She felt in her bones that what would happen next would unravel a thread that held the tapestry of her life together. It was a big moment, a deep moment leading into an even deeper unknown.


    She didn¡¯t want to learn what would happen if she pulled that thread.


    She was the gift. You are the payment.


    Now is not your time.


    Time.


    Time.


    Time.


    Blood of the gods.


    Estella opened to the family tree drawn carefully by the hand of her great-grandmother, her name sake, right at the top: Estelle = Matthieu.


    He bent down before her, now afraid to touch the book lest it crumble to dust at his touch. And the girl. The girl who he now knows how to look at, he sees his children in her eyes. ¡°And who are these people to you? These names? Have you met them? Know any details of their lives?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re my family. But they died a long time ago when grandmama was my age.¡±


    Matthieu was struck by the connection. He hadn¡¯t associated their ages. How long had it been since he saw his children in every youthful face? Or turned to the sounds of laughter, looking for their smiles?


    He looked for those similarities now in the face of this mysterious child. Her hair was too dark but her eyes were like his children¡¯s eyes ¡ª wide and open, but again the coloring was wrong. But the set of her mouth, her chin, her ears. He didn¡¯t see it before but now he feels struck by the similarities. The girl could¡¯ve belonged to him and Estelle.


    Estelle. Marguerite had not forgotten her maman. A ball of emotions knotted in his chest. The world toppled sideways. He needed to grab onto something, he needed ¡ª he needed ¡ª


    A hand.


    Estella was reaching out, holding his forearm, offering what support her small frame could provide. She must have crossed the kitchen. ¡°Matthieu? ¨ºtes-vous bien?¡± Are you well?


    He looked into her eyes, shaped and framed exactly like his own.


    ¡°Estella, I need you to tell me everything you know about your grandmere.¡±

 XV:

    ¡°Estella! Dinner me amor!¡±


    The young woman stood up and observed her work, quite pleased with the looks of her freshly repotted lavender and rosemary. She¡¯s been trying to grow them into larger bushes for a few years, just to see if she could. She¡¯s had to start over three times so far though. Estella picked up her dirt smudged notebook and left her plants behind.


    Crossing the yard from the greenhouse to the kitchen Estella passed their expansive garden that resembled more an overgrown miniature jungle. Most of it would go to the local market, tenants, or parishioners Matthieu met at church. Between the four of them, only she ate regularly ¡ª the full vampires usually took a glass of wine with her at meals or tea from plants they could grow themselves.


    Her family would cook meals for all of them to eat a few days a week. Food for vampires had to be made with ingredients grown in soil nourished by blood. It would be easier for them to hunt in the woods but to her family, food was the heart of the home. She also suspected that they ate more now than they did before her arrival on account of her poor hunting abilities but Jacques would never admit it to her.


    ¡°Smells delicious, grandpapa! Merci.¡± she said, bursting through the kitchen door.


    He smiled at her, ¡°Tell me, how did repotting go? Did you enjoy your time in the greenhouse? Take good notes?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Matthieu, I took notes on the plants you instructed me to. Here. Enjoy my mediocre botanical drawings.¡± The last part came out around a mouthful of bread. On most days the four of them took dinner together at the formal table but Jacques was in Paris for work and Theodora was in Spain providing consultations to some unfortunate creatures who may or may not have violated some obscure rule of the supernatural world.


    So Matthieu was home with her, arguing for the importance of informational drawings, particularly of the botanical variety.


    Estella was pretty sure her great-grandfather just really liked plants (he was the architect behind their jungle garden every year) but she wasn¡¯t going to say that to him.


    Her grandmother Marguerite also loved plants. Whatever Matthieu was saying got lost in that thought. It''s been nearly ten years that Estella¡¯s lived in France, watched and fretted over by not only Jacques but Matthieu and Theodora too.


    She believes that they would have welcomed her regardless, but the surprise connection to Matthieu certainly escalated their attention to her. And their anxiety for her. From the moment she told Mattieu about her grandmother he never questioned their relation. He smelled her in her blood. He praised, he cried, he cursed, but he did not doubt.


    Estella smiled at her grandfather across the table still going over her afternoon notes. This is how it has been for several years. They were too nervous to send her to school and all were perfectly content to continue her education at home.


    She remembers that conversation well. Estella sat on the thick rug in the main drawing room upstairs while Theodora paced before the fire, Matthieu and Jacques stood to either side of her.


    ¡°Estelle was one of the best trained witches in Europe. Matthieu knows nearly everything she knew.¡± Theodora pointed a ring clad finger at him, ¡°You could train her in witchcraft. Jacques and I can handle the rest.¡±


    And so it went. Matthieu oversaw her witch education while Theodora and Jacques looked after the rest of her schooling.


    She liked when she worked with Jacques, he would take her to Paris with him to do school work in his office in the Witchs¡¯ Quarter. She got to see a lot of people that way.


    Witches knew how to fill a room. She never realized this before Jacques took her Parisian cultural and history sites though. In a throng full of humans, the air felt loud and full but that was caused by the amount of people in the room. A single witch could induce the same crowded feeling with their magical presence alone. Or their nervousness could fill the room instead, increasing your nerves too.


    Matthieu said that this is caused by a lack of training. The best magic wielders had complete control over how their magic exudes off of them. Those are the people you need to watch out for.


    People made her nervous though. You never knew when information could get into the wrong hands and someone you didn¡¯t want is knocking at your door. But as the years went by and nothing terrible happened Estella grew more comfortable with her existence¡ªboth as the youngest member of her family of rather important people and in her own skin as a half-breed. The Stranger always haunted her though and the phrase his hissed, blood of the gods.


    The vampire traits came slowly and are mostly unnoticeable. She hadn¡¯t broken any bones since her bite despite several falls and one purposeful jump from a very tall tree. Her sense of smell is better than a humans though not as precise as family members¡¯. Her eyes too had changed, though not in the way anyone expected. Instead of the characteristic sheen, her eyes lightened a few shades. Gone was the deep brown of her childhood, replaced by a burnt caramel color. Her teeth never did come in but she didn¡¯t mind that she couldn¡¯t tear through flesh.


    She¡¯s rather on the fair side too but Matthieu and Theodora swore that it could be genetics.


    All these slow changes came with a price. Each inflicted its own brand of simmering agony but none of it was worse than when it was time for her to take blood. Her stomach felt like it was ripping itself apart. And the time she spent vomiting her own blood and internals so they could be replaced, she was sick thinking about it.


    She was sick. For years, these changes kept her inside Saint-Tourre, too unwell to venture farther than the village most days. It was why the times she got to go to Paris were such a blessing. Thankfully those days were over. It¡¯s been a few years since she¡¯s suffered a bout, and her family believes that Estella had finally outgrown the transformations.


    ¡°Estella? Mon amie?¡±


    She shook herself out of her reverie, ¡°Sorry, Matthieu, what is it again?¡±


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    He didn¡¯t say anything to her, only shut her notebook and stared at her across the table.


    Can she ever have a thought without her family seeking open communication about it?


    She squirmed. He was only sharing what he loved with her and she wasn¡¯t listening.


    ¡°Sorry, Matthieu.¡± She said again.


    ¡°I do not want your apology, Estella. I want your assurance.¡±


    ¡°My assurance?¡± Her grandmother Marguerite flitter across her mind during another day she didn¡¯t devote herself to botany.


    Matthieu gave her an off look. ¡°That you are well. You have been more quiet than normal these last few days.¡±


    Had she? She hadn¡¯t meant to be but she supposed that she was retreating into herself more. Stuck in her own head, her own memories.


    She was the price, you are the payment.


    Now is not your time.


    Blood of the gods.


    What did it mean?


    It haunted her that Matthieu and Theodora didn¡¯t know what any of it meant. Between the two of them, they have 2500 years of experience. Theodora knew everyone and everyone didn¡¯t know what any of it meant.


    ¡°I can see you worrying your teeth. Are you concerned about more transformations? They should be done now. If more come, we will weather it with you.¡± She fought a grimace. She must have been prodding her teeth again with her tongue.


    Estella reached her hand out to cover Matthieu¡¯s on the table. It was true. When she lost her grandparents her world had been destroyed. Her very foundation cracked and fractured. She didn¡¯t believe she would ever have a home again.


    And then Jacques brought her to France.


    ¡°There¡¯s a pleasant face. What are you thinking about now?¡±


    ¡°About you all and how kind you and Theodora were to me. Back then.¡±


    ¡°Of course. How could we not be? You were a child.¡±


    She smiled at that. She worked enough in Jacques¡¯s office to know that there are people who would not have been kind.


    ¡°And then afterwards, how you accepted¡­¡± She tripped up at this part. How does a person sum up being the granddaughter of a long lost youngest daughter shoved through time by her mother to protect her? And that said child is set to become a half-vampire, half-witch and all the historical burdens that came with such an existence? Estella roughly shut her mind to that train of thought, despite lingering there already.


    She would rather not live knowing how others sought to use her, how they completely changed the course of her life for their own selfish gain. It made her feel like a tool waiting to be collected.


    ¡°It that what has you so contemplative? Let us talk about it then. What holds your mind?¡± Matthieu had a clipped way of speaking. It was precise, matter of fact, tell me your problems and let us work on a solution.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s nothing, really. All we can do is keep marching forward until we learn something new.¡±


    And really, she didn¡¯t have a lot to complain about. Her family could have kept her under constant surveillance but instead they taught her the skills necessary to protect her freedom instead of barring her behind walls or requiring a chaperone everywhere. She was taught magic by one of the most witchcraft-educated individuals in Europe and a woman who drips history from her pores. She was loved, she was protected.


    But she was still afraid.


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s my dreams.¡±


    ¡°Your dreams?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, they¡¯ve all been in the woods lately and you know how I feel about that.¡± Despite her family trying to give Estella a life without borders, the furthest she would go into the woods was the little wattle and daub house she and Matthieu did their magic lessons in. And even then, she didn¡¯t like to go alone.


    ¡°Mhmm.¡± Was his only response, waiting for more information.


    But Estella didn¡¯t want to share it, suddenly afraid of manifesting her fears into her reality.


    Instead she made her excuses and left her half eaten dinner on the table. Matthieu watched her leave in silence.


    ____


    ¡°Everyone gather! I have news!¡± Rang Theodora¡¯s voice through the halls a few days later.


    ¡°We¡¯re right here, m¨¢mmi. No need to shout.¡± Jacques greeted Theodora, Estella standing at his side a full head and a half shorter than him.


    ¡°Oh, Estella!¡± Theodora¡¯s hands met her shoulders, ignoring her godson entirely. ¡°I have heard rumors about a sanctuary of priestesses deep in the Greek mountains. Greece! Maybe this is where the Oracle of Delphi went when the Romans ran them off.¡±


    ¡°I¡­uh¡ª¡±


    ¡°What are you on about Theodora?¡± Matthieu asked from behind them.


    ¡°Oh Matthieu! If anyone can tell us what all Estella¡¯s experiences mean surely it is the Greeks.¡± Her eyes were large with excitement, her painted lips stretched wide across her face.


    ¡°Or any other religions that deal in mystique or prophecy.¡± Her grandfather countered.


    She waved her hand at him, ¡°Well, yes, but we haven¡¯t heard about any long hidden Persian or what have you religious sites. This is what we have, Matthieu. We must try it.¡±


    ¡°Soooo, we¡¯re going to Greece?¡± Estella hadn¡¯t been to Theodora¡¯s home county yet, though she did spend a stressful three-month stint with some Dracula-esque friends of her grandparents in Romania.


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± Theodora¡¯s hands curled around the back of Estella¡¯s neck before moving to adjust some fly away hair. ¡°Mon amie, I do not think so. It would not be wise to drag you to an unknown and potentially hazardous location without verification.¡± Estella knew what was left unsaid. The fear for her health. For her safety. Just because they didn¡¯t want her to feel confined doesn¡¯t mean that they would let her take unnecessary risks. Which meant this time going into the Greek wilderness searching for a maybe, possibly hidden temple of priestesses. ¡°You would be so uncomfortable.¡±


    She hated what the actions of others have done to her. ¡°Ah.¡±


    ¡°Matthieu and I will go. You and Jacques will stay here.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure, Theodora? You just said that it may be dangerous. Wouldn¡¯t it be better to have an extra set of hands?¡± Jacques asked.


    ¡°Danger lurks in every corner Jacques and should something happen I would prefer you and Estella have each other.¡±


    Matthieu stepped forward, ¡°Oui. We will go. You two will stay. Besides, someone needs to be present at Saint-Tourre.¡±


    Estella remained quiet after Theodora¡¯s initial rejection, a pit settling into her stomach. After nearly a decade of unanswered questions, she wasn¡¯t sure she wanted to know the answers anymore. She thought about the ghoulish priestess she visited after the accident. What if her time has come? And for what?


    And what was she supposed to do?

 XVI:

    The woods smelled foul. Putrid decay filled the air of the otherwise unsuspecting forest. Estella walked forward across the uneven, rough terrain. An unseen force compelled her forward, dragging her feet up the mountain.


    Behind her she saw her trek left a trail in the dense fog. When she turned back around to face the summit, she found that her climb began anew.


    ___


    Her grandparents left three days later. They kissed their cheeks goodbye on the front steps of Saint-Tourre.


    Estella gripped their coat sleeves tight, forcing Matthieu and Theodora to look at her. She had been traveling up and through the mountain each night since Theodora¡¯s announcement. ¡°When it is time, don¡¯t turn around.¡±


    If they were anyone else, Matthieu and Theodora would have at best patronized her or at worst brushed her off but they have been steeped for too long in the realm of magic and prophecy to disregard her. She was no Cassandra.


    Clasping their hands over her¡¯s, her grandparents kissed her again. ¡°We will not. Remember your studies and stay with Jacques. Do not anxiously pace these halls, Estella. Je t¡¯aime.¡±


    And they were gone.


    Jacques draped his arm over her shoulders as Matthieu and Theodora drove down the driveway.


    ______


    Estella didn¡¯t pace the halls but her mind ran rampant through them. In her dreams she still climbed the mountainside, uncertain if she would ever crust the top. She kept looking behind her, searching for her family members.


    Her notebook page was blotted by her leaky pen, her hands smudged with ink as she sat at her favorite library desk overlooking the south lawn. She didn¡¯t know what she had been writing, her notes illegible. In one swift movement she stood up from the desk and threw the pen at the trash can between the table and the misused upright piano that held her stacks of books.


    ¡°Trouble in magic-land?¡± Jacques asked from behind her. He didn¡¯t even turn around from where he sat on the green velvet sofa reading the newspaper.


    Estella scowled at him. ¡°History, actually. I am supposed to take notes on the conversion of England.¡±


    ¡°The first or the second?¡±


    ¡°The first.¡±


    ¡°Mm. Would you rather help me organize files instead?¡±


    She narrowed her eyes, ¡°You¡¯re reading Le Monde.¡±


    ¡°Correction: I¡¯m avoiding filing.¡± He turned around in his seat and grinned broadly at her, ¡°But I would be much more likely to get work done if my sister helped me.¡± Sister wasn¡¯t exactly the right word to describe their relationship dynamic but siblings are what the two of them settled on. Jacques started calling her ¡°petite soeur¡± when she first moved into the manor and it stuck.


    ¡°Correction: You¡¯re avoiding Marianne.¡± Marianne was Jacques¡¯s intern. She was a couple of years older than Estella and was the daughter of a daughter of a daughter of an old friend of Theodora¡¯s. Her mother was also the English counselor on the Witches¡¯ Council.


    Estella had spent some time with Marianne growing up in between bouts of her transformation and its illnesses but not much. What she does remember about the girl is that she was highly organized for a child. Once Estella sat in a chair and watched Marianne perfectly pack a suitcase, not an item unceremoniously crammed inside it..


    ¡°Tomorrow? Oui, I will go.¡±


    _____


    ¡°Have you heard anything?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been¡ª¡±


    ¡°Two weeks.¡±


    ¡°What does Monsieur Saint-Tourre think?¡± Despite the closeness of their grandparents to Marianne¡¯s family, she always referred to Jacques in the formal. He glared at her every time she used ¡°vous.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± That wasn¡¯t the truth but when you belong to a family as important as the Saint-Tourres you don¡¯t give away their thoughts easily, even if the relationships go back centuries.


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    The truth was that Jacques was worried. Estella saw his fears in the way he tapped his pen against his notepad, in the bouncing of his right knee, and even in the set of his jaw. While Matthieu and Theodora attended people often, it was never without communication. And the younger Saint-Tourres have received none from their grandparents since they landed in Greece.


    Estella would have worried regardless but knowing that in all of Jacques¡¯ 200 plus years with the two of them this was the first time they had not sent word home made it worse.


    Theodora told her not to pace but it was Jacques who needed the advice. Thank god he had court today. It gave the Turkish carpet in his office at home a break. A noticeable tread pattern was forming.


    Marianne glanced at her sideways, ¡°What do you think?¡±


    ¡°I think that I don¡¯t like it.¡± It was a careful response that answered the question without giving away any real information.


    ¡°How are you handling it?¡±


    Estella held up the manilla folder in her hand, ¡°By organizing files.¡±


    Marianne took it as the gentle reprimand that it was,¡°Right. Sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay. I just don¡¯t want to talk about it.¡± Estella liked to come into Paris and see the people who came into Jacques office but the truth was that she didn¡¯t quite know how to talk to the people who came into Jacques¡¯ office. Including Marianne, who was maybe, slowly becoming a friend of some sort.


    The screech of the phone in Jacques¡¯s office saved them both from further conversation.


    A pleasant assistant greeted Estella on the other end, ¡°Bonjour, this is the solicitor¡¯s office. We have the documents for the Babin case. We are closing soon for an extended holiday. Could someone come pick them up now?¡±


    ¡°Ah. One moment, please.¡±


    In the other room, ¡°Marianne, the solicitors are on the line. They say that the Babin documents are ready but that they need to be picked up now if Jacques wants to read them before next week.¡±


    ¡°Could you go get them? I have a lot to do before Monsieur Saint-Tourre returns. The office isn¡¯t far. Only a block or so out from the Witches¡¯ Quarter.¡±


    Estella smiled despite the increased tempo of her heart. ¡°If it is really not that far I suppose I can go for you.¡±


    The Witches¡¯ Quarter was the safest place in Paris. Protected by multitudes of misdirection spells, it was practically impossible for a human or other unwelcomed guest to make their way into the neighborhood. And depending on who they were, the individual could be met with rather unfriendly faces.


    And while her family did not widely share Estella¡¯s journey, it had been made clear that questions about her were not encouraged in the Quarter and anyone seeking her out was to be turned away. Immediately.


    Witches were very protective of their young. She didn¡¯t doubt that any one of her neighbors would turn away a stranger for enquiring too closely about a youth in the neighborhood. Not that she was a child. Estella was just shy of her twenty-first birthday.


    The Quarter was also a place filled with magic of the everyday, domestic sort. Estella passed old women juggling potting supplies in the air as they refreshed their porch gardens. The cafe on the corner had a broom alone sweeping its front sidewalk just like her grandmother used to do in her kitchen.


    It is a wonderful thing to be surrounded by such comfortable public domesticity. No one hides here.


    Well, except for Estella but she tended to hide everywhere.


    She¡¯s rounded the corner to enter human Paris countless times with Jacques but still she stopped at the junction where the Quarter¡¯s street crosses over into human territory. Agreeing to go alone to the solicitors felt like cocking the hammer of the gun. Stepping across the border alone felt like pulling the trigger. When and where was the bullet going to land?


    She was already across the street by the time the feeling sunk in.


    Too late. Gun fired.


    Marianne was right, the solicitors¡¯ office was not far from the Quarter. She could see it just down the street.


    From the outside, the office was unassuming though the windows were rather dark. A lone lamp shone through the window signaling that someone was within.


    The air around her thinned, her breath came out in huffs. As she approached the door the office seemed to blur out, like a different place was waiting on the other side.


    Someone was breathing on her neck. Someone was opening the door for her, reaching around her body to usher her inside.


    ¡°Estella!¡± Marianne shouted, causing Estella to jump. She turned only to see a blur of movement as the person behind her withdrew when Marianne threw her weight at it in a tackle. Marianne¡¯s abdomen collided with the iron railing on the stoop instead.


    ¡°Marianne! Mon Dieu, are you okay?¡±


    ¡°Ow. Fuck. What was that?¡±


    ¡°Are you all here for the Babin files? The young women looked up to find a bored man staring down at them from the doorway. He glanced at his watch, ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°Oh. Uh. Oui.¡±


    ¡°Bien.¡± He dragged the word out. ¡°Here. Goodbye.¡± He handed Estella, still leaning over Marianne, the folder as he pushed his way past them, leaving for his holiday.


    Marianne grabbed the folder and Estella¡¯s hand, forcing her to run back to the Quarter¡¯s border down the street.


    ¡°My mum called me after you left. She asked after you and when I told her where you went and that you went alone she said that I had to go get you.¡± What Marianne doesn¡¯t say is the rest of her mother¡¯s word. That she does not understand what haunts and hunts the youngest Saint-Tourre, that she lives on time borrowed by another.


    She looked to Estella, waiting. For what? For her to tell her what was going on?


    The Saint-Tourre family was loved by many for their services to the greater supernatural community but they counted their friends few and trusted even less with their secrets that they kept hidden in layers. What would Estella tell her if she did ask? What did her mother truly know?


    ¡°We should go back to the office.¡±


    Marianne nodded and looped her arm through Estella¡¯s as they walked through the Quarter. They would not whisk her away without a fight.

 XVII:

    ¡°How¡¯s your abdomen feeling?¡± Estella asked when they returned to the office.


    Marianne gave Estella a withering look that clearly said that isn¡¯t what she wanted to talk about and didn¡¯t respond.


    She shifted her weight from foot to foot, wringing her hands. ¡°I haven¡¯t thanked you yet for coming after me. And for throwing yourself like a wrestler at whoever was behind me.¡± She took a steadying breath, ¡°Thank you.¡±


    The other woman put her hands on her hips, ¡°What¡¯s going on, Estella?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­¡± She sat down hard into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Her family kept Estella¡¯s circumstances quiet. Even the specifics of how she came into Jacques¡¯s hands weren¡¯t revealed. But Marianne could have gotten seriously hurt, or worse. It was the first time something had happened to Estella in public. If they were ramping up their efforts, more people could get involved.


    It suddenly was harder for her to breathe.


    ¡°We don¡¯t know.¡± That wasn¡¯t entirely the truth but it also was not much of a lie either. Her family knew someone and something was after her. They suspect that it has to do with Estelle and Marguerite. The vampire from the graveyard and Estella¡¯s strange dreams do not always seem to deal with each other when they parse out the details.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know? None of you know anything?¡± Estella did not begrudge Marianne her incredulity. Her grandmother Theodora was one of the oldest vampires in Europe and Matthieu one of the most magically educated individuals here as well. Vampire or not, the man knew more than most.


    ¡°Non.¡±


    ¡°Is that why Matthieu and Theodora are in Greece?¡±


    Estella took a deep breath, ¡°Oui.¡±


    Marianne hopped up then and reached for the phone. ¡°We should call Monsieur Saint-Tourre, tell him what happened.¡±


    Estella snatched the phone out of her hand. Marianne flinched at the speed and Estella swore at herself to slow down. People often forget about her vampirism.


    ¡°There is no point in worrying him while he¡¯s in court. There is nothing for him to do. Whatever that was is now gone. This is how it is. They wait for an opening and don¡¯t make one themselves. The danger has passed.¡± The danger is past. The danger is present. It¡¯s a continuum of the choices of the long dead bringing their baggage down on her head.


    ¡°But maybe he could go and track it? Find them so that there isn¡¯t a next time.¡±


    ¡°Marianne. There is no one to track. I don¡¯t think that was some kind of vampire. It was like a ghost or apparition.¡±


    ¡°But it was so fast, Estella.¡±


    ¡°You know vampires, Marianne. You grew up with two of them in your house. They don¡¯t just disappear.¡±


    Estella sighed and turned back to the files piled high on the desk, ¡°Let¡¯s get back to work. You said you had a lot to do.¡±


    ____


    Hours later Jacques walked into his office with a box of choux pastries. The scene was a common one the last few months: Estella bent over his desk organizing paperwork into files while Marianne was elbow deep into the filing cabinets. Reorganizing his files had been Jacques¡¯s summer project for her. Apparently watching Estella put his 150 years of files into a semblance of an order had inspired him.


    But Estella knew he would notice that something was wrong about it. The room was completely silent. While she tended towards solitude, his intern did not. The young British woman was much more comfortable with noise, even if she did have to make it.


    The neighbors on the street were also subdued. When she poked her head out an hour earlier Monsieur Travere up the street closed his bookshop early and the gardeners had gone inside.


    Jacques made a show of the choux pastries, presenting them boldly to Marianne who formally declined the treat and then he flashed the box at Estella in the adjoining office. She tried to muster a smile in response and accepted a pastry but it tasted like ash in her mouth.


    Jacques kept his smile on his face, ¡°I had a good day in court. Madame Prouxl should not have any more legal conflicts with her former husband.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good,¡± Marianne offered from deep within the filing cabinets.


    Estella kept her head bent over and did not respond.


    He left the box on the front desk closer to his inter, she¡¯s the one who would normally eat the treats anyway, before sauntering into his office. He traced the pointed line of his jaw with his thumb. Estella had seen that stance countless times. He was considering information. ¡°People are anxious. All of the businesses in the Quarter seem to have shut for the day.¡±


    Estella sighed and finally lifted her head. The strain must have shown plain on her face because he dropped his hand. ¡°What happened?¡±


    If it had been Matthieu or Theodora in front of her, Estella may have tried to tone down the horror of the day. But this was Jacques, the man who came to her as a child, no questions asked. He listened intently to her story, his lips pressed into a thin line.


    ¡°I¡¯ve already prepped to leave, Jacques. I assume I will not be staying in Paris for the week after all.¡±


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    ¡°I¡¯m afraid not.¡±


    ____


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to Greece, Estella. Someone found you in Paris. In public. I¡¯m not leaving you here.¡±


    They were arguing. Estella thought Jacques should go get their grandparents. Jacques thought that was reckless.


    ¡°They¡¯ve known where I am the whole time, Jacques. There was just finally an opening.¡±


    The rest of her words came out in a rush and she prayed it had the effect she needed, ¡°Something is coming, Jacques. Coming for me. I need them. I need all of you.¡± She grabbed his arm and shook, ¡°You, Theodora, and Matthieu when it all comes to a head.¡±


    His eyes narrowed, a slight glow to the gray in the evening light,¡°And you don¡¯t think Matthieu and Theodora will be back in time?¡±


    Estella swallowed her teeth. She thought it was already too late.


    ¡°I think they are lost in the mountains.¡±


    ¡°Lost?¡± He tilted his head, his thumb coming to his chin. ¡°Estella, what do you know?¡±


    He was asking about her dreams.


    She bounced from foot to foot.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. In my dreams, I am climbing a mountain. But everytime I look behind me to see where I came from, when I turn around I am back at the start of my trek. I just¡­Jacques, they need help. I know they need help. Wherever they are trying to go, Matthieu and Theodora keep ending up back at the beginning like me. If we want them back sooner rather than later then you have to go and help them.¡±


    ¡°And leave you here? Alone? Because after Paris, I cannot take you with me.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± She grabbed her brother¡¯s hand. ¡°You have to leave.¡± She felt the necessity of that statement. Not only for their grandparents but for his safety.


    She stretched her life too far and the rubber band was snapping back. Estelle¡¯s bargain was going to be paid soon.


    ¡°Please, Jacques. They need you. I¡¯ll be safe at Saint-Tourre.¡± It was a lie and the first one she ever told him.


    For a moment, she feared Jacques saw through her. Out of all her family, she was closest to him.


    ¡°Fine but you do not leave home. Stay behind the protection wards, Estella.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Jacques.¡±


    ____


    A week after Jacques left, their front gate bell rang. Estella looked at the brass bell responsible for the offending noise, frozen for a moment in alarm.


    Anyone who came to the house came to the front door. The gate¡ª a smaller house at the start of the drive that hid their driveway¡ªwas for uninvited or unknown guests. They never had either. If people needed her family¡¯s counsel, they would call the line or send a message. More often, someone they knew would bring the needy to them.


    No one ever just came to the house.


    The bell rang again.


    And again.


    And a third time on her way to the front door of Saint-Tourre. It was connected to the gate house. Simply turn the right way and you¡¯ll be staring at the entrance to the front gate from inside.


    Inside the gatehouse the ringing was a knocking, an incessant, frantic knocking on the door.


    Estella found a young man, a vampire seemingly not much older than herself on the other side of the door. He had dark hair and green eyes that had the characteristic clear glow of a vampire. A scar cupped his chin on the left side.


    ¡°My name is Oliver Morris and my family needs your help.¡± Her help? ¡°My sister fell in love with a human and the Commission found out and¡ª¡±


    ¡°The Commission?¡± Realization hit her. ¡°Oh. I am not Theodora.¡±


    That stopped him dead.


    ¡°You¡¯re not?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not.¡±


    He glanced behind her, into the house. ¡°Is she..¡±


    ¡°And she isn¡¯t here.¡±


    He deflated, ¡°she¡¯s not?¡±


    ¡°And she won¡¯t be for a while.¡±


    ¡°What about Matthieu?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s with Theodora.¡±


    ¡°What about¡ª¡±


    ¡°Jacques is also with them.¡± She hoped, at least. Jacques had also gone MIA when he reached Greece.


    Dismay clouded his features, ¡°Can you help us?¡± Estella wondered if she should be offended that she was his last resort but really, could she help them? While she knew the ins and outs of Saint-Tourre, her family never intended for her to carry its burden. Matthiey and Theodora even tried to shield Jacques from it. But still, growing up here meant that she had inherited quite a bit of knowledge.


    And that she knew where to look to answer his question.


    ¡°Let me see. Can you¡­¡± She isn¡¯t going to let a strange man into her home if she doesn¡¯t need to. ¡°Wait here while I go look at some stuff?¡±


    He opened his mouth as if to protest before nodding in acquiescence.


    She shut the door on him and ran back through the house, up the stairs, and down the hall to the Archive. The big one. The one for scholars and academics and amateur historians seeking to uncover their past.


    They didn¡¯t get many of those kinds of visitors anymore. Not since before she stepped through the doors of Saint-Tourre though.


    Most of her education has been a balance between magic and the liberal arts. Between lessons, she learned a lot about the role her family, especially her grandparents, have in supernatural society as counselors for those toeing the line the Commission set to ¡®protect¡¯ (her grandmother Theodora always says this with a sneer) supernatural society from human exposure. Theodora began her work several centuries ago to combat the narrative that the supernatural and human worlds had always, by necessity, been separate.


    Estella sat through several lessons in the Archive of Theodora deconstructing that idea.


    But what can someone do when her family is unavailable? The grounds of Saint-Tourre have some weight but are they sacred enough without the presence of her grandparents?


    She searched through a thick reference volume created for Saint-Tourre¡¯s Archive, looking for keywords that might give her a clue of what she could do. Several minutes ticked by, Oliver was probably itching to bang on the door again, when she finally spotted something that might be of use: ¡°asile.¡± Asylum.


    According to the entry, as an heir of Saint-Tourre, she could offer Oliver and his family asylum at the estate for one month so that they may build a defense against the Commission.


    Hugging the heavy volume to her chest, she raced back to Oliver at the gate. Throwing the door open, she didn¡¯t give him the opportunity to speak before asking him the most pivotal question, ¡°Do they love each other? Your sister and the human, are they devoted?¡±


    ¡°Completely.¡±


    She bobbed her head excitedly and shoved the book in his face, ¡°then look at this!¡± Estella awkwardly held the large, cumbersome volume up so she could display the page. Fortunately, the scribe had drawn a red manicule pointing to the text.


    ¡°Asylum?¡±


    ¡°Yes. For one month. So you can create your own defense using our legal resources.¡± And she slammed the book shut and folded it back into the cradle of her arms. ¡°I cannot really offer you counsel like my family members but I can help you build your defense and point you all to the best volumes in the Library and Archives.¡±


    ¡°What else?¡±


    ¡°Your family¡ªincluding the human¡ªneed to get here before the Commission arrives at your door.¡±


    Oliver pulled out a cell phone, ¡°Let me make some calls.¡±

 XVIII:

    ¡°So this is what we call l''Archive de la Vie Magique or ¡®The Archive of Magical Life.¡¯ My family created it some centuries ago to combat the loss of knowledge and suppression that came with the Age of Persecution. It¡¯s moved, of course, from its original location. This chateau was built by an aristocrat who did not make it out of the Revolution.¡± Estella waved across the stacks that took up half of the large room and towered three stories above them. She pointed to the back where an unmanned counter sat recessed into the wall between the stacks.


    ¡°There is where you will order the more secure documents. As you can see though, we are not very busy. If you cannot find one of the sources that should be available to you out here, you can submit a slip and the house will fetch it for you. Probably without complaint.¡±


    ¡°The house complains?¡±


    She shrugged, ¡°if it doesn¡¯t like you.¡± Estella smiled at him. It was a tease, really. The house cannot actually complain. The room operated by magic but when she was a girl Matthieu first told her the house was alive and she believed it.


    Oliver looked around himself, ¡°are all archives designed this way?¡±


    ¡°No. Human archives hold their collection differently but here at Saint-Tourre, the documents are preserved and protected with magic against the elements though we still request that you use an eraserless pencil. And, of course, you cannot remove any material from this room. The house will not let you.¡±


    He stared at her, wide-eyed.


    ¡°Not much experience with magic, no?¡±


    He gave her a tight smile, ¡°No. Not really.¡± He tilted his head then, ¡°If you can¡¯t take anything from the room, how did you bring that book with you downstairs?¡±


    ¡°Oh. I have special permission.¡± And then because she felt like she had to explain, she added, ¡°because I am a resident here.¡± Not the full truth exactly, but certainly not a lie either.


    ¡°Of course you do.¡± She wasn¡¯t sure what he meant by that comment but his mouth had a teasing tilt. Estella decided that this foreign man did not mean to offend her.


    ¡°Donc. There is a more comprehensive informational pamphlet on the tables here for you but if you want to eat before beginning you¡¯ll need to come with me. No food in the Archive either.¡±


    Oliver¡¯s lips slightly curled, ¡°No, thank you. I would like to get acquainted with the books before my family arrives.¡±


    Estella softened, her shoulders relaxing further, ¡°Of course. Let me take your bag and I will get everyone¡¯s rooms ready. If you need anything, you can call for me down the hallway or ring the third bell beside the door. Either way, I will hear you.¡±


    She left him then to make up his and his family¡¯s rooms. As vampires ¡ª and ones unfamiliar with the magical side of their world ¡ª they likely didn¡¯t need much more than a room. But Theodora always told her that the best hosts anticipate their guests'' needs, even of those they didn¡¯t think of themselves.


    She put them all in the same block of rooms. To Oliver she gave the modest bachelor¡¯s room and the parents were prepped for a large suite with an adjoining drawing room. She was uncertain though about the couple. Vampire relationships can burn hot rather quickly ¡ª and depending on the length of the relationship the human might not be wholly ready for that. Being devoted and being ready to share a bed are not one and the same.


    No, Estella would put them in adjoining rooms that met in a small seating area. If the human needed space, they had it available.


    With each room cleaned and prepared, she headed down to the kitchen to prepare the welcome baskets full of treats. Looking into their pantry, she went through the items they had available or could easily make for her guests. For the vampires, she selected nuts and simple sweet biscuits with a short information sheet with items available in the kitchen for them. For the human, she included some extra treats that were made with ingredients not nourished with blood.


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    She only had a day and a half to prepare the rooms and make the baskets, not a lot of time for one person. Her list created, Estella returned to Oliver in the Archives.


    She found him bent over scrolls weighed down with ropes, his face scrunched up in concentration.


    Peering over his shoulder she asked, ¡°Why are you looking at our rental records?¡±


    Oliver jumped, knocking over his chair.


    ¡°Shit.¡± He clutched his chest, ¡°Oh my God. How did you do that?¡± Estella frowned. She¡¯s never snuck up on a member of her family no matter how hard she¡¯s tried. But there was something else more interesting about Oliver at the moment.


    ¡°You¡¯re American?¡± she asked in English. ¡°I should have asked earlier but your French was very good.¡± She hasn¡¯t met an American since leaving the United States. Everything she¡¯s heard about them in France has not been very flattering but Oliver seems so unassuming.


    ¡°Yes. How did you sneak up on me?¡± He pressed.


    She shrugged, ¡°An accident, I assure you. Why are you reading rent rolls? I would think court records or maybe birth records would be more fruitful.¡±


    He looked down at the yellowed document on the table, ¡°I thought the rent rolls might help. Show evidence of humans and vampires living together, you know? That the two can co-exist. Your family has lived here for centuries without incident. Why can¡¯t one human be with a vampire?¡±


    Estella sat down in the chair beside Oliver and he hastily picked his chair off the floor to join her. When his head grazed past her the scent of spices filled the air. ¡°I think you are on the right track but rentals won¡¯t help you. They don¡¯t identify the lineage of the individual like other documents would. Besides, Saint-Tourre is a bit of an exception and the Commission won¡¯t be impressed using us an example. Remember, the Commission is also a large landowner. Being able to spout our history of rental income won¡¯t get you very far.¡±


    Oliver sighed in frustration, ¡°So I should start with court records or¡­birth records?¡± His voice lifted up at the end of his sentence, turning it into a question.


    Estella held her tongue between her teeth, stopping herself from speaking too quickly. She thought that those records may yield support but with Oliver¡¯s seeming unfamiliarity with sources perhaps it¡¯s best they back up a little. ¡°Let¡¯s start with what we know.¡±


    At his glare and argumentative look she held up a hand. ¡°We know that your sister fell in love with a human. The love vampires share ¡ª the true love that binds vampires to their significant other is very serious. The Commission won¡¯t doubt her bond. It¡¯s the human we have to worry about. Long lived individuals, immortals or otherwise, tend to look down on human experiences, including their emotions, as inferior. You¡¯ll have to prove that the human¡¯s bond is just as powerful as your sister¡¯s.¡±


    Oliver threw his hands up, ¡°And how are we supposed to do that? Subject Hannah to God knows what kind of personal probing? If that¡¯s what we need to do, what¡¯s the point of Saint-Tourre? Why not go directly to the Commission?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say anything about diving into the human¡¯s¡ªHannah¡¯s¡ªpsyche. Let me finish first, Oliver, before you start throwing out such dangerous suggestions.¡± Mon Dieu, does this man not know what kind of magic could do to someone? Let alone a human?


    He fisted his hands in his lap but gave no further indication that he would interrupt her again. ¡°Okay, so what else do we know?¡± She began ticking them off on her fingers, ¡°We know that vampires, witches, what have you ¡ª the Commission included ¡ª remain in the same place for centuries and that requires a certain amount of complicity from the humans, which means that humans knowing isn¡¯t technically illegal.¡±


    He straightened, ¡°It isn¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s¡­strongly discouraged. By the Commission I mean. But they cannot really declare it illegal without coming into conflict with the Witches Councils.¡±


    ¡°Why the witches? Wouldn¡¯t they be as invested in concealing our world as vampires? Maybe even more so?¡±


    ¡°Some, yes. But they live so closely with humans that their lives intermingle often. Witches often fall in love with humans and can even give up their magic to live a human life. To make relations with humans illegal would be a major infringement on their lives and society. It may even destroy communities.¡±


    ¡°You can choose to become human?¡±


    Estella grimaced. Her vampirism is so subtle she forgets that to many people it doesn¡¯t exist at all. ¡°Well, I cannot but witches can.¡±


    He gave her a look as if he had more questions but Estella didn¡¯t give him the chance to speak, ¡°So what I think we have to do is try to support their relationship with other relationships. They cannot be the only vampire-human couple to have ever existed. No one is that special.¡±


    ¡°And where would we find that evidence?¡±


    Estella disappeared into the stacks. Quite literally. She was turning in her chair to stand and then the next moment she was calling to Oliver deep in the stacks, ¡°Let¡¯s look at the catalogs for court cases, wills, maybe petitions? Come, help me carry some boxes!¡±

 XIX:

    Hours later and the two of them had identified which boxes of court rolls and wills to look through. ¡°It¡¯s really rather simple,¡± she explained, ¡°when they listed a person¡¯s name they wrote an identifier, like an occupation but also if they¡¯re foreign or non-human.¡±


    The wills were better cataloged, so while Estella skimmed through court documents, Oliver could make a list of wills to pull up that might mention something about vampires. He could read French, but he struggled with the handwriting and spelling of words older than the Victorian era. So they divided the work between the two of them: Oliver going through the catalogs and Estella working through the documents.


    It was slow going, however; it took several hours just to get to that point and by the time they could work through manuscripts it was well into the night. Estella sat down her notes and archival sources to stretch her arms and shoulders. Across from her, Oliver held his head between his hands, his eyes straining against the handwriting he was trying to make sense of. Next to him on the table sat his own notes and a paleography aid Estella gave him when he didn¡¯t recognize the abbreviations or letters. Who knew a ¡®w¡¯ could wreak such havoc on a person¡¯s confidence?


    It wasn¡¯t the first time Estella took a look at her new guest. Over the course of the day she had taken in his features: his dark hair, forest green eyes, and wiry frame. He was tall (though not as tall as Jacques) with an aquiline nose and strong jaw. He also smelled like plain soap, which she found pleasant.


    But what Estella found most admirable about Oliver was his devotion to his family and his ability to follow a purpose. He did not wander once from the Archives that first day. Not to see the house, not to see the grounds, not to hunt. He has not asked about the house beyond how to get to the Library from the Archives, though she assumed he paid attention when she told him how to get to his room.


    Estella supposed she should feel offended by his lack of interest in her home, or her, but really, she was relieved by it. Her very existence as a half vampire, half witch is a source of curiosity for many. Even in the Quarter, the neighbors stared to the point that she often feels like a science experiment being observed.


    She liked that Oliver didn¡¯t bat an eye at her.


    The clock struck midnight.


    Estella sighed and pushed herself away from the table with her hands. ¡°I hate to leave you, but I need to go to bed. I will see you in the morning, Oliver.¡±


    For the first time in hours, he looked at her then blinked slowly as a grimace marred his features. ¡°Right. Good night, Estella.¡±


    Theodora would chide her for allowing him the familiarity of her given name. But really, what was the harm? Until his family arrived, there was no official demand or formality to fret over. Until then, she could think of him as her new friend. Could pretend that she wasn¡¯t home alone because someone was with her.


    ____


    Estella didn¡¯t sleep very much and rarely did she sleep well, which is how she found herself dressed and heading to the Archives before dawn. As she suspected, Oliver was still sitting at the table. Without an audience she noticed that he mouthed the unfamiliar words and a larger reference stack sat next to him.


    She cleared her throat and was met by his startled eyes before they slid over to the window, only to narrow when he saw it was still dark outside. Estella caught the question he would not ask in the shape of his mouth, which hung slightly open.


    ¡°I¡¯ve only been gone five hours.¡±


    The corner of his mouth quirked up, ¡°That¡¯s more than I get.¡±


    She smiled, so he can be funny. ¡°Have you moved since I left you?¡±


    ¡°Um,¡± his eyes roved to the window again. ¡°No.¡±


    Estella nodded. She understood his urgency, his purpose but Matthieu always said an overworked mind is a useless mind. ¡°I¡¯m going down to the kitchen for breakfast and coffee. Would you like to accompany me for an hour?¡±


    Oliver hesitated. She smiled in what she hoped was a sweet way, ¡°Please? Just an hour and then we can resume working.¡± He blinked at her like an owl and stood up slowly.


    ¡°I can do an hour.¡±


    This time her smile was genuine, ¡°Bien! Follow me.¡±


    For his part, Oliver wasn¡¯t sure how to describe what happened when she smiled at him other than that he just went stupid. His mind turned into a white screen and suddenly he was standing. Following her now, without the force of her caramel eyes on him, he resented the distraction.


    She was the host though, so he kept walking after her.


    In the kitchen, Estelle handed Oliver a heavy bottomed tea pot and nodded towards the sink. ¡°Will you fill that up with water and put it on a hot burner?¡± Wordlessly, he did as she asked as she pulled out butter, eggs, and cheese for an omelet.


    ¡°What are you making?¡±


    ¡°I am making us a French omelet. Of course,¡± she said smiling over her shoulder, ¡°we would simply call it an ¡®omelet.¡¯¡±


    ¡°You know that I don¡¯t eat right?¡±


    She laughed lightly but otherwise did not acknowledge his statement. He would learn soon enough. ¡°There are dried leaves to the right of the stove. Red in color. In the drawer there are loose leaf tea steepers. Take the crushed red leaves, fill the steepers, and put them into two tea cups. Then pour hot water over them and let it sit for a few minutes.¡± It was perhaps too detailed of instructions, but who knows when the last time Oliver paid attention to how tea was made?


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    ¡°Two cups?¡± he asked. ¡°I just said that I don¡¯t eat. What makes you think I drink tea? Don¡¯t you live with vampires?¡±


    Estella reached out across the island separating them and laid her hand on Oliver¡¯s forearm. The familiarity of the action should have given her pause but Estella liked Oliver. In another life, he could be her friend.


    ¡°Oliver, I heard you for the first time.¡± She fought a teasing smile, ¡°but have you considered that I live with three full-bodied vampires?¡± No response but he stared at her intently. ¡°And as such a child, raised among them and with one foot in vampirism myself, did it occur to you that I know what I am doing when I offer you food and a drink?¡±


    ¡°No, it hadn¡¯t occurred to me.¡±


    ¡°Then will you please trust me and prepare the tea?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sorry.¡±


    ¡°No need to apologize, Oliver. I¡¯ve heard of vampires like you. Those with no or little experience with magic¡ªbut have not met one.¡± She frowned at that thought but continued on, ¡°I should have explained¡­¡±


    Estella paused her speech long enough to pour the whisked eggs into the pan. ¡°Sooner. Most ingredients in our kitchen are nourished or cultivated with the blood we harvest from our butchered livestock. This changes the flavor of the ingredients from unappealing to appetizing to vampires.¡±


    She smiled up at his pinched face, ¡°and it¡¯s perfectly edible to humans. Sometimes it¡¯s a lot of work, like if we want flour, but most of the time it¡¯s as simple as using blood from the animals we butcher for market in the soil. The soil then provides the grass that the cows eat that make the milk we use for butter. ¡±


    ¡°Gardening with blood? That¡¯s it?¡±


    She bobbed her head back and forth, ¡°Well, Matthieu would have a more involved answer for you but for me, that¡¯s it.¡± She grinned at his curiosity, ¡°That enough for you right now?¡±


    ¡°Hardly but I suppose I can wait for Monsieur Saint-Tourre to return if you''re so against talks of farming.¡±


    A pit formed in her stomach at the reference to her grandfather''s (and her grandmother¡¯s and father¡¯s) absence but Estella didn¡¯t let the smile slip from her face.


    ¡°I appreciate your mercy, monsieur.¡± She turned her attention then to folding the luscious omelet and did not return it back to the young man until the delicacy was divided between two plates and they were seated at the small table together.


    Oliver was too engrossed in consuming a meal that wasn¡¯t blood for the first time in his eternal life to pursue conversation.


    Estella looked down at her cup when she noticed tears in his eyes.


    A hand covered her¡¯s, ¡°Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me. What this will mean to my family.¡±


    She cleared her throat, ¡°My pleasure, Oliver.¡±


    They spent the next few moments in silence; Oliver still emotionally recovering from the taste of food he never thought he¡¯d enjoy again and Estella thinking about how home is the smell of a good meal.


    ¡°So, you¡¯re American?¡± She asked in English.


    He responded in kind, ¡°Yes. And you speak English very well. I could almost believe you¡¯re American too.¡±


    She gave him a toothy grin, ¡°But I am. Born in Georgia and raised there until I was twelve.¡±


    ¡°How did you end up in France?¡±


    He was leaning towards her across the table, plate and cup pushed to the side as he rested his chin in his hands. The action struck Estella, his casual claim of the space. It was fascinating to her, how comfortable he looked at their table. And endearing even. Were all Americans like this?


    She realized he was waiting for something. ¡°Sorry, what?¡±


    ¡°I asked how you came to France.¡±


    Right. She leaned towards him in return and lifted one eyebrow, ¡°I¡¯ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.¡±


    A deep laugh bubbled up from his chest and one hand fell down to lightly slap the table.


    ¡°Alright. Tit for tat then. Born and raised in New Haven, Conneticutt.¡±


    Estella grinned at him, happy he was playing along. Born and raised. He was speaking of his human life.


    ¡°Oh? Are you a Harvard man, Oliver?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± he chuckled, ¡°Despite my father¡¯s best efforts, I never did go to Harvard.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± she had more to say in response to that information but there was something in the way he said it that told her not to pursue it. Instead she answered his question, ¡°My grandparents died and Jacques became my guardian. He brought me to France where Matthieu and Theodora took to me immediately.¡±


    ¡°No parents?¡±


    ¡°Not unless Jacques counts.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± She shrugged. There was no need to tell him the details. The sympathy was an expected response, regardless.


    ¡°How old are you?¡± They were leaning dangerously into too personal territory and while she wanted to learn more about Oliver, she didn¡¯t want to become emotional at her kitchen table.


    Age was a safer territory than family.


    ¡°I am twenty-four years old but I have been on this earth for one hundred and seventeen years.¡±


    ¡°Oh! You¡¯re a baby.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± He leaned away from her, both hands laid out on the table.


    She waved her hand dismissively, ¡°Don¡¯t take it personally. The next youngest person to me in the house is Jacques and he¡¯s been around for two hundred years.¡±


    He drew back across the table, ¡°And how old are you?¡±


    ¡°Twenty and that¡¯s how long I¡¯ve been alive too.¡±


    ¡°And you called me young.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t help my age.¡± Her eyes caught the clock, ¡°Your promised hour is up. Do you want to go back to work?¡±


    His eyes glossed over to the clock on the wall. Time was up but Oliver found that he wasn¡¯t satisfied. Estella was interesting and oddly familiar. Her presence comforted him like a warm blanket, wrapping him in the warmth of her stare.


    ¡°Yes, I suppose so. Will you continue on the older documents?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid not. There¡¯s other work that must be done before your family¡¯s arrival.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I see.¡± He didn¡¯t want to depart from her yet. Something has shifted in the course of an hour. Maybe it was the companionship they found in the moment and nothing more. ¡°We better get to it then.¡±


    They departed then. Oliver to the Archives and Estella to her grandparents'' office. While he continued his task of searching for supporting evidence in the historical record, she had to construct a formal letter of asylum to submit to the Commission.

 XX:

    Luckily for Oliver and his family, Theodora kept a record of her official correspondence. Did Estella know this before sending Oliver on an Archival hunt? No. Did she learn it while snooping through her grandparents¡¯ drawers and files that she hadn¡¯t been allowed to look through before? Yes. Matthieu¡¯s desk and cabinets had been a neat mess, but Theodora was meticulous. The awful part was that she kept it all in Greek. And not even Greek from the same era. You¡¯d have to be a polyglot to understand every label in Theodora¡¯s files. Estella hopes Oliver didn¡¯t see her marching down the hallway with a stack taller than she is of language reference books.


    An hour later and surrounded by books and file folders, she found what she needed. The last notice of asylum was given in the eighteenth century to a werewolf who had become too obvious to the humans in Germany. Attached to it was the tight, neat script of her grandmother. It hadn¡¯t turned out well for him.


    The writing was, blessedly, French. The language, though archaic, was formulaic and simple to parrot for Oliver¡¯s family.


    The biggest hurdle was how she should sign it. She wasn¡¯t sure how much weight her name carried. The Commission had the right to negotiate the terms of asylum. The customary amount of time was one month based on the other letters but the werewolf received only two weeks. What if they decided Estella de Saint-Tourre was a pushover?


    Besides that, her last name was unaffiliated with Saint-Tourre. ¡®De Luca¡¯ carried no deeper meaning to it than that it¡¯s recognizably Italian. Then again, her family does not use their last names for formal work either. They only used ¡°de Saint-Tourre¡± for all official documents.


    The addition of Saint-Tourre to their names was not wrong. It marked them as belonging to each other and this place. It was their home and for her, personally, the place ran through her very blood. For centuries, her family lived in this village until the witch hunters came. And then Matthieu reclaimed the land.


    She is, in a way, Saint-Tourre itself.


    But Estella de Saint-Tourre upset her. This was the first time she would use it this way and her family wasn¡¯t here to see it. She felt like she was giving up a part of herself in marking her as something greater than she is. To be de Saint-Tourre was to live in the memory of others¡ªas the painstakingly detailed portrait of Matthieu¡¯s family above her represented.


    Estelle was from this very village, her family¡¯s ancient blood marking it as something special. Matthieu abandoned the area after his family was slaughtered but reclaimed it along with the manor built upon their land by some 18th century nobleman. Theodora¡ªlong a friend of the family, a fixer, a counselor, and a representative for others in the supernatural world¡ªmade it her home.


    Yes, the place carries a lot of weight.


    She slid the documents carefully into a folder and stood to leave. The papers will need to be signed by all members of Oliver¡¯s family before she can send them to the Commission.


    In the Archives, Oliver was his typical position: head held between hands on the table, shoulders hunched. She could only see his back but she would bet money he was mouthing along to the words.


    She didn¡¯t interrupt him, however. She tucked the folder into her room on her way outside to collect flowers for her upcoming guests¡¯ rooms. Normally, Estella would visit the florist in the village for fresh bouquets but she¡¯s still spooked from Paris and unwilling to take the risk. Homegrown flowers will have to do.


    Settling for a colorful display, she gathered her flowers in the cool spring morning. When she was done, Estella sat for a moment on the veranda to watch the sun claim the dew on the flora. But what should be clearing up was only getting hazier. On the edges of her mental periphery she felt a tap-tap-tap like one does when looking for a stud in a wall. Or like a child misbehaving at an aquarium. The noise felt like a pull, a shepherd¡¯s hook reaching to pull her off stage.


    Unsettled, Estella returned to the house, seeking its extra protection.


    Her time was running out and she still understood so little.


    ¡°Estella? Are you alright?¡±


    Oliver. He must have come down looking for her. Feeling a tightness in her chest, she realized that she probably looks as well as she feels. One glance at her face and Oliver was putting his body between her and the door, peering outside to search for the source of her alarm.


    Except there was nothing to see. Even the tap-tap-tap had ceased when she entered the kitchen.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, Oliver. There¡¯s no creature outside waiting to harm you and yours.¡±


    He turned an indignant face to her, his emerald eyes piercing. He almost looked insulted.


    Estella stood up straighter and lifted her chin as if to dare him to challenge her words.


    She almost wished he did.


    He put his hands on his hips, ¡°Why are there no servants? The house is large, surely it must have had servants. So where did they all go?¡±


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    Estella tilted her head. That is how he wants to question her? ¡°We don¡¯t have servants,¡± she explained. ¡°And as far as I know, my family here at Saint-Tourre has never had them.¡±


    Oliver made a face. ¡°Never?¡±


    ¡°My family prefers to manage the house and the grounds themselves. And besides, with the little sleep you all need they have plenty of time to do so anyway.¡±


    He crossed his arms, ¡°And they left you to manage this large estate by yourself? And any one of need who finds your door?¡±


    What on earth is he asking about? This was supposed to be about his family. ¡°What are you getting at Oliver?¡±


    ¡°Where is your family?¡±


    She waved him away, ¡°Busy. Like I said.¡±


    ¡°So busy that they can¡¯t answer your phone calls? I know you hole yourself up in that dark office just to call them.¡±


    ¡°Are you spying on me?¡±


    ¡°I want to know what help my family is receiving.¡± His eyes flickered out the window, ¡°And that they are protected within these borders.¡±


    She clenched her teeth, ¡°They are away on important business. Now really, this is enough. Your family is not in danger here. You have all the resources Saint-Tourre can provide you. Even the daughter of Saint-Tourre itself.¡± She ground this last part out, reluctant to use her position within the family as leverage to make him stop asking questions.


    Estella shoved off of the countertop she was leaning against and made her way to march up the stairs with her flowers crushed in her hands.


    Oliver grabbed the back of her shirt and spun her around to face him, ¡°And what about you? You say my family is safe here. Are you?¡± They were nose to nose now, so close she could see flecks of gold in his green eyes. It reminded her of the golden hour.


    Estella bit the inside of her cheek. Damn the man.


    ¡°I,¡± she dragged out that one syllable and let it hang in the air between them for a moment. ¡°Oliver Morris, am not your weight to carry. Here at Saint-Tourre, you are my burden. Not the other way around.¡±


    The words had their desired effect: Oliver flinched away from her and dropped his hand.


    It was a cruel thing to do, to throw the power dynamic in his face but she could not let him poke and prod his way to the truth.


    That she was a dead woman walking.


    It was a truth she had felt for some time not but had refused to acknowledge. But she felt it in her bones, someone was coming to claim their debt.


    And after all, where was her life? She has spent most of her time too afraid or weary to go beyond the walls others created. Helping Oliver might just be the most exciting thing she¡¯s ever done because she got to choose to do it. She could have turned him away. Sent him to others who could have done something instead. But he was here and he needed help.


    And Oliver¡¯s questions about the danger she or his family might be in only reminded her that her life lacked color without her family. That she was drawn in outline, an unfinished portrait.


    She felt the burning sensation of shame at the self-conscious withdrawal of his hand¡ªbut not enough to stop her from continuing upstairs with her flowers, away from him.


    After filling the vase in what will be the human¡¯s room she found Oliver in the suite between the connecting bedchambers that would give the lovers their privacy and their space.


    He was holding a bouquet and fingering the gift basket on the table.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± She demanded. He should be angry, not following her.


    Oliver sniffed the flowers. ¡°Helping. Did you put a basket in everyone¡¯s rooms?¡± He turned and walked into the other chamber, ¡°And give us all fresh linens,¡± he dragged his finger over the window sill and examined it ¡°And clean the dust?¡± His eyes fell on the bathroom, ¡°Let me guess, you also refreshed everyone¡¯s bathroom?¡±


    Estella shrugged, ¡°You all are my guests. Guests who are going through a difficult time. It is my duty to make you all as welcomed as possible.¡± She took a deep breath, ¡°And that means not calling you a burden. I am sorry. That was not very welcoming or kind of me.¡±


    He gave her a small smile, ¡°It is true nonetheless.¡± A sigh escaped his lips, ¡°And I have not been a very helpful or¡­ social guest.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s understandable, given the circumstances.¡±


    ¡°And I think, given the circumstances, that it¡¯s understandable if you¡¯re a little on edge too. You obviously do not like having your family away from you.¡±


    Estella¡¯s throat tightened, ¡°Then we understand each other.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. Can I help you now?¡±


    Oliver could have melted at the softness that overcame Estella¡¯s face. ¡°You don¡¯t have to do that. Go back to the Archives, I can take care of the preparations.¡±


    ¡°Please, I would like to help.¡± Sheepishly he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, ¡°I¡¯m pretty useless with the French paleography, if I¡¯m honest.¡±


    ¡°Oh! I should have¡ª¡±


    He held up his hand, ¡°You did enough, Estella. Now please, tell me what rooms still need flowers?¡±


    She showed him to his own room before taking the final bouquet to his parents¡¯ chamber. Estella waited for him in the hallway where a few minutes later she was rewarded with the sight and smell of Oliver in fresh clothes, hair damp and smelling like soap.


    ¡°Ah, so that¡¯s what you look like when you take care of yourself. You clean up nice, Oliver.¡± It was a tease and a reprimand. Matthieu always told her that it is hard to take care of others when you don¡¯t care for yourself.


    He stopped walking and stared at her. She turned away so Oliver didn¡¯t see her grimace. Maybe they were more similar than she¡¯d like.


    ¡°What now?¡±


    ¡°Now? I am preparing a lunch for your family. I thought that would be a nice introduction to the house for them. And would feed the human who undoubtedly will need food. Have you ever cooked, Oliver?¡±


    ¡°Not before the tea this morning.¡±


    ¡°Not even as a human?¡±


    ¡°No, we had maids who did that.¡±


    She waved her hand, ¡°How is someone supposed to appreciate the connections food creates if they don¡¯t make it themselves?¡±


    ¡°Kind of unnecessary to do when you don¡¯t eat.¡±


    ¡°No matter. I will put you on chopping duty. You can be my kitchen porter.¡±


    ¡°My mother cooks, though. She likes to make food for Hannah when she comes over.¡±


    Estella smiled, ¡°That¡¯s lovely.¡± They lapsed into a small silence then as the two of them made their way to the kitchen.¡±

 XXI:

    Once in the kitchen, Estella cleared off their butcher block of its morning remnants, gathered a set of glass bowls for the mise en plac, and then proceeded to pile Oliver with onions, carrots, and celery. On the side she placed garlic, mushrooms, and pearl onions.


    ¡°What are we making?¡±


    ¡°First, we will make a mirepoix. A mirepoix is the foundation of many classic dishes, like chicken soup or tomato sauce. Today we¡¯ll use it for the classic French dish, chicken fricassee, using vegetables from our garden and one of our butchered chickens. Your family should be able to eat it without issue. Though we¡¯re out of blood flour, so they will have to forgive me for not having bread for them. You must take Hannah¡¯s word for it about how the rolls taste.¡±


    He drummed his fingers on the counter, ¡°How long will this take?¡±


    ¡°All together? Two or three hours, depending on how much time it takes to prep for cooking.¡± Truthfully, it could take a fraction of that time if you knew what you were doing, but Oliver looked as comfortable as a barn cat newly honored with house cat status standing next to a knife in the kitchen.


    His eyebrows shot up, ¡°Two to three hours? Hunting only takes minutes, Estella. Make food for Hannah, don¡¯t concern yourself with the rest of us.¡±


    Estella waved her wine opener at him, ¡°Yes, I am aware how long it takes to hunt, Oliver. I could also give them a meal that takes minutes to make and not hours but where is the love in that? The care for another person that I am in position to provide? In our home, the kitchen is the heart. Why would I not let you or your family be a part of it?¡± Her face was flushed by the end of her speech, her hands only stopped when the words ceased.


    Oliver, for his part, looked overwhelmed. Estella could see his throat working nervously but he did not move back or towards her. The only movement she could see was the twitching of his hand at his side. He heaved a huge sigh that curved his chest and turned quietly to the cutting board. He chopped onions in silence.


    Estella watched him, shifting her feet back and forth..


    ¡°What is it, Estella? Am I cutting an onion wrong?¡±


    She felt the heat rising to her cheeks. She wasn¡¯t sure how to do this, she realized. She had never prepared a meal with anyone that wasn¡¯t her immediate family before.


    Oliver stared harder at his vegetables, faint color touching his cheeks now. Oh, bother, she''s making him nervous.


    ¡°No, actually. Though there is a wrong way to chop an onion. It¡¯s just¡­ I¡¯m sorry. Food and meals are very important to my family. It¡¯s how we express our feelings for each other and others.¡±


    Oliver gave her a dubious look, ¡°And you¡¯re showing us that you care?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but at Saint-Tourre we¡¯re supposed to care.¡±


    His chopping became louder, ¡°So you¡¯re fulfilling another obligation?¡±


    He pushed away from the counter, one hand coming to his hip while around pointed at her.


    ¡°No, not an obligation.¡± She told him in a low voice. Oliver dropped his hands.


    ¡°Then what? What are you trying to express by feeding us this meal? Only Hannah needs food.¡±


    Her hand waved in the air broadly at their kitchen, ¡°That¡ªthat you are safe. If only for a moment, you are safe here.¡±


    Oliver didn¡¯t respond.


    Estella tapped her fingers against the countertop. When she looked at him again, he was watching her with a confused sort of expression, like she was a puzzle he couldn¡¯t figure out. ¡°Food for me has always meant home. It¡¯s where my nonno would make risotto and pasta. Where my meme made her rabbit stew¡ªa fricassee like what I will feed you today. The kitchen always smelled a little like the wine my grandparents like to cook with and then drink with our meal. All of those memories, of cooking together, and the smells. It all feels like home. But what is home, Oliver?¡±


    He leaned against the counter and considered her question. Estella waited patiently. She noticed that while he thought, Oliver rolled his jaw back and forth slightly. ¡°I guess home to me is my mother tapping her foot to the music that me and Annette had played and fought over deciding what to play. My dad, John, often grades in the evenings so ruffling papers and scratching pens are common background noises too. Especially because Annette and Hannah do their school work on the coffee table. The scratching of their pencils is enough to drive you crazy some nights.¡±


    He frowned, ¡°But you mention smells. It¡¯s been decades since I had it, but the smell of black licorice reminds me of my mom and I can¡¯t watch baseball without thinking about father.¡±


    ¡°What were their names? Your birth parents? My grandparents, the ones who raised me, were Marguerite and Timoteo.¡±


    ¡°Angelica and Charles.¡± He looked away from her then, his eyes unfocused. She reached out her hand and laid it over his. When she made contact, Oliver snapped back to her, his forest eyes dark and wide.


    ¡°Thank you for sharing, Oliver.¡± They held that contact until she felt her heart quicken.


    She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirts, ¡°I guess what I¡¯m trying to say is that home means comfort. It means being surrounded by those who love you and who care for you. When I left the United States, a chicken fricassee was the first meal I had that made me feel like maybe everything was going to be okay.¡±


    ¡°Estella¡­thank you. For sharing this with us. I know I must seem ungrateful but you shouldn¡¯t have to do all of this by yourself. Taking care of Saint-Tourre and us¡­it¡¯s too much for one person.¡±


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    ¡°But I am not doing it all by myself.¡± She grinned and pointed at him, ¡°See! You are here.¡± A laugh bubbled out of her, ¡°See what I said about prep taking time? We¡¯re always chatting like this and you¡¯ve only cut half the onion. Go on. Keep chopping. We can discuss lighter topics now.¡±


    ¡°What do you want to talk about?¡±


    ¡°Oh gosh,¡± such an American statement coming out in her French accent made Oliver laugh. ¡°Um. Oh. Do you like music?¡±


    ¡°Yes. My sister and I like to fight over control of what¡¯s playing at home, remember?¡±


    Estella¡¯s hand reached for a small white box sitting on the window sill. ¡°How do you feel about music from your generation?¡±


    He smiled, ¡°I am particularly fond of it.¡±


    ¡°Bien! Let¡¯s hope you like the French equivalent of it.¡±


    ¡°You like 20s and 20s era music?¡±


    She laughed, ¡°It¡¯s our kitchen music. It¡¯s the only music all of us can agree on. The ¡®Roaring 20s¡¯ music is the only thing Jacques, Matthieu, and Theodora all like that plays on the radio. Plus, it reminds them of the war.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a good thing that it reminds them of a terrible display of humanity?¡±


    ¡°Non, Oliver. It is because of the wonderful display of humanity they got to witness and experience during that time. Even in the darkest times, you have to hold onto love and kindness. It¡¯s what will see us through to the end.¡±


    ¡°Poetic.¡±


    She smiled, ¡°Theodora likes to remind me of that every once in a while.¡±


    Oliver examined the carrots he was supposed to cut, ¡°But what kind of music do you like?¡±


    ¡°I shamelessly enjoy modern pop. Jacques does too but we can¡¯t convert Theodora.¡±


    ¡°You and Annette and Hannah would get along well.¡±


    ¡°Annette is your sister? I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯ve been so focused on getting everything ready that I forgot to even ask for your family members'' names. Hannah is the human¡ª you said earlier that your mom cooks for her.¡±


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right. My mother is Eva, she¡¯s a computer programmer. My father is Johannes but he¡¯s gone by John since moving to the United States a few centuries ago.¡±


    ¡°Johannes? Where was he from?¡±


    ¡°The Holy Roman Empire, Bavaria specifically.¡±


    ¡°Does he work too?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s a teacher. Sometimes adjuncts for colleges too.¡±


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s fun. Theodora does the same thing. Do you work too?¡±


    ¡°No, not really. What about you?¡±


    Estella told him about going to Paris with Jacques, and the people watching that she gets to do there. ¡°But mostly, I study magic and the humanities under Matthieu and Theodora¡¯s instruction.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t go to school?¡±


    Estella shifted her feet, ¡°No, I¡¯ve pretty much only been homeschooled.¡± She felt a flush of embarrassment. Estella is aware how weird that makes her sound, like a pariah or someone with three eyes. She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear.


    ¡°Homeschooled by some of the most impressive vampires in Europe? That must be¡ª¡± Amazing. Daunting. Fascinating. ¡°Lonely.¡±


    A bitter laugh escaped Estella, ¡°I can see why you would think that but I didn¡¯t feel lonely. Not with my family.¡±


    And that was true. She didn¡¯t feel lonely¡ªthere was always someone to meet in Paris or some visitor calling on their home, like Marianne¡¯s family. But¡­she would not say she felt trapped but she certainly felt isolated by her life. As if she was kept separated from the world of the living by the events of her life.


    Sometimes she thought she was a corpse, kept moving by the gods.


    She asked over her shoulder, ¡°Are you lonely?¡± There was something about Oliver. He wasn¡¯t broody or angry or bitter¡ªnone of those attitudes hung in the air about him, flavoring the space around him. But the way he held himself, slightly apart, head bent just so, shoulders broad but curved inward, made him seem as if he observed the world more than took a part in it.


    ¡°Sometimes.¡±


    She dropped the lid she was holding, so caught off guard by his honesty. She assumed he¡¯d lie. ¡°Even with your family?¡± She whirled around to look at him but his head was bent over the carrots, carefully chopping.


    ¡°Even with my family.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    He shrugged, ¡°What do you like to study?¡±


    ¡°I love languages.¡±


    ¡°Languages?¡±


    ¡°Yes, everything is in a language: society, culture, history, experience. The beauty. The horror. It¡¯s all there.¡±


    ¡°It is?¡±


    ¡°Oh, definitely. Look at French. The flowering of the French language led to some of the most impressive works of literature in Europe. But it¡¯s also a history of colonization too. If you don¡¯t work, do you study or have a hobby? Obviously, you studied French.¡±


    For some reason, this made Oliver frown at the celery he just placed on the cutting board. It¡¯s true. ¡°I¡­guess I did. But I like photography. I still have an Argus C3 and a Kodak 35.¡±


    Now that was interesting. She wished Matthieu would let her use a camera instead of making her own drawings of plants. ¡°What do you photograph? After so long, you must be very good at it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just a hobbyist. My photos are pretty simple and usually blurry.¡±


    She waved her spoon at him, ¡°Well, I think they sound lovely. There is so much beauty in simplicity.¡±


    Oliver smiled sheepishly at her and she couldn¡¯t help but notice the tiny bit of color on his neck at Estella¡¯s words. He cleared his throat, ¡°What about you? Do you have hobbies or do you only study?¡±


    They went on like that the rest of the time in the kitchen, talking about hobbies and interests while she put together the fricassee. They both like reading and museums. Oliver shared that he liked to look at the old botanical drawings. When Estella told him that she had to do those drawings as part of her studies, he begged to see them. She told him she¡¯d rather take pictures but he said anyone can take a photo, not everyone can draw. Estella learned more about what Oliver photographed: his family in daily life, usually. He was surprised to hear that she played the concertina.


    ¡°Why of all the instruments did you learn the concertina? It sounds like a funeral.¡±


    ¡°It was a gift from Jacques. He was trying to rope me into his annual musical torment of Theodora. But I like the way it sounds, all sad and melancholy.¡±


    She removed the fricassee from heat and beckoned Oliver over, ¡°Take a deep breath.¡±


    Oliver did as she instructed, breathing deeply the fragrant broth. It smelled like sweet wine and fresh rosemary and thyme.


    For the second time in 80 years his mouth watered for something other than blood. Impossibly, this smelled more delicious than the unexpected omelet yesterday. He turned to Estella, his lips parted in awe and eyes wide. They were closer than he realized, he could see the flecks of color in her irises.


    She was smiling at him, ¡°Delicious, no?¡±


    He swallowed convulsively. She hadn¡¯t moved away, just stood there triumphantly.


    The bell rang, making both of them jump.

 XXII:

    ¡°Ah! Come. The food can cool while we greet your family.¡± Estella led Oliver from the kitchen down a hallway he had not seen yet. The wall here was full length wallpaper colored a soft lavender with gray fleur-de-lis designs and decorated with pastoral paintings.


    His first time in the entry hall, Oliver had been too focused on where he needed to be¡ªthe Archives¨Cthat he hadn¡¯t paid much attention to the room. Now, retracing his steps with Estella, he noticed the imposing burgundy walls filled with large, painted scenes from literature and myths. There was Gawain, there was Saturn, and more.


    Were other rooms in the house so heavy fisted?


    Another ring.


    Estella rolled her shoulders back, held her chin high as she opened the door. His family had been allowed to come straight to the house.


    On the other side stood one man of average height with three women surrounding him.


    ¡°Bonjour, bienvenue chez moi,¡± Estella greeted the family before repeating in English, ¡°Hellow, welcome to my home. Saint-Tourre is pleased to assist you in this difficult time.¡±


    She stepped aside as she said this last part, creating space for Oliver who was bouncing on the balls of his feet behind her. He quickly launched himself at his father who caught him with equal enthusiasm. His mother (Estella guessed) reached out her arms in tenderness towards her son while the smallest of the group waited for no space and instead jumped on father and son, arms wide around them.


    The third woman, Estella noticed, stood back and watched. Her eyes were a deep brown that absorbed the sun. This must be Hannah, the human. She lacked the ethereal quality that marked supernatural beings but still, she looked charming.


    They all looked appealing, actually. Dressed as though they were in their Sunday best. It made Estella smile. Oliver showed up here in trousers and a wrinkled button up shirt, clearly worn from travel.


    She waited for the mass of limbs to begin to unwind before clearing her throat. ¡°Monsieur Morris, will you introduce us please?¡± Oliver¡¯s eyebrows knitted together at her request, the formality of French never did translate quite so well into English, especially for Americans.


    ¡°Of course, Mademoiselle¡­¡± his voice trailed off.


    Estella¡¯s smile widened. Since arriving at Saint-Tourre, Oliver had only called her by her first name, formality feeling unnecessary. Or perhaps she was lonely, but still.


    She held out her hand, ¡°Mademoiselle Saint-Tourre.¡± When the father¡¯s hand wrapped around her¡¯s, she encased with with her other hand. ¡°But you all may call me Miss de Luca, or even Estella if you would like.¡±


    Oliver seemed to fight back a smile while his father provided a large one willingly and took over the introductions.


    ¡°It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss de Luca. I am Mr Morris¡¯s father, John Becker.¡± His voice was like Theodora¡¯s: both held onto a slight accent from their youth. He had impossibly dark, blue eyes and golden hair sat on top of a wide forehead and square jaw.


    "Willkommen, Herr Becker.¡±


    His eyes, which had been wide with excitement, expanded in surprise, ¡°Please, Monsieur or simply, ¡®John¡¯ will do. I left Germany behind long ago.¡±


    ¡°Very well, Monsieur Becker.¡±


    ¡°This is my wife, Eva.¡±


    ¡°And please, call me Eva.¡± Estella smiled at the auburn haired woman, feeling out of step as John continued with his introductions. In the witch culture she was raised in, the matriarch was always prime of place in the introductions but John just moved right on.


    ¡°This is our daughter, Annette, and practically our other daughter, Hannah.¡±


    Neither woman was tall and both appeared close to her age. The shortest of the two stepped forward, her dark blond hair swinging around her shoulders as she held out her hand, ¡°I¡¯m Annette.¡±


    Amused, Estella took her hand in both of hers in greeting, ¡°Pleased to meet you.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m Hannah¡ªbonjour.¡± The French was clumsy, but Estella admired the effort. While her experience with the United States education system was brief, it left a lasting impression of disregard for other languages and cultures.


    ¡°Bonjour, Hannah. Donc. Oliver and I worked on a special treat to welcome you all to Saint-Tourre. Let¡¯s get you settled into your rooms. When you are ready, reconvene at the foot of the stairs here. Come.¡±


    The Becker family remained silent as they followed Estella through the halls of Saint-Tourre, the tall bright walls of the second floor drawing attention at every step. Outside of the Archives, it had been near constant chatter with Oliver but now he was silent too. She felt like she was intruding on a private moment despite the fact that it was her duty to see them to their rooms. But the truth was, if she was reunited with her family in the middle of a crisis, she wouldn¡¯t want an outsider watching either.


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    Maybe she should be talking, describing the artwork on the walls and the architecture that they passed¡ªit¡¯s what Theodora would do if she was here.


    She took a deep breath and broke into a story about the original owner of the manor, a nouveau riche who built a fortune in trade just in time for the French Revolution to reclaim his land.


    Estella left them at their doors. Down the hall and around the corner in her family quarters, she ducked into her bedroom and grabbed the petition she wrote earlier before returning to the kitchen. She placed the chicken fricassee in the middle of the buffet table, set the potatoes to one side, and risotto to another. She had no bread suitable for vampires, so she set a small plate of rolls at the very end and left a note labeled, ¡®For Hannah only.¡¯


    With the food displayed and the table set, Estella returned to the entry hall to wait and daydream about the day she would be reunited with own family. She imagined herself throwing her arms around Jacques the same way Annette tackled Oliver.


    ____


    ¡°Ah! Miss de Luca, your home is marvelous! So many wonderful pieces of art fill the walls.¡± It was Eva Becker, coming down ahead of the rest of her family. When she reached Estella, she gripped her hand. ¡°We should have said so when you took us to our rooms earlier, but we were so overwhelmed! It¡¯s all so gorgeous. And the flowers in our rooms! And gift baskets! Oliver said you collected them yourself? We were confused at first, as you know, we don¡¯t eat, so imagine our surprise when he told us we could eat the treats you left us. Annette bit right into one to find out. That¡¯s the real gift. It brought tears to our eyes and I had to come right down to see you.¡±


    Estella did not doubt the sincerity of Mrs Becker¡¯s enthusiasm. She didn¡¯t take one breath in her whole speech and tears pooled in her eyes as she squeezed Estella¡¯s hand.


    Before she could get her emotional barings to respond to Eva¡¯s speech, the rest of the family came down and followed suit. John pumped her hand wildly and Annette actually threw her arms around her neck. Only Hannah gave her a reasonable ¡®thank you¡¯ for her room and basket.


    Oliver stood a few steps above them and watched, a grin stretched across his face.


    Estella glared at him over his sister¡¯s head¡ªreally, the young woman must be no more than five feet tall. Surely he could intervene and redirect his family¡¯s attention.


    He merely winked at her. Traitor.


    ¡°Annette,¡± cut in Hannah¡¯s low voice, ¡°babe, I think you¡¯re suffocating her.¡±


    God and the saints bless Hannah, who lightly tugged her girlfriend¡¯s arm. The suggestion also grabbed the attention of Eva and John who stepped back with their daughter.


    Estella scooted away too and nervously straightened her skirt. She wasn¡¯t used to such affection from strangers. ¡°Yes, well, you¡¯re welcome. Now before we proceed to the treat Oliver and I prepared for you, I need you all to sign your petition for asylum. Once signed, I can send it to the Commission and we¡¯ll hear if they have accepted the month time frame or negotiate.¡±


    ¡°Negotiate?¡± asked Oliver.


    She bobbed her head, ¡°The Commission reserves the right to limit the length of your asylum.¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s already so short! A month is hardly any time at all.¡±


    ¡°I know. I argued for the full month on the grounds of my inadequacy to provide you counsel and the high probability of your support from the witches¡¯ councils.¡±


    ¡°And I suppose there¡¯s nothing else for us to do but sign it?¡±


    ¡°Not right now.¡± She held the documents out to Eva first, along with Jacques¡¯s best fountain pen that she stole from his desk the day he left.


    The older woman took it with great care before looking at her husband. ¡°May we read it first?¡±


    ¡°Of course. Out loud if you would like.¡±


    Eva read slowly, cautiously going over the formulaic language and clauses written up by a person with no experience in such matters, only knowledge gained over a kitchen table.


    Estella had to admit, hearing it spoken by someone else, she thought she didn¡¯t do that bad.


    Apparently, neither did the Beckers. The only question came from Oliver about the final clause in the petition. He asked with narrowed eyes, ¡°Why would we need to move our asylum elsewhere?¡±


    She kept her face steady, but the tap-tap-tap from earlier echoed in her ears. ¡°It is merely a precaution. Nothing more.¡±


    A tense silence settled between them.


    ¡°Okay!¡± Burst Annette, ¡°please, can we sign it now?¡±


    One by one, each family member endorsed the petition¡ªOliver last of them all. When she took back the document from him their hands brushed briefly and her breathing hitched.


    His eyebrows furrowed as if to ask, ¡°What are you up to?¡± And she desperately did not want to answer.


    Turning to the rest of the family, Estella brightly smiled but did not miss the curious expressions at her and Oliver¡¯s brief exchange. ¡°Come.¡±


    She led them back through the halls towards the kitchen, except instead of leading them to the bright room where she and Oliver prepared their meal, Estella turned left into a formal dining room. The walls were split horizontally with shiplap on the lower half and bright, patterned wallpaper on the top. The table was long and dark and appeared to be hand carved.


    ¡°Is that¡­¡± Annette started to ask slowly, walking towards a full buffet table that lined one side of the room. ¡°...for us?¡±


    ¡°I thought Hannah would be hungry and wanted to give you all the option to eat with her. Oliver was the perfect assistant.¡±


    Oliver glared at her, ¡°Quite a simple explanation for someone who gave an impassioned speech about the significance of food as a sign of safety and compassion this morning.¡±


    The Beckers said nothing as they wandered over to the buffet table. Eva silently ran her fingers along the edge of the serving dishes.


    Estella decided now was a good time to leave.


    ¡°When you are done with your meal, leave the dishes. They¡¯ll be taken care of for you¡ªand ring this bell. It will notify me that you are finished and we can meet at the top of the stairs. I will show you the Archives then and give you an introduction.¡±


    ¡°You''re not eating with us?¡± Oliver asked.


    She smiled at him, ¡°Not this time. There is much I need to do now.¡± She got one foot out the door before he spoke again, ¡°What about a plate? Do you want us to make you a plate?¡±


    Estella blinked at him and laid her hand on the doorway, she almost wanted to sit down with them. ¡°That isn¡¯t necessary but thank you.¡± She waved her hand at the family, most of whom were eagerly flipping their eyes between her and Oliver, ¡°Now eat. I will see you later.¡±

 XXIII:

    The earthy scent of leather filled her senses when she sat down in Theodora¡¯s plush, creamy desk chair.


    The office her grandparents shared was the most somber room in Saint Tourre. The thick dark wood of the desks matched the deep coloring of the walls. So much of the house was bright and homey, Estella never understood why they left this room so depressing.


    On the corner of the desk sat a simple two-tiered file organizer. The top was labeled ¡®¦Å¦É¦Ò¦Å¦Ñ¦Ö?¦Ì¦Å¦Í¦Ï?¡¯ incoming and the bottom was ¡®¦Å¦Î¦Å¦Ñ¦Ö?¦Ì¦Å¦Í¦Ï?¡¯ outgoing. The lower tier is where she placed the signed petition.


    She felt a low pulling of the air and then it was gone.


    No time to lose now, Estella picked up the rotary phone on her grandmother¡¯s desk and dialed.


    Like a theater actor dons a costume, she too prepared for a performance. Unfortunately, she wasn¡¯t sure who Estella de Saint Tourre was supposed to be. Estella de Luca was easier, she was a young lady, a student of magic and the humanities. But Estella de Saint Tourre? Sure, she knew how to manage the house but to actually be the representative of it? That was never expected of her beyond putting on a good public face. Was she cool and professional like Theodora? Casual and disarming like Jacques? Quiet but straight-forward like Matthieu?


    The family downstairs needed help. Maybe that is where Estella de Saint Tourre would start. She was a helper.


    She took a deep, steadying breath.


    ¡°You¡¯ve reached the English Council, this is Patricia. How may I help you?¡±


    The world is filled with helpers.


    ___


    Estella was on the phone with Italy when the dining room bell rang. Her brows furrowed when she saw the time. The family spent an hour and a half eating, why the rush?


    Thankfully, she had already secured the Italian Councils support¡ªEstella had guessed correctly, relationships with humans were too close to the chest for the witches to give up ground to the Commission. Each phone call took an inordinate amount of time, however, as the councilors wanted to impart knowledge on Estella de Saint Tourre, new to the mantle. She knew most of them personally, having met them at her home during the few occasions her grandparents held gatherings.


    The German Councilor, a lovely, frumpy woman, described her as a duckling finally getting its feathers.


    The French were unfazed.


    The Italian Councilor, an older, pot bellied man if she remembered correctly, was currently warning off of Machiavelli.


    The English Councilor was the most helpful. Marie Ricker was an old family friend, born into the friendship as her mother before her was. It was why Estella called her first.


    After confirming Estella¡¯s alone state, Marie went into full guidance mode, advising her on the best order of phone calls: ¡°You must call Germany next. Even if Herr Becker does not consider himself one of them any longer, the German Council will still to assent their authority. Especially after what happened with the werewolf.¡±


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    Estella hung up on the Italian Councilor. There was still much to be done, and a lot of waiting too for the Commission¡¯s response. She had phone calls to make, arguments in favor to write and rewrite and rewrite. She had bureaucrats to navigate who simultaneously valued her family¡¯s position in supernatural society as important advocates for transparency between the Commission and Witches but who would also infringe on her family¡¯s position in a heartbeat if it meant getting the power for themselves.


    In other words, Estella couldn¡¯t accept too much help from any quarter.


    She stood up from the deep mahogany desk with a groan before pasting what she hoped was a pleasant smile on her face.


    To the Archives.


    ___


    While Annette looked nervous to touch any of the older documents, Hannah slowly turned them in wonder. Eva quickly settled in with a piece of paper and an eraserless pencil and John looked right at home next to her.


    Oliver flitted between his sister and her girlfriend, encouraging them with his own progress and reference materials. It reminded Estella of Jacques, who seemed to always be over her shoulder providing support. Oliver looked at her and smiled. Whatever emotions were on her face must have alarmed him because his eyebrows knitted together and his smile dropped, opening to speak to her, to reach out.


    She turned sharply to John, ¡°You seem quite comfortable with legal documents. Were you a barrister previously?¡±


    ¡°A notary.¡±


    She smiled, despite herself. ¡°Then many of the sources will be familiar to you.¡± She addressed Eva, ¡°And you seem acquainted as well?¡±


    Eva smiled up at her, enthusiasm shining through her eyes, ¡°I¡¯ve studied a bit of paleography. Mostly to read this one¡¯s¡ª¡± she poked her husband with a pencil, ¡°hand writing.¡±


    Estella didn¡¯t stay much longer to overlook their progress. John and Eva knew enough to not require more help and Oliver seated himself between Annette and Hannah to encourage them as needed.


    Oliver¡¯s eyes locked onto her as she made her departure, promising to return later and that there were snacks in the kitchen for them all.


    She returned to the oppressive office to make more calls: Poland, Morocco, Turkey, Romania, Belgium¡ªshe couldn¡¯t forget the Belgians. Now she left voice messages, ensuring an avalanche of morning calls in her near future.


    The sun was down now, stars dotted the sky across its blanket of deep blues, purples, and blacks. Movement on the line where the tree meets the stars caught her attention. Estella left her spot at the desk and stepped closer to the window, her forehead hovering just above the glass.


    The motion along the horizon didn¡¯t stop, it kept going like a train with intentionally flat, alternating wheels. It would disappear only to circle back moments later.


    Vague memories from her childhood in America flashed across her vision. Ghoulish horsemen, processions of the dead, offerings for peace, the meanings of which hung just beyond her comprehension. She remembered her grandparents very clearly, but that clarity morphed as time passed. She could recall their faces, but the edges blurred now. Their voices, but their specific tenor only came with certain words, like ¡®I love you.¡¯ She knew what they smelled like, but the crispness of the scent no longer clung to the belongings she brought with her. The most poignant memory, the one that felt still so sharp, was the love they felt for her. But there was another emotion that dominated their household, the undercut every step.


    Fear.


    Watching the procession pass across the horizon again, goosebumps rose on her flesh. Estella roughly dragged the heavy curtains across the windows, encompassing her in total darkness. Not that it mattered much anymore, her eyes changed years ago, a mess that was. Jacques fretted over her endlessly during those days.


    Back at the Archives she found the family still working though the two young women appeared more settled than before.


    Eva noticed her in the doorway, ¡°Ah Miss de Luca, hello. Will you be joining us now? Oliver tells us that you¡¯re quite the researcher.¡±


    Oliver, who had been looking at Estella since she entered the room, turned his eyes to the table.


    She smiled at him, ¡°He¡¯s being kind. Anyone can appear impressive when the observer is new to the experience.¡±


    Eva¡¯s head cocked at her statement but for the life of her, Estella wasn¡¯t sure what was interesting about it. She cleared her throat, ¡°But no, I¡¯ve to ask Hannah if she would like some dinner.¡±


    Hannah said she would and they arranged for her to come down to the kitchen in an hour to eat. Since this meal would not be fit for vampire consumption, they would take it informally at the kitchen table where Estella and Oliver shared a light meal.

 XXIV:

    Estella took three fingers and carefully made a well in the flour on the counter. Next she put her eggs and a drop of olive oil in the crater. Picking up her fork, she began to mix the eggs, tentatively knocking the flour into the wet and a dough formed that she could work with.


    As she kneaded, Estella thought about her family. Her fate, created perhaps centuries ago in circumstances far beyond her control by a woman who¡¯s name she shared¡ªand beyond her of the actions of hateful men who forced Estelle¡¯s hand.


    Myths and legends drove their actions like they inspired the Stranger to come for her.


    Blood of the Gods.


    It all led to this moment of her alone in their kitchen, a place they all so often gathered, making her nonno¡¯s pasta for comfort.


    What does it mean? Where is it headed? Where was she headed?


    She leaned over her dough on the counter and took a deep breath before covering it with a damp towel.


    Much like this dough, Estella felt like she had spent most of her life resting¡ªwaiting for others to make their moved and try to shape her to their liking.


    You are the payment.


    Outside the window she could no longer see the ghastly train riding upon the horizon, but she knew that they were there. Deep down, she knew that they had always been there.


    ¡°Estella?¡±


    She whirled around, hand to chest, ¡°Oliver! Oh, mon Dieu. Hello.¡± He was frowning, standing a few feet away.


    ¡°Sorry, I didn¡¯t mean to scare you. I asked if you wanted help but you didn¡¯t respond.¡± He looked down at her messy work station. ¡°What are you making?¡±


    ¡°Pasta,¡± she poked the ball of dough as she said it. It bounced right back, ¡°Perfect.¡±


    Oliver watched her warily, perhaps he thought she¡¯d gone mad. ¡°You want to help me cook? Do you not want to keep working in the Archives?¡±


    ¡°Mom kicked us all out to take a break. Annette and Hannah should be down soon.¡±


    Well, good. You worked non stop for three days.¡±


    ¡°So can I help you?¡± Estella was surprised that he sought her out in the kitchen but she was delighted that he wanted to help her. The kitchen, more than any room in the house, felt the loneliest without her family. She handed him a knife and the same vegetables he cut earlier that day, ¡°Chop.¡±


    He followed her directive carefully, watching her collect ingredients and prepare a pan.


    Just under her breath, Estella hummed to herself. She looked at Oliver over her shoulder to find him staring at her, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. ¡°Are you finished?¡± she asked.


    Diced onions scattered across the cutting board as he snapped back to attention. ¡°Um, yes. Here.¡± He looked awfully flustered as onions dropped off the edge of the board and onto the counter, his cheeks colorings a pale pink.


    She could hear footsteps then, coming down the hallways. Estella intercepted them at the doorway to give Oliver time to recover from¡­whatever had distracted him. Perhaps, she wondered, he was trying to catch the song she had been humming.


    ¡°What are we cooking?¡± Annette asked, swinging her and Hannah¡¯s intertwined hands between them. What was with this family and helping?


    If Oliver noticed their slightly disheveled appearance, he did not comment and neither would she. Estella always loved watching the couples walking around Paris when she would occasionally sit outside the courthouse waiting for Jacques.


    ¡°A simple pasta. It will be ready in half an hour.¡±


    ¡°Is there anything we can help with?¡±


    Estella assured them that there was not¡ªand that was true, it really was a simple sauce and Oliver had already claimed the one spare job of vegetable chopper¡ªand shooed them out the back door to explore the garden and grounds, ¡°but don¡¯t go past the tree line.¡±


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    ¡°What¡¯s in the woods?¡±


    She smiled at the petit vampire who was unable to imagine a more fierce predator than herself, ¡°You never know.¡± Tap-tap-tap, who¡¯s there?


    Hannah paled but Annette looked skeptical. ¡°Do not leave the yard after night and you will fine. Enjoy the flowers. They should be very fragrant. Go, it is a pleasant night. You will be safe,¡± she encouraged.


    Estella expected Oliver to follow after them to make sure that they heeded her warning but he remained in place, leaning against the counter.


    ___


    She went to the stove and they shared a companionable silence. Oliver sat down at the small table, and took in his surroundings. An oppressive feeling had been pushing in on him since yesterday. Was it this place, with all its grandeur and history or the young woman standing across from him now? He couldn¡¯t decide, but if he focused on it too long his lungs burned with such an intensity that he couldn¡¯t breathe.


    Estella buzzed around the kitchen, tidying up the small messes they had made. She recalled the dishes in the formal dining room and made her way there only to find the room spotless. She checked every nook of the room¡ªunder the buffet, on the chairs, behind the plants. Not a sign of mess or that group of five had eaten there only a few hours before.


    She ran back to the kitchen, Oliver staring out the window until he caught her breathless state in the reflection.


    ¡°Did you all clean up after yourselves?¡± EStella chest clenched. Was she that bad of a host? Was she letting her family down?


    Oliver caught sight of her high colors, his tilting in confusion. ¡°Yes. We wanted to help.¡±


    The young woman stood at the edge of the kitchen wringing her hands, a corner of her half apron balled up within them. Was she doing this all wrong?


    ¡°Is there something wrong, Estella?¡±


    There was always something wrong, she wanted to scream. The very edges of her life she could not trust or did not understand. Only the center. Only her family who she could see all their shades and hues.


    ¡°Estella?¡± Apron still balled in his fists, her dark eyes bore into deep green ones searching all the way down.


    This is what she saw.


    She saw a young man devoted to his family, who brought his mother flowers and craft kits he thought she might life. A good son who chopped wood with his father and sat at the table with him when he created his school lessons. An attentive brother carefully explaining homework to his sister, smiling when his place at her side was taken by her lover.


    She saw a young man uncertain of his place. Uncertain that their life was the right life. There was no Annette. His relationship with Eva and John was much less stable.


    She saw a young man who left his family.


    She saw through the decades of his life, to the core of him.


    She saw a young man with a sad heart.


    ¡°Estella?¡± His voice crashed over her like a wave, rolling her over and washing her back upon the shore. He stood cautiously now, one foot towards her. She felt wetness on her cheeks.


    She looked at his concerned face.


    She saw a good man. She left her traitorous tremor in her lips. He was so sad.


    What would her family want her to do? She was overwhelmed. The wrong guest stepping in, the wrong politician hearing about it, could threaten the balance of Saint Tourre. But Oliver was a good man. He did not want to harm Saint Tourre and all it stood for. In him, she saw his family and their small, quiet lives. That is what they are fighting for. Not Saint Tourre.


    Estella tried to breathe but still, her chest felt like it was on fire. What would her family think?


    ¡°Estella?¡± Another step.


    She wished she could blame her lack of self-composure on Oliver, on his fine eyes or the handsome set of his jaw, but that would be dishonest.


    Estella had never been the kind of person to hide herself away from others. Her family actively encouraged her to share her feelings. But they had also never intended for Estella to be put in a position to wield any real influence beyond her name.


    What would they tell her now? To walk away? Send the Beckers to the Council? To not give into the strain of uncertainty and collapse into the folds of her shirt on the kitchen floor with a house guest-in-need as witness?


    Footsteps. The rustle of his clothing. Oliver was next to her now, crouching. ¡°Estella? What is the matter? I¡¯m sorry we cleaned the dishes?¡±


    The balls of her hands rubbed her eyes. ¡°No. It¡¯s¡ª¡± She sighed in frustration, ¡°It¡¯s not the dishes.¡±


    Oliver slid down the lower cabinets opposite her, ¡°Then what is it?¡±


    She threw her hands up, ¡°I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing, Oliver! And they all know it! Every choice I make could have consequences for Saint Tourre. And any loss of ground here could hurt people. Both those who will need help and those who already received it.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re worried that you¡¯ll fail your family. And those who rely on the knowledge they curate at Saint Tourre.¡± He didn¡¯t say it like a question.


    Estella stared at the pleats of her skirt in response.


    A warm hand rested on her forearm. ¡°Estella, with us there is nothing deeper. Sometimes doing dishes is just doing dishes.¡±


    She looked up at him again. Whatever had come over her earlier when she looked at him, the power still held some sway because when she stared into his green eyes again she could still see down to the center of him.


    He was a good man.


    ¡°Thank you, Oliver.¡±

 XXV:

    After her kitchen floor sit, the next few days ran smoothly. The Beckers ran Estella off from her maid service, which freed up her time considerably to obsess more about her own family. The Commission too granted their request for a full month¡¯s preparation, citing the total support of the councils and historical precedent she had laid out in her brief.


    She paced restlessly in front of Theodora¡¯s desk waiting for the response to come in. There were several false starts as Councilors kept sending her mail, trying to get their claws into her with a good face. Estella was beside herself with joy that she was successful but that was immediately dampened by pressing fear that she would somehow fail the Beckers and her family. This was, she increasingly felt, the last act she may ever do. It had to end on a good note.


    Oliver became a common companion as well, often seeking her out when taking a break from the Archives or escorting her out of them when she was there.


    Estella kept calling her family but she suspected that no matter how much she called them, they were unreachable. She also doubted that the temple was on any map if it was truly so well hidden. Besides, so long as the Beckers were in asylum at Saint Tourre, she couldn¡¯t leave anyway.


    Theodora told her once about a witch who, through the power of meditation, could send messages to those she was connected with. Matthieu liked to begin each magic lesson with meditation¡ªhe said it helped to center your focus. She was always found that it made the quiet parts of life too loud. After their first session, in which the birds chirping drover to near insanity, she had shattered the bowl she was putting ingredients into she became so frazzled by the noise.


    The lesson pivoted to one about how to put broken objects back together, which after a few deep breathing exercises she was calm enough to do moderately well. Some of the pieces weren¡¯t in the right places but the bowl was usable again.


    She¡¯s gotten very good at it.


    But she did get a hold of meditation eventually with Jacques¡¯s helpful suggestions to count slowly with each breath, like her nonno taught her to do.


    It was early in the morning, right after she had her cup of warmed blood and tea when she felt brave enough to travel the well worn path to their practice building. It was really an old wattle and daub hut that a witch used to the live in but she died quite some time before Estella¡¯s arrival to France.


    Bidding farewell to the Beckers for the day, she followed the path to the hut, morning sunlight filtered through the tree coverage and glistened off the dew on the wildflowers lining the dirt trail. The pack on her back was so heavy that it bent her over slightly. May have over packed for her trial meditation, she thought, but with magic it is better to over prepare than not.


    The forest felt tense, anticipatory as she approached the study room where she and Matthieu worked. The air felt static and clung to her skin.


    Perhaps the woods wanted to know what was wrong? where is Matthieu? why is she alone?


    Estelle never came out here alone. It is not surprising that the forest knows something is wrong.


    The hut was as they left it. Books and notes laid out on the table, Matthieu¡¯s practice poultice making, charms to ward off harm and illness were strewn about. Scraps of paper littered the floor and there were pencils, chalk, and charcoal in various spots from their exercises. All of this was meant to be returned to the next day, when it had, in fact, been many weeks now since she last stepped foot into the room.


    She cleared a spot for herself on the floor and took out the books from her backpack that she had been studying. Most of the necessary objects were already in the hut: candles, incense, and the like. The candles provided more light and served as an alert when magic worked or didn¡¯t, in case she couldn¡¯t feel it. Some magic was like that, too subtle for even the user to notice. The incense did nothing but clog her nose, though Matthieu swore it helped with concentration.


    Drawing a circle, she sat in it and began to even out her breathing. For once, the forest was silent. She breathed deeping. In for ten. Out for ten.


    In for ten.


    Out for ten.


    In for ten.


    Out for ten.


    In.


    Out.


    In.


    Out.


    The sweet scent the herbs filled her senses, lulling her into a haze colored by rosemary and thyme.


    Through this haze she walked through a field of lavender, thyme, and rosemary bushes as high as her head. It was if the ground was catching up to the vegetation. As she walked, the bushes slowly got shorter and shorter, eventually staying at below her knees. As the herbs shortened, tall ferns took their place and in their turn, trees took over the ferns until she was in a forest so thick Estella couldn¡¯t find the path back.


    She would think she saw it, but just as she turned the path would move, always sliding just out of sight. What¡¯s more, the view in front of her was the same no matter where she looked¡ªthe trees were always the same, trunks so tall she couldn¡¯t see the top.


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    So Estella walked, a hard knot settling in her stomach. If she wasn¡¯t allowed to go any other direction then there was no way to get lost¡ªbut at whose command was she going?


    For ages it seemed she walked yet there was no indication that time was passing. The same filtered sun light slipped through the treetops. Once she stopped and tied a hair tie around a low hanging branch.


    She came upon it again a few moments later.


    The trees were repeating.


    At the sight of her hair tie, Estella¡¯s breathing quickened. Wherever her meditation took her, it wasn¡¯t to her family.


    But maybe she could wrestle control back.


    When you wield magic, Estella, you are borrowing power from forces impossible to understand, Matthieu had warned her.


    Estella concentrated hard on her family. On Jacques. On Matthieu. On Theodora.


    She focused on the way that they smelled, the way that they sounded when they walked down the echoing hallways of Saint Tourre, the way it felt to be in their presence.


    Warm. Comforting. Home.


    The woods shifted, grew darker even as more paths opened up before her. Three spur trails branching off to the side, away from the main path.


    She chose the middle path.


    Holding her family forefront in her head and heart, the landscape began to open up with wildflowers blooming where tree coverage had been. Still, the forest remained a looming sight, fighting for its space over the foot path, over her mind.


    Then she heard it, felt it in her bones, the echoes in her nightmares¡ªthe sound of beating hooves.


    The first time Estella heard the noise was the day of her attack outside her grandparents¡¯ home.


    It often accompanied her nightmares ever since, acting as full background noise to her life.


    Except this wasn¡¯t background noise.


    Pumping her arms to go faster, Estella began calling out for her family, her voice straining from exertion and fright. ¡°Jacques!¡±


    ¡°Jacques!¡± The forest echoed back.


    ¡°Matthieu!¡±


    ¡°Matthieu!¡±


    ¡°Theodora!¡±


    ¡°Theodora!¡±


    Her voice was drowned out by pounding hooves upon her, so close EStella could hear the clinking of the saddles and reins.


    The forest opened up to a wildflower clearing, at the other end she could see the shapes of her family,their shapes bent and intent as they listened to someone Estella could not see.


    On a fallen tree trunk to the right of where she entered the clearing sat the gaunt priestess from the night of her grandparents¡¯ death. Her empty eyes looked upon her, if she could Estella thought she might be smiling, ¡°It¡¯s alright, child of the gods.¡±


    At her speaking, the hazy form of Jacques turned towards them, his eyes landing on nothing.


    Matthieu and Theodora looked too but again, could not see the youngest member of their family.


    Estella called their names again, crying out for them to hear her as the drumming of hooves overcame her.


    Rough hands grabbed her out of the way of the riders, ¡°It is alright, child of the gods.¡±


    ___


    Estella gasped for breath as she came out of her meditative state, tears streaming down her face.


    Body doubled over, she curled on the floor and repeated to herself that her family is safe. That they aren¡¯t in danger. That they made it to the hidden temple. That they are safe.


    She tried to ignore the thought that she wasn¡¯t though.


    After a good fifteen minutes on the floor spent between wallowing, reassuring herself, and deep breathing, Estella realized she was alone in the woods, away from the comfort and perhaps the protection of the main house. Quickly, she threw her things back into her bag and fled out the door towards her hom. Back down the well trod path she ran, fear pushing her on. It looked wilder now, the vegetation twisting and writhing across the trail towards her.


    At home she snuck in through an old servants¡¯ entrance, afraid to find a member of the Becker family in the kitchen. Using the disused passageways, she made her way to the library and threw her bag onto the table beside the window where she always sat. Her loose school notes flew to the floor.


    She kicked her chair in fear and frustration¡ªto hard. The force of the blow splintered the leg.


    The sight of that cracked wood stabbed deep at Estella who let out a feral cry and covered her face in agony.


    Whatever time she had left, Estella was entirely in control of it.


    The wraiths were circling to claim her family¡¯s debt, to claim her. She was positive that is what her vision meant: her family was safe but her time was over.


    But she doesn¡¯t know what the tapping at the border of Saint Tourre was. Had the Stranger also come to claim her?


    And the priestess, where does she fit in all of this? What does she know about time?


    A decade. A decade they have looked for answers. The debt. The blood. Her.


    And in the end, she has nothing to show for it except a self-enclosed life, very few friends, and her family who adore her.


    Her family who isn''t here.


    Time was fast approaching and she will have to meet it alone.


    ¡°Estella?¡± She closed her eyes. Oliver. He always found her.


    Comforting hands rested on her shoulders, close to the curve of her neck. If she leaned slightly, the concerned gesture would turn into a caress. She imagined those hands cupping her face, wiping away her tears, and her leaning into him, accepting his comfort, his friendship.


    She imagined telling him everything; him fighting the world to save her¡ª and he would. He may have regrets about his actions in the past, but Oliver was steadfast and loyal. He loved deep.


    Tears slipped down her cheeks. She wanted the kind of comfort, that kind of love but she couldn¡¯t do it.


    Didn¡¯t have time for it.


    Gently, she placed her hands over his and removed their calming presence. Oliver let his hands fall to his hips, half fisted like he felt the danger at her back and was ready to fight in a moment.


    ¡°I miss my family.¡± It was the truth, at least. Her words came out choked and bereft. It was all she could share though, the rest she would burden alone.


    ¡°Still no word then?¡±


    ¡°Non.¡±

 XXVI:

    Estella rubbed her jaw as she searched for a small collection of books on time, debts, and forbidden myths. Matthieu and Theodora swore that they had books on these topics at one point in time but after the wars the books went missing. No one has been allowed to carry a book out of the library or Archives since. As for her jaw, it had been bothering her since her meditation attempt. The incense seems to have given her a sinus infection.


    She was just running her hand along the top of the twentieth century section when one of the service bells chimed across the room. Startled, she slipped and slid several rungs down on her ladder, landing roughly on her feet.


    The ring¡ªa particularly high pitched noise¡ªtold her it was the front door, the real one, which was concerning. No visitors were allowed at Saint Tourre when asylum seekers were present in the house.


    At the main stairwell she caught Oliver and Annette peeking down the hallway at her from the Archives. Annette¡¯s eyebrows were raised in curiosity while Oliver¡¯s face was pensive. Turning to go down the stairs, Estella caught their heads disappearing from sight, perhaps dragged back from their spying by Hannah or Eva.


    The bell rang again when she reached the door. Estella paused to peer through the peephole and cursed. It was only a matter of time, she supposed, but really she had enough to deal with.


    ¡°Counselor, Bonjour.¡± Estella greeted the German woman with a sharp smile, all teeth¡ªa habit long picked up from her family members. All her teeth were still human.


    The counselor smiled wide at her, friendly, and tried to nudge her bag between Estella and the door frame. She¡¯s trying to get in. ¡°Estella, how lovely you look despite being put in such a horribly burdensome position! Left all alone to handle the asylum of the Becker coven.¡± She tutted, ¡°Your grandparents would simply hate that.¡±


    Estella¡¯s smile turned into a grimace, and her eyes narrowed to a glare. She didn¡¯t not acknowledge the woman¡¯s words more than that.


    At her silence, the German counselor further tried to prod her travel bag into the house. ¡°Just let me put down my bad dear, and I¡¯ll help you sort it all out. It¡¯ll be okay, help is here now.¡± She shaped her face into one of sympathy, her round eyes matching her round face. ¡°You must be so overwhelmed.¡±


    Estella gripped the top of the bag and forced it back. ¡°No, counselor. You may not enter this house.¡±


    ¡°Oh, but Estella! Think of how scared you are, to have the lives of other people on your young shoulders. It¡¯s too much for you.¡± Her plump face turned into a sweet smile. If Estella was anyone else¡¯s grandchild she might have folded into the German woman¡¯s arms, she looked so warm and inviting.


    But she was not just anyone¡¯s granddaughter.


    Behind her movement stirred on the stairs. Estella wished she could take her eyes off the counselor for one second to look to the heavens in exasperation. She did not need an audience.


    The counselor noticed their guests too. She also realized that her current tactic of concerned friend wasn¡¯t working either. ¡°Halo!¡± she called past Estella. ¡°You all must be the Becker coven.¡± Instead of her bag, she tried to shove her hand past Estella now.


    ¡°Family,¡± she corrected and grabbed the offending appendage, shoving it back to the other side of the door frame.


    Rage filled her at that moment, she was sure her grip on the woman turned painful. What time she has left and this is how she has to spend it? Defending Saint Tourre from impudent encroachments?


    ¡°Quiet.¡± she ordered. ¡°You don¡¯t speak to them. You leave.¡±


    The German woman¡¯s smile turned sharp, ¡°Now, now child. Perhaps they would like informed and experienced assistance. They are, after all, in very dire need of people who know what they are doing.¡±


    She would not hit the middle aged woman. She would not hit a middle aged woman. Estella took a deep, calming breath.


    ¡°Besides,¡± the counselor continued, ¡°I do have a right to see after my constituents. Herr Becker is German, you know.¡±


    ¡°That has no bearing here and you know it, counselor,¡± she hissed.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t we let them decide?¡±


    Estella swore she was going to crack a tooth with how tightly she clenched them together.


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    ¡°Well, Herr Becker? Wouldn¡¯t you prefer to have a fellow countryman¡¯s assistance rather than an inexperienced child?¡±


    John cleared his throat. His face was unreadable as his eyes flicked between the counselor, Estella, and his family. ¡°First, your counselor, it is Mister Becker. I have not gone by ¡®Herr¡¯ in a very long time. I consider myself American. Second, I believe I speak for my family when I say that Mademoiselle de Luca is doing a fine job and that we do not need your input.¡±


    ¡°But you do need my support, Mr Becker.¡±


    Eva¡¯s voice rang out over the party, ¡°Oh but we will have your support, won¡¯t we? Or you give over authority of witch lives to the Commission, right?¡±


    The counselor was silent. She was right, Estella knew. Eva pressed, ¡°So we have it, don¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°Well¡ªwell, yes. I suppose you do. But surely¡ªbut surely you prefer a more experienced counsel than an ignorant child.¡±


    Estella really was tired of being dismissed like a toddler, ¡°You have made your opinion on my abilities very clear, counselor, and now it is time to go.¡±


    ¡°You dismiss me?¡± the older woman scoffed, her face distorting in outrage. ¡°You have no right to be here. You¡¯re just a stray that Jacques brought home. Can¡¯t believe I am supposed to take directions from some half breed mistake and not¡ª¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± growled Oliver who was suddenly standing behind Estella¡¯s shoulder, his breath brushing her ear. ¡°Mademoiselle de Luca asked you to leave and my parents have refused your help. Go.¡± The last word came out like a hiss.


    Whatever Oliver¡¯s face looked like, it must have been adequately frightening because the counselor backed from the door. Estella imagined he was baring his teeth, fangs protruding, cheek bones taking on a sharpened appearance, his already light skin taking on a pallor.


    ¡°Goodbye, counselor. Have a safe journey home.¡± While Estella could not physically throw the woman out, she could slam the door in her face and relish it. Which she did.


    She then walked over to the blood red cord that hung behind the door and pulled it. The front door subtly distorted and then stale air filled her nose. Peeking outside, the counselor was nowhere in sight. Good.


    When she stepped back from the door, her back met Oliver¡¯s chest. His hands came to grip her elbows.


    For a moment, she was suspended in that closeness, in the intimacy of his touch. His scent engulfed her, filling her lungs.


    She could drown in it, dig her hands in its earthiness.


    Estella forced herself to step out of his reach, fighting the blush that colored her cheeks¡ªhis family was right there, watching them.


    ¡°Estella¡­¡± her name hung loaded between them. What was there to say? She was humiliated and challenged in front of them, in her own home. Her inadequacy was thrown in her face with an audience.


    The counselor called her a mistake of nature. She had always wondered if people thought that but no one had ever dared say it. She didn¡¯t choose this life.


    She tried to close herself to the hurt from the insult but it was hard. The urge to wrap her arms around herself rose within her, to hold herself the way her family would have held her.


    Eva stepped forward, ¡°Estella, what she said to you¡ª¡±


    She put a hand up to stop her, ¡°Please. Do not. She is right.¡± She chewed her lower lip. ¡°Partially. I am inexperienced. I told you that and you refused her anyway.¡± She breathed deeply, ¡°Thank you for not accepting her help. That would have made this a lot harder.¡± But still, a part of her wished that they had taken the counselor¡¯s offer. Who was she to an educated legal professional?


    ¡°Of course, Estella. You¡¯ve been so kind to us. How could we let that awful woman help us?¡±


    It was a rhetorical question but it reminded Estella of the provision she wrote into the contract at the end¡ªand how maybe the time was approaching to use it.


    ____


    Two weeks out from the hearing date, Estella was in the drawing room adjacent to her bedroom reading the newest draft of the Beckers¡¯ defense. It was the wee hours of the morning¡ªsince the meditation incident she¡¯s avoided sleeping, afraid of what she might find. Or what might find her.


    But tonight wasn¡¯t the nightmares that kept her up. The sinus infection seemed to have no end in sight. She wasn¡¯t sure what she should be doing with the drafts other than edit them and offer her opinions on what she thought her family would say, which boiled down to, ¡°here¡¯s this historical precedent and here¡¯s this previous ruling etc etc.¡± The book, The Persecution of Witches 1300-1700, served as her lap desk.


    In the middle of stretching her jaw while writing a comment, she coughed. When her face emerged, in the corner of her elbow was bright blood splatter. The pain in the back of her jaw, which she had been ignoring as a dull ache, roared to life. Like fire, it spread from the back of her teeth to her incisors to her gums to her tongue until the metallic tang of blood filler her mouth.


    Half-blind with pain, Estella ran to her bathroom. In the mirror she looked at her mouth, trying to see through the blood seeping through her skin, drowning out her teeth.


    ¡°No! No! No!¡± With each guttural cry of denial, blood sprayed and spilled across her vanity making it look like a crime scene as tears streamed down her face.


    She was supposed to be done with this, she begged silently. Over a year had passed since her last transformation, since her body¡¯s last adoption of vampire attributes.


    With frantic force, she hit her sink with the heel of her palm, sending a crack down the bowl to the drain and over the edge where it disappeared into the cabinet.


    The sobs started to choke her, the blood clogged her breathing. Estella struggled, gasped, coughed for air. She started to beat her chest like she did the vanity, trying to knock loose the blood and saliva drowning her.


    Through the spots clouding her vision she stumbled out of the bathroom, knocked into her lingerie chest, and tripped over her chair, smacking her face against the floor.


    She did not get back up.

 XXVII:

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    Oliver did not see Estella that morning in the kitchen. Every day since his family¡¯s arrival he shared a morning tea with her to start the day.


    He told himself that she was only sleeping. The stress over the last few weeks was wearing them all down, but it was most noticeable on Hannah and Estella with purple bags beneath their eyes.


    He told himself she worked too hard, that she carried too much and slept too little. He caught her up working long after she left them in the Archives, flitting between that dark office, the library, and wherever her bedroom was.


    She needs to sleep, he told himself.


    When he couldn¡¯t find her on his break he really began to worry. Estella was always in the house by 10 if she went out, which she rarely did to even go into the garden.


    He looked in all her haunts: the kitchen, library, he even peeked inside that dark office¡ªnowhere to be seen.


    He searched the yard, the gardens and greenhouses. Early in his time here she spent hours with her hands in the soil early in the morning or late at night after the day¡¯s heat had passed but Estella wasn¡¯t there.


    He went out to the wattle and daub house down the path he takes for hunting. The building was clearly in use and he had caught her scent near it awhile ago, so maybe she was there.


    Except she wasn¡¯t.


    Heart pounding anxiously, Oliver ran back to the house, the kitchen door slamming open with the force of his urgency.


    ¡°Oliver, what on earth has you so excited?¡± His mother asked. The rest of his family was seated at the little table he and Estella frequented, watching him.


    ¡°Have you all seen Estella today? Anywhere?¡±


    They all responded with variations of ¡®no.¡¯


    ¡°But that¡¯s not unusual, is it?¡± His father asked. ¡°Estella doesn¡¯t normally join us until the afternoon.¡±


    ¡°Oliver is always with Estella when he¡¯s not with us. They have tea together in the morning.¡±


    Oliver glared at his sister. Trust Annette to spy on him.


    His parents thankfully thought better of asking him about the implications of his interest in the young woman. Personally, Oliver had tried not to think about it himself. Estella had made it clear that their current situation was not¡­ideal for friendship.


    ¡°And you all didn¡¯t meet this morning?¡±


    ¡°No and I can¡¯t find her now. I¡¯ve looked everywhere I know she goes.¡±


    ¡°Maybe she went someplace else? Perhaps to a far corner of the property to look after something?¡±


    Oliver considered that, but Estella seemed so weary of the land beyond Saint Tourre¡¯s walls. He often caught her watching the horizon with concern, chewing on her lower lip. ¡°Not likely,¡± he shook his head.


    ¡°Have you checked her room? Maybe she¡¯s not feeling well and stayed in bed.¡± Hannah suggested.


    Everyone stood in awkward silence before Annette asked quietly, ¡°Can she get sick?¡± None of them really understood Estella¡¯s situation. Oliver simply watched and observed her behavior but the problem was that her family of vampires, according to Estella, even acted more human than they were used to.


    Oliver ground his teeth, maybe she is laying in bed ill. Maybe not. She never offered explanations about her nature either and he didn¡¯t want to make her uncomfortable by asking.He knew enough to see that she¡¯s at least part vampire and Estella has described herself as a witch.


    His father circled them back, ¡°Do we know where her room is? The house is magic and we may not even be able to access the family rooms.¡±


    He moved past his father to the small staircase tucked into the back of the kitchen. ¡°I¡¯m not sure but these are the stairs that she comes down from in the morning.¡±


    ¡°The servants¡¯ stairs?¡± Eva asked behind him.


    Halfway up the walls began to have decorations. First by paintings of landscapes then photographs. He slowed down at a close up picture of a younger Estella with a middle aged vampire, her expressive brown eyes arresting him momentarily.


    Estella¡¯s eyes were lighter now, more like a burnt caramel. This evidence and humanness, and of transformation, increased his anxiety. What happened to her? What is happening now?


    Her scent filled the stairwell. He followed it to the top and through the doorway, emerging at the end of a wide hallway, similar in design to his family¡¯s quarters but decorated wholly different.


    Where the guest rooms were was opulence, here there were personal effects everywhere. Photos, artwork, decor on moss colored walls. Faces stared back at them from all directions, all suspended in moments of joy¡ªmany drawn from happy memories.


    He followed Estella¡¯s subtle scent to the first door on the left.


    No answer at his knock. ¡°Estella,¡± he called. ¡°It¡¯s Oliver! Are you alright?¡± he asked. ¡°Could you open the door, please?¡±


    Silence.


    His chest constricted and tugged. He had to go in, he had to check to make sure she wasn¡¯t in there.


    ¡°Estella, I¡¯m coming in okay?¡±


    Still no answer.


    Now his mother and sister were crowding behind him, pushing him forward into and through the door as he turned the handle.


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    Her room was a gentle mess smothered in her woodsy scent. The curtains were pushed open on her four-poster canopy bed to reveal kicked off covers piled at the foot. At the end of the bed, on the floor, sat an open trunk, blanets hanging out of its mouth. Across was another doorway and a folding room divider. Besides that was a lingerie chest, a picture frame knocked over on top of it.


    Oliver stepped deeper into the room. Just as he was about to round the corner of the trunk he saw a hand lying on the floor. Hurrying towards it, Estella quickly emerged, barely breathing and a pool of blood around her head.


    ¡°Oh dear God, Estella! Estella, can you hear me?¡±


    His mother¡¯s hands quickly joined his in examining the young woman, while his father ushered back Annette and Hannah.


    Oliver held Estella¡¯s face gently to let Eva examine the back of her head. ¡°I don¡¯t see any sort of trauma. I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    As Oliver held her, her mouth fell open and more coagulated blood dripped out. But that wasn¡¯t what made him gasp. Human teeth, no matter how objectively perfect, always had signs of wear on them. Estella¡¯s teeth, while pearly white and straight, had some chips on the front teeth.


    Only now there were no imperfections.


    ¡°Dad, get some towels! And water! Let¡¯s clean her mouth. Something happened to her teeth.¡±


    The gums, the soft flesh of her inner mouth was like an open sore.


    ___


    They laid Estella on her bed. Oliver sat in a chair he pulled up beside her to keep watch. His family encouraged him to take turns but he would not budge from his vigil at her side.


    Instead, they shared his company with Estella. While waiting, each member of his family found something to wonder over in her room. Oliver kept hissing at them to not be so nosy but really, he wanted to know more about the young woman too. Only not this way.


    Annette was the first one to do it. She righted the fallen photo, expecting to see the faces of the close Saint Tourre family but in the frame was no one she had seen decorating the walls of the family¡¯s quarters. The house, they noticed, was decorated much more intimately in the rooms Estella frequented: the kitchen, the library, and the downstairs drawing room were the only places they had ever seen her if she wasn¡¯t in the archives. They all had personal touches.


    ¡°Oliver,¡± she called, ¡°look at this. These are humans in this photograph.¡± Sure enough, there was an older couple, their faces lined and hair grayed. They were smiling, standing in front of wisteria and holding a much younger Estella between them.


    Something about the woman in the photo was familiar, like he had seen her somewhere before. Perhaps it was just Estella¡¯s features mirrors in her own, he told himself.


    Apparently his silent observance wasn¡¯t enough for Annette. ¡°Who do you think they are?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Her grandparents.¡±


    ¡°But I thought Monsieur and Madame Saint Tourre were vampires.¡±


    He shook his head, ¡°No. The grandparents who raised her before she came to France.¡±


    His sister sat down at the edge of the bed to face him. He flicked his eyes to Estella to see if she reacted at all to Annette¡¯s weight on the bed but she didn¡¯t move.


    ¡°Came to France? Estella isn¡¯t French?¡±


    ¡°No, she¡¯s American.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± Annette studied the unconscious girl. ¡°I never would have guessed.¡± Oliver had nothing more to say and just raised one shoulder in acknowledgement. If she had more questions, which he suspected she did, his sister didn¡¯t ask them. She held her tongue until the very end of her time with him until just one more escaped her, ¡°Do you really like her Oliver?¡±


    Oliver knew what Annette was asking: is she it for you? Is she your Hannah? He had asked her the same question after he spotted her and Hannah in the corner of the university library.


    He wasn¡¯t obtuse. He liked Estella, very much so. He was attached her, even. Wanting to follow her around the Saint Tourre and make sure she was alright, that she didn¡¯t need anything. The problem, of course, is that she needed a lot but wouldn¡¯t share any burden with him. It didn¡¯t help that he didn¡¯t know how much of his attachment was because of the circumstances they were in. He wanted time and space to answer that question, wanted to not misstep where pitfalls may be plenty.


    And Estella. he had no idea how she felt. He was certain, however, that she was on her own path and she may not want to see him on it. He would be though, if she would let him.


    Annette cleared her throat to draw his attention back to her, away from where it drifted: Estella. He was gazing at her again.


    He took a deep breath as if bracing himself from a blow, ¡°We¡¯re friends.¡±


    Annette said nothing but squeezed his shoulder on the way to the door.


    It was the same response she gave when he asked about Hannah.


    No one else asked him about his relationship with Estella. Perhaps they didn''t want to know right now. Perhaps Annette told them to let it lie.


    When Hannah came, she found her stack of books, precariously piled on the floor on the other side of her bed. There were eight of them, all with bookmarks stuffed into their pages. It was a mixture too. Two were history books, one on cultural history of absinth another on the British Empire. The fiction was a hodgepodge of genre and literary fiction from Italy to Russia to Japan with some classics thrown in between.


    His mother tidied her room: righted toppled objects, folded piled clothes, stacked papers and notes. After she finished with the bedroom she turned to Estella¡¯s drawing room, commenting that it was ¡°more like a study than a place for visitors. There are books and writings everywhere.¡± After he asked, his mother read the titles to him. More history books, this time on magic, witches, and the supernatural world and beliefs. ¡°It¡¯s almost like she was writing a dissertation, there are notes everywhere, truly. I mean just¡ªOh! Oh! Our defense, Oliver. It¡¯s all marked up. But it¡¯s only half read. I wonder if she was working on it when she¡­.¡± His mother¡¯s voice dropped off. How do you describe what happened? When she collapsed? Had a health episode?


    Oliver rubbed a hand over his face. Trust Estella to be helping other people up to a life threatening event.


    His mother appeared in the bedroom, ¡°She was writing her thoughts down as she was reading. Maybe I should¡­.?¡±


    ¡°Go. I¡¯m staying with her.¡±


    His dad noticed her music collection tucked underneath her window seat. ¡°Look at these records, son. A lot of Italian, and French of course but not really as much. Some German, English, and¡­ah, Americans too. And Italian-American artists too.¡± The strong presence of Italian music wasn¡¯t entirely surprising, to the left of the window on the wall was a concert poster for the Teatro alla Scala.


    Oliver filed these observations away for later, for when he could ask Estella about them directly. The questions were lining up: Are these your grandparents you told me about? Why these novels and those history books? Do you write everything down? Why so much Italian music?


    After twenty-four hours, Estella began to stir. At this point, she was mostly moaning in pain, flakes of blood still coming loose.


    Once she opened her eyes when Oliver put his hand over hers to offer comfort¡ªto himself or to her he wasn¡¯t sure. She grabbed back weakly but didn¡¯t let go for the rest of the night and well into the next day.


    Thirty-six hours into her transformation, Estella painstakingly lifted her hand and rested it on her throat. He called for water, which she refused. She tried to speak, but only garbled monosyllables came out before she was reduced to a series of bloody coughs and labored breathing.


    Eva, holding the rejected water, asked, ¡°does she want blood?¡±


    Oliver didn¡¯t know. He¡¯d seen Estella drink blood, but only in an altered form, reheated over the stove. He had asked her how it was preserved one slow morning and she smiled at him and replied simply, ¡°magique.¡± She didn¡¯t answer his question about hunting. Would she drink it straight? Somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew she would if he gave it to her.


    Turning to his sister who stood in the doorway, he gave her instructions. When Annette returned with the warmed blood he gently lifted Estella up and propper her against his chest. Tipping the cup to her mouth, she drank eagerly. Annette came back with a second and then a third. Estella slowed with each cup. The fourth she didn¡¯t finish and push away, back into Oliver¡¯s hands.


    ¡°You need,¡± she rasped. He tried to coax her into finishing the cup but she kept refusing. ¡°You were here. You need.¡± She had turned her face towards him, their noses brushing. Her eyes had recovered their gleam, bright and intent upon him.


    ¡°Estella,¡± he spoke softly. ¡°Can you speak? What can we do?¡±


    Shutting her eyes, she laid her head beneath his chin. ¡°Rest.¡±

 XXVIII:

    Forty-eight hours into the transformation and Estella could finally speak. She was sitting up by herself and drinking, though not eating. The lining of her mouth was still too raw.


    Oliver thought she seemed dejected by her experience, slightly curved in on herself even as she tried to brush off his concern. No one really asked her to talk right now, afraid it would be too difficult for her, but Estella was happy to listen to their stories. Oliver told her about his first failed attempt at college in the 50s and how when they met Annette she had been hiding in a corner at a sock hop.


    But fear kept pressing on the edges of his mind. She felt like she was slipping away, disappearing out of reach. Something had been wrong before the events of two days ago and it only felt like things were escalating. He didn¡¯t understand what she wouldn¡¯t tell him but he had to know at least if another medical event was going to happen again and if it would, why.


    She didn¡¯t answer him for a long time. Just sat staring blankly at a bed poster for so long that he thought she would just ignore him.


    It surprised him when she started to get off the bed.


    ¡°Oh! Whoa. Nevermind. Forget I asked. Please stay in bed.¡± He begged.


    Estella still didn¡¯t acknowledge that he spoke. Instead, she gripped his forearms and gingerly lifted herself off the bed.


    ¡°Estella, please.¡±


    ¡°The library. Let¡¯s go.¡± She said in a small voice.


    Hesitating, he gently held her. He considered pushing her back onto the bed, she wasn¡¯t strong enough to resist him right now. But she was clearly intent on going, her feet shuffling across the floor. Besides, the idea of forcing her to do something made his stomach roll uneasily. Maybe a compromise would work.


    ¡°Let me carry you.¡±


    Letting out a slow breath, Estella agreed. ¡°Yeah. Okay.¡±


    Gently, tenderly, Oliver hooked one arm around her knees and the other under her arms to lift her up. Momentarily, he was overwhelmed by the feel of her in his arms. So familiar, so right when she rested her head on his shoulder as he carried her.


    ___


    In the library, through its mahogany double doors he sat her down on the forest green velvet sofa facing the fireplace. Above it hung a full portrait painting of a large family.


    She asked for her cell phone, and a brooch that Theodora had given her beside her bed, which Oliver retrieved for her. The cell phone was barely charged after two days of no use. No notifications either. She turned it over in her hands in silence, feeling the weight of it before setting it on the arm of the couch and pulling her legs to her chest.


    With a wave of her hand, Estella lit the fireplace across from her. It wasn¡¯t much to start a fire, but it was more casual magic than she¡¯s done since Oliver arrived at her door.


    ¡°Oh,¡± gasped Oliver beside her, his hands raised towards her like he might pull Estella back from the sudden fire. He caught her watching his reaction and lowered his hands, ¡°Sorry. I haven¡¯t seen you do that.¡±


    She gave a wane smile in return.


    Clearing his throat, he asked, ¡°How are you feeling?¡±


    How was she? Her body felt wrung out and yet still water logged at the same time. She didn¡¯t know where her family was but knew she wouldn¡¯t see them again for a very long time. It was coming to an end. She felt it in her bones, in her head like the low beating of tempo. Finally, the last control on her life was coming to pull its strings. ¡°I am¡­tired.¡± Yes, that summed it up.


    He stood as if to bring her back to bed.


    ¡°No. Sit. I have something to say.¡± Oliver sat but Estella did not continue. She turned instead to the portrait on the wall.


    ¡°Estella?¡± His voice was soft and gentle, like a caress. He always spoke her name like that, as if too harsh of a tone might shatter her, as if he were afraid that she wasn¡¯t really here. Perhaps he could destroy her, perhaps she isn¡¯t really here.


    ¡°Do you see that woman up there? The one with a serene smile and light in the corner of her eyes? She¡¯s wearing a red dress.¡± Oliver followed her eyes to the painting. He had seen them every day since he started seeking her out during his breaks from the Archives.


    If he gave them any thought, he never gave them a voice. The woman in question looked so different from Estella, with her blond hair, blue eyes, and thin eyebrows. Everything about Estella¡¯s appearance was bold: her hair, her eyes, her brows, even the pink of her cheeks drew a noticeable contrast from the paleness of her skin. The woman¡¯s hands rested on a girl¡¯s shoulders sitting beneath her in the painting. To her side was a table stacked with books, besides them sat a mortar and pestle. In the background were drying plants hanging from a line.


    ¡°Theodora gave this portrait to Matthieu as a gift. She¡¯d paid an artist to paint them from drawings she did.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s beautiful work. Who are they?¡±


    Who are they? That¡¯s always the question, wasn¡¯t it? The more time passed, the more the dead fall into obscurity.


    ¡°That¡¯s Mattieau¡¯s wife, Estelle,¡± she said, nodding to the woman in red, ¡°And those are his children.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I didn¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do you ever think about how much of your path you have control over?¡±


    Oliver pulled back, surprised by her question. Surely it wasn¡¯t a wholly surprising thought, not many vampires choose their lives. Was it shocking that she also didn¡¯t choose this life of hers?


    ¡°Back at the start of¡­¡± He waved at himself, ¡°...all of this I did. But I tried to make the best of it. Eventually.¡± He hesitated, his Adam''s apple bobbing, ¡°But first I tried to make the worst of it.¡±


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    Estella nodded, remembering the black parts she saw when she looked at him too closely. His answer hung thick between them.


    She knew she shouldn¡¯t ask what she was going to but she was so tired. In the hours left to her, why not know the young man beside her better?


    ¡°Is that when you left them?¡±


    His face, which had been staring dejectedly at the painting, snapped back to look at her. ¡°Who told you about that?¡±


    Estella knew that if she was well, she would be blushing. As it was, Estella¡¯s embarrassment was shown only in her attempt to hide her face in her hair. ¡°No one,¡± she said, ¡°I saw it.¡±


    ¡°You saw it?¡± He asked flatly.


    Nodding, she explained, ¡°When I looked at you. A few weeks ago in the kitchen. I hadn¡¯t meant to. I¡ªyou all did the dishes. I was overwhelmed and you stepped over to me and¡ª¡±


    ¡°And what?¡±


    ¡°And I looked. Right to the heart of you, I looked. I hadn¡¯t meant to. That¡¯s how it is with magic when you¡¯re young. Sometimes you do things unintentionally, things you didn¡¯t even know you could do. But you were so close to me right then. Like for a moment, the lines of you and I overlapped.¡±


    His fists balled in his lap. She sat waiting for his anger, for his indignation. No one likes the deepest parts of themselves exposed, even if it was an accident.


    ¡°And what did you see?¡± His voice was quiet, even with her advanced hearing.


    She swallowed convulsively. Whatever she said now mattered deeply. If she thought she had a future left in this world she might have tried to flatter him or lie to soften the blow. If she had a future and if she wanted Oliver to be a part of it, she would have.


    But Estella knew the truth about herself and there was no reason to dress up Oliver¡¯s own heart. He wore it on his sleeve enough to not need her lies. Besides, a part of her did want him to know that in the short time together (and short it would remain) that she did see him. Did know him.


    And, Estella realized, she would like the same.


    ¡°I saw a good man,¡± his hands relaxed a bit, ¡°who is a sad man.¡±


    ¡°Sad?¡± The question surprised her. Did he not know sadness ran through him to the core, like a river runs to the ocean? That he caressed it like a trinket left by a lost lover? A bit like Matthieu.


    But she had to explain it to him somehow. ¡°Oui. Like a piece of you is missing.¡± Estella explained frowning.


    Oliver stood up and paced several feet from her. His back to her but she could see the rigid plane of his back and shoulders.


    ¡°There is nothing missing,¡± He ground out, ¡°but my humanity.¡±


    Estella sighed. She knew of vampires who believed such nonsense. That they lost their humanity or their souls in their transformation. They drove themselves to misery with it.


    But the coloring of those beliefs didn¡¯t suit Oliver and it surprised her to hear him voice them. In the past weeks, he¡¯s given no indication that he held such black beliefs. It¡¯s as if in searching to understand his own life he took on someone else¡¯s rationale.


    ¡°Do you really believe that Oliver? That to be a vampire is to be devoid of humanity?¡± He looked away from her, ¡°I thought not.¡± She murmured.


    ¡°What am I supposed to do with this information?¡± He implored her. Eyes were wide and vulnerable he searched her face, it as if the green of them were made of glass and ready to shatter.


    Estella wanted to comfort him, to offer something wise like Matthieu would say but all she could respond was the plaintive, ¡°you asked.¡±


    His shoulders slumped and curled a bit, he shook as if trying to get rid of something off of his skin. The tenuous look in his eyes dissipated and he rejoined her on the couch.


    Unsure of what had just passed through him but comforted by his nearness, Estella offered her hand on his shoulder. She was surprised when he reached his arm out and wrapped it around her. Pulling her into him, he tucked her beneath his chin.


    She protested weakly, ¡°Oliver, we can¡¯t¡ª¡±


    ¡°Because of the situation and our roles in it. I know.¡±


    Frustration swelled in her chest. Several times in the last few weeks, Oliver¡¯s arms had reached for her. Always almost imperceptible, like he wasn¡¯t even aware he was doing it but craved her touch nonetheless. And always on guard, she had stepped away.


    She never accepted the intimacy. I don¡¯t deserve such closeness, she thought, not when I won¡¯t be here to see it through.


    His voice was barely a whisper in her ear, ¡°Please, just a moment, Estella,¡± Just a moment. Against her better judgment, she relaxed into him. He was warm and solid and smelled like pencil shavings and paper.


    The moment turned into two, into three, into four, into several more.


    ¡°Are you sure you¡¯re okay? From earlier?¡± He asked quietly.


    ¡°Oui, I¡¯m alright.¡± It was the truth, once the initial danger was over she recovered rather quickly from the transformation episodes.


    Oliver was silent again after that, probably processing what he saw.


    ¡°You stayed the entire time.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question but Estella felt that it should be.


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t leave you. Not like that.¡±


    She sighed, ¡°You should have.¡±


    ¡°Why were you asking about choices and paths earlier?¡±


    Estella leaned up and away from him, leaving the left side of her body feeling cold. She felt his eyes on her as she gazed once again at the portrait on the wall. Estelle stood nobly among her children, all matching her coloring of light hair and blue eyes.


    ¡°Who is she? To you, I mean.¡±


    No one knew who she was. That she was blood of Matthieu¡¯s blood. Because her family didn¡¯t know what the Stranger wanted or what, exactly, the blood of the gods was, they didn¡¯t want to make the connection known, afraid that it could draw more of the wrong kind of attention to Estella.


    But she wanted to tell him. She was about to tell him, he would keep the secret to himself, she was sure of it. Turning towards him to do just that, to tell him who the woman was, what she did, what her choices still do but a noise halted her. The terrible pounding of hooves that haunts her nightmares.


    She spun around the room, searching for the source but the library was the same as ever.


    ¡°Estella?¡± Oliver tried to catch her attention over the din. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest. He called her name again. Could he not hear it? How can he focus on her with death hunting them down? But still, nothing was happening in the library. The alarm bells beside the door sat undisturbed.


    She flew to the window and searched the horizon for that ghastly procession but it wasn¡¯t there. Still the gallop sounded in her head. That¡¯s when she realized: they didn¡¯t need to be there because the riders were already here. How much time?


    Oliver caught her before her knees hit the floor.


    ¡°Estella! Estella, what is it?¡± He was trying to look out the window while checking on her. ¡°God, you¡¯re as white as a ghost and cold as the dead.¡±


    That can only be expected, she thought. She had to get him out. Get them all out, she told herself over the beating of hooves in her ears. She tried to keep her voice even, ¡°Water please, Oliver. Water would be nice.¡±


    He was reluctant to leave and offered to call for his family to help but Estella assured him she was well enough, that it was just the shadows chasing her from her recent illness.


    He sat her down on the couch and wagged his finger at her to stay still but Estella wasn¡¯t paying attention. She was watching Estelle in the portrait instead. She wondered if Estelle knew what she was doing. Or herself, for that matter. Picking up her cell phone, Estella made a phone call for the last time.

 XXIX:

    Oliver came back shortly to find her bent over on the couch, the tips of her fingers pressing into her temples.


    ¡°I have your water,¡± He said gently.


    Reaching for the glass, she just barely heard his words over the sound of pounding hooves in her head. Estella drank slowly, savoring the relief the cool water offered her throat. She breathed deeply. It was time. She had prepared for this change of plans. Swallowing her tears, she stood. Why was she always running out of time?


    Oliver reached out to balance her though she did not sway on her feet. Still, she leaned into his hands, encouraging them to linger while knowing that soon his hands may be the last physical touch she ever had on this earth.


    Perhaps she could prolong it a little longer. ¡°Walk with me?¡± She asked, hooking her hand around his elbow.


    He stared at her hard, probably alarmed by her change in attitude, and yet he put his hand over her own to lead her out of the room. She bit her lip at the intimacy evoked by the gentle touch of his hand, fighting off a deep chasm threatening to open in her chest.


    Through the fabric of his blue button down, she squeezed his arm. Estella frowned as she considered the wrinkles in his shirt and its rolled up sleeves, signs that his focus has been elsewhere for the past few days.


    She looked up at him and it was like seeing him for the first time. There were deep bags under his weary eyes and faint lines around his mouth. A suddenly striking realization left her feeling cold: he didn¡¯t trust her. Not with her life, at least. And he shouldn¡¯t.


    That¡¯s fair, she thought. She had side-stepped all of his concerns over the past month.


    She led him towards the servant staircase that her family used to go down to the kitchen, breathing in the air there like she could hold the very passage and rooms in her lungs. But of course, she had to let it go seconds later. On their journey they passed the cabinets and countertops that she and her family banged open and shut every day in the natural choreography of their lives.


    In the hallway she trailed her fingertips over the walls, pausing at the photographs and paintings of her family and their favorite landscapes. There was Jacques, his arm slung around her. There was Matthieu and Theodora, playing chess. There was her again, bent over some magical experiment, Matthieu¡¯s shoe poking into the frame.


    ¡°It¡¯s her again,¡± said Oliver, nodding to a smaller portrait of Estelle. Beside it was a miniature Theodora made of her late spouse. ¡°She¡¯s the same woman from upstairs. Who is she? You didn¡¯t give me an answer upstairs.¡±


    Who is she? ¡°Depends on what you¡¯re asking, I think.¡±


    He clicked his tongue. ¡°I¡¯m asking who she is because you look so resigned every time you stare at her. And maybe a little angry.¡±


    Oh. Oh. Some piece of her not acknowledged slid into place. ¡°Yes, well, I suppose I am. I am resigned. And¡ªand I am angry.¡±


    Her entire life had led to the upcoming moment. No matter what, the riders would always come because of the deal Estelle made to save her youngest daughter. Her family never understood this vital fact: that she was always going to be taken.


    It¡¯s what comes next that she has to fight for.


    So yes, she was resigned and had been so for as long as she could remember. Resigned to be taken. Resigned to be the payment for a debt she had no part in. Resigned to likely die for it.


    But she was also angry, like a pressure valve that¡¯s been building up in her chest that¡¯s about to bust. A long ignored part of her brimmed with rage at Estelle. She never voiced it though, never stared her own rage in the face, too afraid of harming the relationship she had built with Matthieu over the dead wife who haunts him.


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    Oliver was quiet after her answer. His jaw was taut and Estella suspected he was working to keep his reaction under control.


    He was always so careful to give her space after their first confrontation in the kitchen but their cautious truce started to crumble when she let him pull her into his arms upstairs.


    She led him away from her great-grandmother¡¯s face by a tug on his arm. ¡°What are you resigned to?¡± He asked lowly.


    Out in the main hall, Estella changed her hold on his elbow for one on his hand. In great strides she led him to the front door. But only a few feet away he pulled her back from the door, ¡°Hey.¡± His voice was quiet and gentle, and maybe a little pleading. Like he can see the ending of a book with a plot not quite finished.


    She kept a smile on her face, finding the strength to do so in the warmth of their joined hands. This was right. It was time. Her chest felt like it was pounding in time to the fall of hooves in her head.


    Estella grasped Oliver¡¯s other hand in hers. It felt so good to touch him after a month of careful distance.


    ¡°Oliver,¡± she began, ¡°I am sorry that we had to meet under such circumstances. I wish that so much of it was different. For me. For you. For your family. As it is though, I am glad to have met you and your family.¡±


    Behind her, the door began to open. She knew who it was, Estella didn¡¯t have to look even as Oliver peered over her head. She secured his hands to draw him into her, ¡°But I have taken you as far as I can.¡±


    People were filing in now. Estella tried to step away from Oliver, to let the English Council officials separate them but he held on tighter, pulling her closer, filling the space between them with their bodies. ¡°What¡¯s going on? Who are these people?¡±


    Estella smelled a subtle shift in the air, the lightness of the air in the room changing. Too subtle for someone like Oliver to notice. A clipped, professional woman¡¯s voice followed the changing air, ¡°Oliver Morris, I presume.¡±


    Marianne¡¯s mother put her hand over Oliver¡¯s wrist. For only a moment he bared his teeth before the calming magic overtook him and his grip on Estella loosened. Up above them, she could hear the confused and surprised voices of the rest of the Becker family.


    She squeezed his hands once more before stepping away from him. They trailed after her languidly, seeking to pull her back into a protective embrace but all the force had been taken out of him. The pain and betrayal in his eyes was like a knife in her heart. Before regret could overcome her, Estella turned and walked out the front door, gasping in the fresh air.


    She marched herself away from the house, towards the center of the lawn, away from anything that could be damaged. Through a cacophony of hooves, she watched as the Beckers were packed and tucked into secure transport vans with a magical speed that impressed her.


    They all looked at her, confusion marring their features. Hannah stepped towards her but Annette interfered, pulling her away from their strange host. The vampires had sensed the tragic air around her, she was sure, with their concerned glances and wary looks. They just didn¡¯t know that it would end this way. But she had warned them, warned them that she might not be able to see this through.


    Oliver was the hardest to watch. He broke through the pacification spell at the sight of her so far away, so out of reach. He kicked and screamed her name. She didn¡¯t understand it, didn¡¯t understand why the sight of him so enraged stabbed at her heart. They had bonded but surely not that much. It was only a month. No matter what, his family couldn¡¯t calm him down. Estella watched as security tackled him and placed cuffs on his wrists and a sensory deprivation bag over his head.


    And yet, he kept calling for her, even when the doors shut on him, even as the car disappeared down the driveway. The last thing she heard was the desperate call of her own name.


    ___


    As the caravan crossed the border of Saint-Tourre the wraiths crossed into it. The sky didn¡¯t darken, thunder didn¡¯t clap, the beating of the hooves still only sounded in Estella¡¯s own head.


    The air too remained warm, but she felt it change, tasted it even on her tongue. It was as if all the sweetness came out of the air, the crispness of Summer set to rot. It was empty, bereft, still. Even Autumn and Winter had the promise of Spring.


    There was nothing apocalyptic about the scene. No hell fire accompanied their arrival. Estella wondered as the horses emerged from the woods, if she hadn¡¯t sent him away, what would Oliver see right now? Or Jacques? Would they now feel the presence of the monsters as she has her whole life? Hear the heavy breathing of the horses on their necks? The clanging of metal in their ears? The oppressive scent of overworked beasts in their nostrils?


    Or would they only see her? Standing in the middle of the lawn, turning to welcome some unseen horror? To be snatched about the waist? Would they see the final look of fear on her face as their ghostly arms roughly grabbed her and within that moment would they see no more? Only an empty lawn?


    It would be years before Estella would have answers to these questions. For now, all she left behind was an empty lawn.

 XXX:

    Estella could not breathe. Whatever life had been in her chest when she stood alone on her lawn had evaporated at the touch of the wraith¡¯s hands around her waist.


    There wasn¡¯t room for life where they came from.


    Their grip was cold and hard, unforgiving as they snapped a manacle around one of her wrists. She wrenched the free one away but a separate wraith wrested it from her, dragging her over the open space between their devilish steeds, twisting her back painfully. She pulled and tugged and fought until their grips burned into her skin.


    If she was in the mortal realm she would have screamed, but there was no room for noise here.


    Wrenching her cuffed hand free, the loose manacle snapped back against the wraith¡¯s helmet. Estella took advantage of the sudden shock to free her hand only for the second wraith to use it as an opportunity to drag her fully on their horse. She waved her hand wildly, using the metal cuff as a whip against their dark armor. Someone else grabbed her legs but she kicked ferociously, ignoring the pangs that shot up her shins with each contact.


    The wraith that held her wrist lost its hold on her and its balance on the horse, falling over into the abyss beneath them.


    Estella was now being dragged by the wraith fighting with her feet, struggling to maintain control of the offending appendages. Hands finally free, she reached for the brooch on her traveler¡¯s cloak, fumbling for the pin knife tucked inside of it. You never know, Este, when you might need to take someone by surprise, whispered her grandmother Theodora to her when she gave it to her. Holding it firmly in her fist, she slashed it deep across the hind quarter of the nightmarish horse whose hooves beat beside her head. The steed reared in pain, forcing its rider to let her go or be thrown themself.


    Estella fell, and fell, through the black canvas of space and time, swallowed by nothing and everything all at once.


    ____


    The first thing she smelled was rot. The second sense she was aware of was a pressure on her left cheek.


    ¡°Aye. Bet she¡¯s dead, Graham. Let¡¯s move her out of the way and get the garbage.¡±


    Graham, another Irishman, lowered the stick he used to poke Estella¡¯s cheek. ¡°Ah. Guess you¡¯re right. Thought I saw some movement to ¡®er.¡±


    The offending stick he held was now painfully stabbing her in the throat. Sluggishly, she swatted at it, sloppily knocking it away from her.


    ¡°Argh!¡± She moans, struggling now to sit up. Something was pressing painfully into her back and legs. When she tried to push herself up, her limbs shook and her hands, instead of finding leverage, pressed easily through the rot surrounding her.


    While the other man screamed, Graham soothed her, ¡°Easy, lass! Easy. It¡¯s alright,¡± he cooed, grasping her slipping limbs. ¡°You¡¯ve taken a turn no doubt. Let us help you up.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not touching her. She¡¯s a sluagh no doubt and you¡¯d best leave her,¡± hissed his companion.


    ¡°Unf,¡± was all Estella could muster as a reply to either man. Their words did not register with her, but rather slid through her like water down a stream. She was disoriented and confused, the decay making her want to vomit.


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    She refused the hands that touched her, wildly feeling around until she found something cool and solid. But it was thin and curved and cut into her hands. Despite this, she used it as leverage to lift herself up. Immediately, she toppled over, accompanied by the loud clanging of metal.


    Lying on the cool, damp ground, the smell of a city after rain filled her nostrils, momentarily cleansing it of the refuse around her. She opened her eyes to fallen over garbage cans and food waste. The two Irishmen were on the other side of the mess, peering over the trash heap at her.


    Estella forced herself up on wobbly legs and leaned heavily against a painted brick wall, the large text of  ¡°5¡é¡± hoovered above her head.


    If she was more herself, that would¡¯ve been her first clue.


    The shorter of the two men¡ªGraham, probably¡ªstepped towards her, his hands outstretched.


    Hands.


    Cold, hard hands grabbing her skin.


    She flinched away from him, pressing herself further into the alley behind her, tripping over garbage as she went. In the fall, she caught sight of her own hands, and for the first time took stock of herself. Underneath the dirt, grime, and refuse were deep bruises in the shape of fingers up and down her arms. A manacle still dangled from her wrist, crusted blood lining the crease between her hands and her forearms.


    Estella shoved herself off the ground, propelling herself further down the alley.


    She ran for a very long time, each hand that reached for her in help, in comfort, in alarm belonged to another phantom trying to snatch her.


    She ran through too wide streets and too narrow alleys; past men and women in too wrong clothing. Too wrong of a language coming out of their mouths when she ran into them or past them too closely, slipping between bodies as the streets filled with people.


    Her vampirism carried her through, on tired legs, the streets of the city she would later learn was New York, past the burgeoning suburbs and well into the countryside; but her humanity demanded she rest. Estella collapsed under an oak tree, rain cooling her overheated body.


    The next day she wandered south, stealing fruit from a stand¡ªand never without notice. Her clothing marked her as different, as strange. On the first day, she got away. On the second day they caught her and tired as she was, Estella couldn¡¯t escape.


    She put her arms up as the officer¡¯s baton came down on her, with each hit an animalistic rage grew from the pits of her. Thunk¡ªshe was just hungry¡ªthunk¡ªit was only fruit¡ªthunk¡ªand she was so thirsty¡ªthunk¡ªand who treats someone this way?¡ªthunk.


    On the fourth whack she grabbed the baton. The officer tried to pull it back, to hit her again, but it was too late. She crushed the baton in her hand.


    The officer backed away. Mistake. Don¡¯t back away from a predator.


    They liked the chase.


    The joke about Estella was that her vampirism was all show. A cat without claws. But even a declawed cat had teeth.


    Somewhere inside of her, Estella is oddly pleased to know that she had this side of her, this beast that her family had often whispered about, the kind of beast that held such a feral rage it could destroy the world and not blink about it. It was one more thing she shared with them.


    She lunged.


    When his blood hit her tongue the first thing she felt was relief. Relief to have sustenance, real, true sustenance for the first time in days.


    The second sensation she felt was fierce, excruciating agony spread across her torso.


    So lost she was in that wild relief that she missed the officer reaching for his gun. Missed the click of the hammer. The thunder of fire.


    Estella staggered backwards, away from the monster in front of her. She turned, she twisted, aiming to run.


    This time she heard the readying of the gun.

 XXXI:

    It was dark when Estella woke up on the forest floor, grass cushioning her cheek. Breathing heavily, she attempted to stand.


    ¡°Putain,¡± she cursed. ¡°Mother of God.¡± It hurt. Everything hurt, exploding from her torso out she was on fire. What happened? Where is she?


    She pressed her hands to her body, searching, searching for a source. Her right hand ached from being crushed under her weight for so long but she could still feel well with her left. Poking and prodding along her abdomen, she felt the sticky caking of blood, the coagulation coating her finger. Then she hole the wound.


    And then she remembered. The fruit. The policeman. The attack. The gun.


    Dear God, he shot her. A police officer shot her. A police officer who she bit shot her.


    It was like a vacuum seal had trapped her lungs. She couldn¡¯t breath, she couldn¡¯t breath, she couldn¡¯t breath. Estella didn¡¯t hunt. They saved blood from their livestock or bought it from a butcher for her. She could barely follow a scent trail. And she certainly didn¡¯t bite people.


    Estella clawed at her throat, begging it to work again, for her lungs to fill with air. She had to get out of here. How long was she unconscious? How long until he comes back?


    Rolling onto her stomach, she forced herself up on her knees, grunting and moaning all the way.


    ¡°Merde,¡± she hissed. ¡°Putain. Zut de Dieu.¡± She managed to stand partially, on knee on the ground before collapsing again.


    After another round of cursing her way to her feet, she managed to put one foot in front of the other. And again. And again. And again until the agains ran together into one long shuffle of movement. How long did she scrape her feet across the forest floor? Five minutes? Five hours? Five days?


    No, not days. Surely she would have noticed the rise of the sun bleeding out the night.


    Hours then.


    And hours more she wandered until the sun crested the horizon.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡± asked someone to her left. Through deep fog, she slowly turned her head towards the voice but her eyes saw nothing, could see nothing as lost as they were to the rhythmic motion of her feet.


    Some part of her, some deep part of her chided, no better than a human now, but the throbbing pain held together by her hands reminded her that maybe she still was, just a little bit. One then the other, one then the other, one then the other, one then the¡ª


    Loud movement to the left and slightly behind her tripped up her pattern, sending her tripping onto the ground. Rolling over, she watched a silhouette¡ªreally, her vision was not clearing up¡ªmove into the dawn light. At best, she could tell it was a tall person with dark features and light skin.


    Closer now, his appearance poked through her mind¡¯s fog and Estella¡¯s body went rigid.


    His eyes widened at the sight of her, then narrowed as his eyebrows stitched together and his mouth fell open. ¡°What happened to you? I¡¯ve never seen such a messy eater.¡±


    She couldn¡¯t form words. Couldn¡¯t think to respond even if she was well enough. Her tongue was like a cinder block sitting in her mouth. At the hollowed look in her eyes, he stepped back, but when her hands went slack on her torso he jumped forward again, leaning next to her on the ground.


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    ¡°Dear God,¡± he whispered, ¡°were you shot?¡± His hands on her were like a balm, sinking her into the comfort of having a friend nearby. ¡°Is there anyone I can take you to? A¡ªa¡ªdoctor? Maybe?¡±


    She tried to speak, but the cement in her mouth wouldn¡¯t budge, the words coming out mangled and misshapen.


    Knitted eyebrows took in her labored breathing, her attempted pleas, and his open mouth twisted into a grimace.


    Estella shook her head vehemently but the motion rocked her already rattled mind further, black closed in on the edges of her vision. Her head tilted unnaturally to the side.


    ¡°Okay. Alright.¡± He soothed, patting her gently. ¡°I¡¯m here. I¡¯ve¡ªuh¡ªI¡¯ve got you. I¡¯m going to¡ªuh¡ªI¡¯m going to carry you now. You hear me?¡±


    He waited for her acknowledgement before picking her up. He didn¡¯t know how much her weak ascent cost her, the black creeping further into her sight and then she was gone. Away from that place and from her own mind.


    ____


    Something cool and damp laid on her forehead. Lifting her hand to inspect it, she found a worn, stained cloth had rested on her brow. It was old and well-used, but where did it come from? She tried to remember but traces of fog still clung to her, hiding her memories.


    ¡°Glad to see you awake,¡± said a familiar voice.


    She turned her head to look at him. Light filtered through a window into the room, illuminating dust and dirt and the threads that ran through his otherwise dark hair.


    ¡°Oliver,¡± she croaked.


    He tilted his head curiously at her and pressed his lips together before telling her, ¡°You need to drink. Water or blood?¡±


    Frowning at his question, she answered, ¡°Both.¡± Why would he now start asking her about these things?


    ¡°You¡¯re the strangest vampire I¡¯ve ever met.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a witch too, don¡¯t forget.¡± She tried to be cheeky but she just couldn¡¯t produce the same effect through the wincing.


    He almost dropped the water jug he was pouring out of, ¡°what?¡± He shook his head, ¡°No. Drink first. Maybe eat?¡± When she nodded her head in confirmation he continued, ¡°Okay. Eat too. Then we can talk.¡±


    Leaning over her anxiously, he quickly filled her water glass as soon as she finished drinking from it. ¡°Will you be alright here by yourself? I went into town once already to get medical supplies. I didn¡¯t realize you¡¯d need food. I need to go back to get you some. I¡¯ll be quick.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be okay. Get yourself something while you¡¯re out. You¡¯ve taken care of me too much recently, Oliver, don¡¯t forget about yourself.¡±


    Estella could have sworn that Oliver¡¯s face changed at that moment. That his eyes got a little wider, his mouth a little rounder, and eyebrows relaxed, as if experiencing a pleasant surprise. But it passed quickly, his face taking on a tighter, more concentrated appearance.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be right back.¡± And just like that, he slipped away.


    In his absence, Estella tried to move around but she could barely manage to prop herself up on the blanket bed Oliver had made for her. Giving up with a groan of pain, she laid back down and surveyed the room instead. The window on the wall above her was damaged but it let in enough light to illuminate the room. There was hardly any furniture. A cracked stool sat next to her with a rolled up newspaper tucked underneath and there was a small, splintered and faded chest of drawers across the room. Dust covered everything, but it looked like someone¡ªOliver, probably¡ªhad tried to wipe it away. And right next to her, within reach, was a jug of water and a glass.


    It was a rather abysmal situation. Her torso burned, but less than she would¡¯ve thought, and she was dying for more to drink, the water just teasing her. She reached for it, of course, but all Estella managed to do was nudge it right out of reach. Exhausted and thirsty, she grunted and groaned for the liquid until she collapsed, twisted, half on half off her blanket bed.


    How long did she lay there? Crumpled on the floor? She didn¡¯t know but relief washed over her when Oliver¡¯s sharp voice cut the air, ¡°What are you doing?¡± Footsteps approached and there he was, crouched in front of her, gently maneuvering her into a more comfortable position onto the nest he made her.


    ¡°I was thirsty,¡± she mumbled.


    ¡°Don¡¯t move,¡± he said gruffly, ¡°We¡¯ll have to get on the road soon enough. Stay still while you can.¡±


    ¡°We will?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s talk in town about the sheriff and a search party. I thought I moved us far enough away but small town talk has legs. We have a day, at most, before we should extend the distance between us and that sheriff you attacked.¡±


    Estella heard his words, she swore she did, but her mind got stuck on ¡®sheriff.¡¯


    The hunger. The thievery. The policeman. The¡ªthe¡ªferalness. The gun.


    ¡°Mon Dieu, what did I do?¡±

 XXXII:

    ¡°Hey hey, it¡¯s alright. You¡¯re alright.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± she cried. ¡°I bit someone!¡±


    Oliver nodded his head sagely, ¡°That¡¯s a very common thing to do.¡±


    ¡°Common? Who cares if it¡¯s common! That¡¯s not the point, Oliver.¡± Why didn¡¯t he understand? He¡¯s seen how she lives, how her family lives. A rough snort escaped her lips, ¡°I¡¯m not built for common. I don¡¯t even hunt. No animal and certainly no human.¡±


    The hand that had been gently patting her shoulder stopped. ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    But she barely heard him over her own misery, ¡°I was just so weak.¡± Estella rasped. ¡°Did I kill him? Do you know?¡± She would never forgive herself if she did.


    ¡°No, you didn¡¯t. You left him in such fine shape that he¡¯s leading the search party, which is why we need to get you out of the area. Maybe you could get by if you didn¡¯t have someone to identify you, but your sketch is all over the place.¡±


    That only threw Estella into a deeper pit of despair and pain. The last thing she ever wanted was attention.


    Oliver pried her hands off of her eyes, ¡°Now, now. You aren¡¯t the first vampire caught by humans. Let¡¯s just get some water and some blood in you. Unfortunately, there¡¯s not going to be any clean way to get the latter. I¡¯ll just have to bring someone and then¡ª¡± He was handing her a glass of water but Estella couldn¡¯t see passed what he was saying, the way he looked so unbothered by what he¡¯d said.


    ¡°Bring someone?! No. Absolutely not.¡± She can¡¯t believe he¡¯d even say such a thing. ¡°A nice rabbit would do nicely, thank you very much.¡± She pushed him away from her, slightly disgusted by his suggestion. He¡¯s seen how she lives, knows what her family stands for.


    Oliver backed away from her. He opened his mouth as if to speak but thought better of it and mumbled a quick ¡°Right, of course¡± before disappearing out the door again.


    He wasn¡¯t gone long, however, before appearing again this time holding a rabbit by its hind feet.


    After he helped her sit up and she was holding the little creature in her hands, Estella felt a horrible, sick twist of deja vu. Back when her family tried to teach her to hunt, and she could barely follow a scent trail (okay, maybe couldn¡¯t follow one), someone had the idea that she should bite into a pre-caught deer and the fresh blood would get her hunting senses going.


    It had been absolutely gut wrenching. Not only was she a terrible vampire, but the sight of the deer, panicked and afraid, made her sick. She tried to tell herself that it was really no different than butchering their cows or sheep. It was the fur, she told herself later, that made the act so much worse.


    But really it was the bite itself. Her teeth weren¡¯t sharp like her family¡¯s. There was something elegant to a vampire bite, their teeth slice right through the flesh. Her bite wasn¡¯t smooth or quick. She had to tear, had to rent her way past the fur and the flesh and the texture of the blood through all of that overrode any pleasure in the meal.


    At least Oliver was kind enough to have killed the rabbit for her. Bile burned her throat though at the sight of its twisted neck.


    This time, her teeth cut through the skin much easier but the fur pressed against her tongue, flavoring the earthy blood with an unpleasant musk. She dropped the carcass to the side in disgust. She would need more, one rabbit wasn¡¯t enough in her state but it was a start.


    Oliver helped her with the water and did his best to rearrange the blankets she had kicked around in his absence. It was then that sleep reclaimed her.


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    When she woke up, Estella was alone and there was another dead rodent on her chest. Lagomorph, Matthieu patiently corrected from her mental recesses.


    Getting the message, she repeated the same unpleasant meal from earlier. Wherever Oliver went, he hadn¡¯t been gone long. The animal was still warm.


    Feeling slightly better than earlier, Estella braved sitting up and leaning her back against the wall. Her torso protested loudly but not enough to bully her to the ground again. She was able to see outside thi way. The ground was overgrown as expected, small trees sprung up through the tall grass. A discolored dilapidated outbuilding had its roof caved it from age and fallen branches.


    So it is abandoned, Estella thought. The state of the room she¡¯s in told her as much but it¡¯s the lawn that really sent the message: this home belongs to nature and ghosts now.


    She wondered where she was. France? Belgium? She vaguely remembered the policeman¡¯s voice. The States? How much time had passed? Her eyes caught on the rolled up newspaper beneath the stool. It was just out of reach but that didn¡¯t stop her from trying for it, the wound at her side screaming.


    ¡°Can¡¯t leave you alone for a moment, I see.¡±


    Estella sat up straight then fell right back to the floor in pain.


    Gentle hands met her shoulders, easing her back into a sitting position. ¡°What were you reaching for?¡±


    ¡°The newspaper. I thought it might tell me where I am.¡±


    Oliver jerked back from her slightly, ¡°You don¡¯t know?¡± He was now holding out a loaf of bread to her, seemingly drawn from thin air.


    She shook her head and he turned to grab the paper but hesitated right before touching it and abandoning the idea all together. ¡°You can read it later. Why don¡¯t you eat first? I stole that bread right off someone¡¯s windowsill and here¡ª¡± he produced from a bag she only just noticed some fruit. ¡°Pilfered from a store.¡±


    He didn¡¯t finish his sentence before she was shoving the loaf of bread into her mouth, tearing into it with his teeth.  Around a mouthful of bread she asked, ¡°But where am I?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re in Jersey.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in England?¡±


    ¡°No. New Jersey. The state south of New York.¡±


    ¡°Oh. That¡¯s¡ªthat¡¯s. Well that¡¯s interesting. I never left Georgia before moving to France. It¡¯s weird to be back without¡ª¡± Without my grandparents. Without Jacques. She coughed to cover up the sudden tightness in her throat. ¡°Did I ever tell you that? I don¡¯t remember.¡±


    Oliver, who had been watching her up to that moment, looked away. ¡°No, you never told me.¡±


    ¡°Did you ever travel outside of Connecticut? Before your change, I mean.¡±


    His eyes were wide when he responded, ¡°Only to the seaside.¡±


    Estella nodded and laid back down, closing her eyes, content with their exchange of information. Oliver insisted on tending to her and she let him: checking her wound and bandages, which needed replaced. Secretly, too, she enjoyed it. She was used to being cared for and now that they¡¯re no longer at Saint-Tourre she didn¡¯t have to be so restrictive about their relationship.


    Saint-Tourre¡­


    Her hand flew out and gripped his forearm. ¡°Your family,¡± she said.


    Oliver looked at her confused. She shook his arm, ¡°Your family. Are they alright? Did you make it through the trial alright? No, of course not! Why would you be here alone if it did? I¡¯m so sorry. I¡¯m so sorry.¡± The pitch of her voice rose with each apology. She tried to suppress the awful tightness in her throat but the Beckers were so nice, so good, and she had failed them. ¡°I really thought¡ª¡±


    His hands wrapped tight around her wrists, forcing her to look at him. ¡°They¡¯re alright.¡± He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth. ¡°Everyone¡¯s okay.¡±


    Relief washed through her, overwhelmed her for a moment. She basked in it. But other thoughts crept forward, questioning her moment of glory.


    ¡°Oliver?¡±


    ¡°Hm?¡± Non-committal. Had he been like that all evening? No, she was certain. He¡¯d answered her questions. But what was it?


    ¡°Would you read the newspaper to me?¡± Jacques was an avid newspaper reader. He had subscriptions from multiple countries. Half read papers piled his offices. Sometimes he would read an interesting one to her and when he was working, she would read one to him.


    ¡°Maybe later, after you¡¯ve rested.¡±


    ¡°I have rested.¡± Holding out her hand she demanded, ¡°I¡¯ll read it. Hand it to me.¡±


    Oliver protested again but that only hardened her resolve. Whatever unease she¡¯s feeling, somehow that newspaper will make it better. Or at least it¡¯ll make her feel closer to her family.


    He relented and passed her the roll. It was a copy of the New York Times and there, right at the top, was the date: August 28th, 1939.

 XXXIII:

    The idea that vampires don¡¯t have a heartbeat was a myth. The true curse, her family contended, was that the natural order of their lives was to harm others to survive. But Estella swore that she was truly among the living dead when she saw the date on the New York Times¡¯ front page.


    Her eyes frantically searched the page, looking for anything that would tell her this was a joke. Instead, she found news that formed a hard knot in her stomach. There were concerns about Germany and Poland; about what¡¯s happening in Spain and Italy. Nothing serious to the article author but with her 21st century hindsight, Estella knew what was coming. Nausea rolled in her stomach.


    Mouth slightly ajar, she continued to flip through the pages, back and forth, back and forth. She threw it into her lap and looked at Oliver with wide-eyes. ¡°This isn¡¯t funny.¡±


    His mouth was set in a firm line, ¡°It isn¡¯t funny.¡± He repeated.


    Estella guffawed at his matter of fact tone and stared at him. Really stared at him. It was, she realized, the first time she had actually taken a good look at him since he found her. Estella wasn¡¯t up to date on American fashion, let alone 1930s American fashion, but his shirt and tie were a notably different cut from what she¡¯s seen men wear in Paris. His trousers too were a looser fit than what she was used to.


    And his eyes. They were still the same devastating shade of dark green that she knew but there was an undercurrent of red that wasn¡¯t there when they met. Stomach flipping, Estella rolled the newspaper between her fingers. The red was a mark of a human diet. It shouldn¡¯t be there at all. Oliver¡¯s family, like her own, took a stance against hunting humans.


    That day in the kitchen, when she looked so deep into him that she fell into the well of his life, came to her mind. She had found the pain underneath. Estella suddenly felt like she was right in the middle of it again.


    If this is real¡­ ¡°What¡¯s my name, Oliver?¡± she asked.


    Never breaking eye contact, he said, ¡°I don¡¯t know. But you clearly know mine.¡± He cocked his head, ¡°You¡¯re not panicking as much as I thought you would. Startled, yes, but losing it? No. I thought I¡¯d have to restrain you.¡±


    A hysteric giggle broke out of her. Did he not see her panic? She felt like a trapped and wounded animal forced to submit their way through a situation. With immaculate calm she said, ¡°I do not see how harming myself would help the situation.¡±


    He tilted his head the other way as if studying her from a different angle would improve his view, ¡°No, it wouldn¡¯t help.¡± After a pregnant pause he asked, ¡°Are you going to tell me your name or am I going to have to keep spending time with a Jane Doe?¡±


    Estella searched his face again, still hoping to find soft familiarity underneath the cruel circumstances. His eyes were kind but there was no twinkling spark of recognition, no melted warmth that she had come to expect. ¡°You truly don¡¯t know me?¡± she was pleading, she knew, but what else is one supposed to do?


    He ducked his head, his eyes crinkling in sympathy, ¡°No, I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    An involuntary sniffle escaped her, ¡°My name is Estella. Estella de¡­¡± she stopped herself. To be of Satin-Tourre here may cause more trouble than assistance. What does it mean to belong to people who cannot and would not claim you? What does it mean to belong to a family that does not know you?


    Who was she without them? Not long ago she was wearing the name like armor; now what was she supposed to do when her family is no longer there to protect her? To tie her to themselves?


    Swallowing thickly, she wrapped her old name around herself like a blanket. ¡°I am Estella de Luca.¡±


    ¡°Well, Estella de Luca, it is a pleasure to meet you.¡± It was kind of him to not ask about her hesitation, she thought. ¡°I know it¡¯s not necessary,¡± he continued, ¡°but I am Oliver Morris.¡± he stated, his hand over his heart.


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    Estella gave him a tentative smile even though her chest tightened.


    Oliver¡¯s hands flexed, ¡°Would you tell me? How you know who I am? Either I am a vampire with a distressingly poor memory or you have met me before¡­whatever happened to you.¡± he said with a wry smile.


    ¡°You mean before I magically traveled back in time eighty years?¡± Maybe if she teased about it she wouldn¡¯t be so afraid.


    But she over-corrected. Oliver¡¯s eyes bulged, ¡°Eighty years? You traveled back in time eighty years?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t do it,¡± she said defensively. ¡°It was done to me.¡± Dieu, was her family cursed?


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I do not understand.¡±


    Of course not, she thought. ¡°I was being taken.¡± Estella explained. ¡°As payment for a¡­family thing. I fought back and they dropped me. Here.¡± She mulled over the events for a moment, ¡°I suppose they could have dropped me anywhere. Maybe I can hide here a while. Find out how to get back to my family.¡± And she would go back to her family. They would not lose her like they lost Marguerite. Fear could not win again.


    ¡°Do you think they¡¯ll come back for you?¡±


    She barked a laugh, ¡°I should be more worried about them coming back for me at all.¡±


    Oliver clasped his hands on his knees and held that position for so long that she thought he had given up on not only the conversation but her too. It surprised her when he asked, ¡°What will you do?¡±


    What will she do? ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    Estella tossed aside the newspaper, sick of it before she could even fully read one article. Oliver kicked it further away behind the stool.


    What could she do? She supposed Saint-Tourre was an option. As a direct descendant of Matthieu she could just walk in and search the library. But could she even get to France? The war was about to ravage the country and besides, she had no money for travel. Or food. Dieu, she thought, ?je ne peux pas me nourrir. I can¡¯t feed myself.


    Putain. Fuck.


    Oliver¡¯s voice drew her out of her spiral, ¡°Were we friends?¡± His face twisted into a grimace, ¡°Or are we friends, rather?¡±


    She didn¡¯t know if she wanted to castigate him for thinking of himself or console him because he looked so vulnerable sitting there, still holding his knees like a school boy and staring at her like she held the answers to the universe.


    ¡°Of a sort,¡± she replied but his imploring eyes begged for more information. ¡°We¡¯ve only known each other for one month but,¡± she bit her lip and hated herself for the heat she felt rise in her cheeks, ¡°I believe we became very dear to each other. It¡¯s only that¡ªwell. Neither of us have many friends outside of our families and we seemed to get along so well¡­¡±


    Blessedly, Oliver didn¡¯t focus on what she meant by ¡°dear to each other.¡± Estella wasn¡¯t sure she could explain it nor did she want to understand the connection she felt to the man across the room from her. Or rather, the man he will become.


    Instead, he asked about his family. ¡°I go home? To my parents?¡±


    Estella let out a shaky breath, ¡°Yes. One day.¡±


    ¡°Did I tell you that I left? Why I did it?¡±


    ¡°No, you did not. Do you want to tell me now?¡±


    He looked away from her, out the window. ¡°That¡¯s okay,¡± she told him, ¡°we only just met after all.¡±


    The weak joke didn¡¯t land. Oliver gave her an odd look but whatever his response was he kept it to himself.


    What he said instead surprised her. ¡°You should rest. We¡¯ll leave after dark tonight.¡±


    We? She fisted the blanket in her hands, ¡°Where will we go?¡± she asked. We? What was he thinking? Taking her to his parents? What would they do for her?


    ¡°We. Uh. I.¡± He put his hands on his hips and breathed deeply, which on the stool made him look like a drinking bird toy descending into water.


    ¡°We¡ªJohn, Eva, and I, I mean¡ªwe used to live in a neighborhood outside of Chicago. They still have a house there that we can use. We¡¯ll have to go to New York City though to get the train.¡±


    Nel. Fuori. Nel. Fuori. In. Out. In. Out. She told herself, letting the air pass through her lungs. ¡°And how will we do that?¡± If he had a car, it would be the eighth wonder of the world because it was the quietest car she would ever see.


    Oliver tipped even further over on his stool. ¡°How do you feel about motor vehicle larceny?¡±

 XXXIV:

    Oliver was trying to kill her. Or more specifically, the car was. He just happened to be at the helm of the beastly machine.


    For starters, the care felt loose like the chassis would come off the wheels at any moment. And then the thing had the audacity to rattle, as if it was taunting her with its rudimentary design. Okay maybe she was being uncharitable, cars in the twenty-first century were far and away more developed than the nightmare she was currently in, but she had never had such a discombobulating car ride. Jacques¡¯s cars were all smooth and steady. This¡­glorified carriage would make her lose her meal if she wasn¡¯t already doing deep breathing exercises. Nel. Fuori. Nel. Fuori. Just like nonno taught her.


    She had to focus on her breathing because if she didn¡¯t then she would focus on the pain in her torso. Try as they might, there was no comfortable position to lay her down in the rackety car with a gunshot wound to her stomach. The best they could manage was a rolled blanket against Oliver¡¯s thigh for neck support with her knees folded up against the window.


    The result was, of course, that her ill-fitting dress kept pooling around her waist no matter how fiercely she tucked it over her knees.


    It was a rather compromising position for a lady to be in in 1939.


    But still, she was grateful. Oliver was helping her when he could¡¯ve had her committed to an asylum instead.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said softly. From her position she couldn¡¯t see much of his face but she thought the starlight caught a look of surprise. ¡°For helping me,¡± she clarified.


    In the dim light she could make out the bobbing of his Adam¡¯s apple before he cast a tender smile down at her. ¡°It¡¯s no problem. After all, we¡¯re friends, right?¡±


    Estella couldn¡¯t imagine why Oliver would want to be her friend, especially with her in such dire straits. All he¡¯s done since they met was take care of her.


    But still, she smiled shyly back and agreed with him. ¡°Right.¡±


    ____


    The ride to New York took longer than Estella would have liked and the arrival was one of the most embarrassing moments of her life.


    She argued against changing clothes before but conceded Oliver¡¯s point that it would be easier to get out of her clothing in the privacy of their abandoned house. The simple act was a feat of strength for her, both physically and emotionally as she had to let Oliver help her. Now that they arrived in the city, however, her bandages needed to be changed again and they¡¯d have to do so in public. This wouldn¡¯t be such a problem if it didn¡¯t involve opening the top of her dress and practically baring her to the world.


    At least she¡¯d been allowed the decency of keeping her bra on, though Oliver unhelpfully pointed out that her¡¯s was not shaped like any bra he¡¯d seen.


    He made quick work of replacing her bandages, careful to not unnecessarily touch her skin, and allowed her the decency of pulling her dress back on herself.


    Sitting up was a different story. Each bend, each stretch to her abdomen caused pain to bled out like splattered ink across her middle. She had to lean heavily on Oliver to both get out of the car and to walk down the sidewalk.


    ¡°It¡¯s early yet,¡± he told her, ¡°we might be able to get you a real meal before we catch the train if you¡¯re up for it.¡±


    Estella nodded absently, not entirely listening to him. She was too distracted, too momentarily taken in by the tall buildings that closed in on them on either side. The only city she¡¯d ever really spent time in was Paris, which had the dreams of the Sun King carved into its bones. The dreams of New York felt different. Craning her neck to see the top of the skyscrapers, Estella couldn¡¯t help but feel like the city was begging to be noticed. To be someone.


    Oliver guided her to a diner on the corner of 5th Avenue and 16th Street. It smelled like grease and coffee and just a little bit of something sweet.


    Her mouth watered, her throat burned.


    There was one problem though. ¡±Do you have money for this? Because I certainly don¡¯t.¡± She hissed at him.


    ¡°Yes,¡± he whispered in her ear. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it.¡± Oliver gave her a small, secretive smile. ¡°Believe it or not, I don¡¯t have a lot of necessities that I need to spend money on.¡±


    He squeezed her hand she had tucked into his elbow. ¡°This is fun.¡±


    Estella grimaced at him. Being lost in time and her aching torso begged to differ.


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    For all his nonchalance though, Oliver was incredibly attentive, walking her into the diner and setting her in a chair and taking care of her stolen overcoat.


    But no luggage. While he had been certain that New York City was far enough from the rural New Jersey town the stolen car wouldn¡¯t be noticed and the manhunt wouldn¡¯t reach them, he was against carrying potentially traceable items with them onto a train where a conductor could easily order a search.


    ¡°How are you feeling?¡± He asked when the waitress walked away with Estella¡¯s plain order of coffee, fruit, and toast.


    Reflexively, her hand settled on the bandages. When they changed them earlier the wound was almost scabbed over. Another day or two and the scar tissue would set in. God bless vampirism.


    ¡°In pain.¡± She frowned, ¡°and exhausted.¡±


    ¡°Maybe you¡¯ll be able to sleep on the train.¡±


    She doubted that. ¡°How long will the ride to Chicago take?¡±


    Leaning back in his chair Oliver said, ¡°Sixteen hours.¡± Her face must have twisted into an unpleasant expression because he quickly reassured her, ¡°it used to be twenty hours.¡± As if that relieved her.


    Fortunate indeed. She wanted to know about seating choices but bit her tongue. Oliver had the money so he had the the choice.


    It was an awful reversal of roles. She hadn¡¯t realized just how terrible it was being the one in dire straits. New found sympathy for the Beckers bloomed in her chest. How could they tolerate this for as long as they did? She might go mad if she didn¡¯t make her own way somehow.


    Oliver¡¯s voice cut through her thoughts. ¡°We¡¯ll go to Chicago. Lie low until you fully recover. Work on what to do in the meantime.¡±


    We? ¡°What do you mean ¡®we¡¯? Surely, you¡¯re not planning to be there through all of this? I don¡¯t even know how long it¡¯ll take to get home. It could be years!¡± Years! She wanted to cry.


    He locked eyes with her over the table. ¡°Absolutely, I do.¡± Shrugging, he draped an arm over the back of his chair. ¡°And if it¡¯ll be years, well, I¡¯ll still be there.¡±


    Estella was positive she was doing an excellent rendition of a fish with the way her mouth kept opening and closing, fighting for words that just wouldn¡¯t come. Eventually she sputtered out in the most heavily accented English she¡¯s produced in years, ¡°But why?¡± Helping her to recover, she could understand. That¡¯s basic compassion for fellow man. But her problems are deeper than Oliver could possibly understand and certainly more dangerous.


    She wouldn¡¯t let him get caught up in the crossfire the first time. She¡¯s not going to welcome him in it now.


    He brought his arm back to the table, resuming a more serious position. It was a strange contradiction to the lopsided smile still firmly in place on his face. ¡°This is the most interesting thing to happen to me in three years.¡±


    Interesting? ¡°It¡¯s hardly interesting over here,¡± she snapped. Who was this man across from her? She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. The Oliver she knew wouldn¡¯t call her current plight interesting. He was compassionate. And kind. And gentle.


    The man across from her was an ass. Her torso twinged. Fine, a helpful ass but still an ass.


    Regret colored his features. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡±


    ¡°My life isn¡¯t entertaining, Oliver.¡±


    ¡°I know. I know. I¡¯m sorry. I was trying to be funny and cavalier. But it isn¡¯t funny and it isn¡¯t entertaining.¡±


    She studied him across the table in silence. Estella noticed that he didn¡¯t say that it wasn¡¯t interesting but he looked so pathetically apologetic that she didn¡¯t point it out. He looked younger, which was ridiculous because he can¡¯t age. Maybe it was the years, the experience¡ªor inexperience, as it was¡ªthat made him seem older in France. Not truly older than her, physically they were very close to the same age, but emotionally he just felt ancient. Worn down. And yet lost at the same time.


    Here he just looked lost.


    ¡°Why are you helping me?¡± She repeated.


    He folded and refolded his hands on the table. ¡°You said we were friends.¡±


    ¡°I said we were friends ¡®of a sort.¡¯¡± She corrected.


    One side of his mouth lifted up into a condescending smile. ¡°Close enough.¡±


    An indelicate snort escaped her. ¡°Besides. You don¡¯t know me, Oliver. Whatever relationship we have doesn¡¯t exist for you yet.¡± Let it go, she wanted to say. But it seemed unnecessary to plead, he should want to let her go. Lord knows she¡¯s going to be trouble whether she wants to be or not.


    His hands balled into fists and a determined glint sparked in his eyes. ¡°But it will.¡± He cocked his head, again feigning nonchalance. ¡°I¡¯m investing in my future.¡± He said with a smile.


    Estella felt like she was suffering whiplash. The Oliver she knew was serious and intense. Borderline morose at times. Is this what he¡¯s like when the world isn¡¯t trying to cave in on him?


    And moreover, what is she like when the world isn¡¯t trying to cave in on her?


    She looked away from him. She couldn¡¯t help it. His reference to the future reminded her of what she fought the wraiths for: a chance at her own life, free from fear.


    And perhaps Oliver is meant to be a part of that life. Only for a time, of course. She¡¯ll say good-bye long before he dragged too deep.


    She reached her hand across the table and squeezed his forearm. ¡°I forgive you.¡±


    Emerald eyes twinkling like polished stones he thanked her. ¡°You won¡¯t regret it.¡± He said.


    She wasn¡¯t so sure about that.

 XXXV:

    Estella had been on trains before. Any time she left the village of Saint Tourre with Matthieu they took the train because he didn¡¯t drive. ¡°Don¡¯t trust cars,¡± he¡¯d said.¡±Worse than a horse and cart in my opinion.¡±


    The train she was currently on with Oliver was not so different from the regional line that picked them up back home. The basic design is still the same: passenger, lounger, plus the sleepers. Thankfully, Oliver was able to secure them a private room with bench seats for her to lie down on. On another day she¡¯d stare out the window and make conversation. Today, however, she simply wanted to lie out on the bench seat and sleep.


    And she did.


    ¡°Tickets, please.¡± A low, gruff voice demanded. The unexpected noise roused Estella but she didn¡¯t move to sit up. Oliver can deal with the man, she thought.


    He must have done just that because the next noise over the jostling of the train was the rustling of clothing in the low light of the carriage.


    ¡°Yes, of course.¡± Oliver replied softly.


    ¡°Carry on,¡± the man said and the soft closing of the door followed next.


    She could hear Oliver shuffle around. Sit down, perhaps? But he didn¡¯t attempt to speak to her. Estella tried to fall back asleep, to let the sway of the train lull her again but the movement now only served to wake her up more. Huffing, she rolled her head over to look at her companion.


    He gave her a wry smile, ¡°No luck, huh?¡±


    ¡°Non,¡± she grunted.


    He clasped his hands together and asked with an amused smile, ¡°How are you feeling now?¡±


    How was she feeling? With her hands, Estella started to gently poke and prod her abdomen. She certainly felt sore and tired but as she probed she noticed that the pain wasn¡¯t quite so searing when encouraged. A sharp wince tore through her when she touched the most delicate part of the wound though. Still definitely painful then, she thought.


    ¡°If I can avoid errant elbows I think I shall live.¡±


    In the dim room Estella could still make out some dark emotion flashing across Oliver¡¯s features as his hands clenched. She thought to ask about it but looked to the window instead, afraid the question might lead them down a road she didn¡¯t want to travel.


    Outside the night landscape rolled by. She sighed at the passage of hours, aware that she had lost many. Gingerly she sat up, stretching her legs to rest on the bench opposite next to her new¡ªold?¡ªfriend.


    ¡°Are you going to be up for a while?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I think so.¡±


    He leaned against the backrest. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking and I have some questions.¡±


    Estella snorted. Of course he has. A half-breed, time traveling vampire practically walked into his life and was mortally wounded too. She¡¯d have questions too if she was him. One doesn¡¯t find themselves with a young woman who you from the future and not have questions.


    Squaring her shoulders, she nodded for him to continue.


    ¡°Where are you from?¡± She blinked at him, stunned. ¡°Sometimes when you speak, I think I hear an accent but other times, it¡¯s near flawless.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Well.¡± That wasn¡¯t what she expected.


    ¡°It¡¯s just that, maybe we could get some help where you¡¯re from. If you¡¯re a witch, then maybe someone back in your community could help you.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Well.¡± Really, she ought to be able to form a more intelligent string of words but his line of thought was so disjointed from her own that she felt totally disconnected from the conversation.


    ¡°My guess was that you¡¯re an incredibly well taught European, definitely upper crust I¡¯d think.¡±


    He wasn¡¯t completely off the mark. She cleared her throat. ¡°I was raised in France since I was twelve. Yes, rather privileged.¡± Okay, maybe very privileged wealth wise. ¡°Before that, I lived in Georgia with my grandparents in a tiny house tucked into the woods.¡± She definitely wasn¡¯t wealthy then, but comfortable enough.


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    ¡°Georgia like the country?...¡±


    She fought a smile. ¡°Like the southern state.¡±


    ¡°So you are American then.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but my accent when speaking English was much more pronounced when I was younger. My grandparents were immigrants and I¡¯d developed a very mixed French-Italian accent. I¡¯ve had to practice it over the years.¡± Theodora made her.


    ¡°I assume you speak French and Italian?¡±


    ¡°Both. Fluently.¡±


    Oliver smiled. ¡°And English. That¡¯s great. I¡¯ve never learned a second language.¡±


    Interesting, she thought, he¡¯d spoken French to her at Saint Tourre. Estella thought about reassuring him that he will one day learn another language but decided against it. If Oliver now wanted to learn French it would be his own choice, not because of who he will be.


    ¡°Given the news lately, France, I think, is out of the question. Or least a last resort.¡±


    Estella nodded. She¡¯d seen the date in the newspaper: August 28th, 1939. Today was August 29th and it would soon turn over to August 30th. She didn¡¯t know the exact timeline of the war. She knew it broke out in 1939. That Poland fell first. She knew France would declare war in September 1939. And she knew France was invaded in May 1940. Of course, she also knew it wouldn¡¯t end until 1945. Of course, if you asked those who survived, like Matthieu, they might tell you they kept fighting that war for years after Hitler died. ¡°Just because the enemy was gone doesn''t mean the shadow of them went away,¡± Matthieu had told her about the war.


    When her country is invaded, her family will scatter. Jacques will go to Paris and pass messages and secure passage. ¡°Never was a fighter,¡± he¡¯d told her with a shrug. Theodora will ¡°take no prisoners,¡± which she always said with a secretive smile that Estella knew meant certain death. And Matthieu¡­Matthieu didn¡¯t really talk about the war. He had provided aid on the Western Front and that was all he would say about it. What ¡°aid¡± meant she wasn¡¯t certain but she hadn¡¯t wanted to push him.


    Hadn¡¯t wanted to bother him, really. That was always the thing with Matthieu, no matter how good their relationship was, she had felt a bit like her existence was a bit of a nightmare for him, a constant haunting reminder that his daughter had lived but chose to do so without him. That fact haunted her too and was why she knew she wouldn¡¯t stop trying to get home until she either did just that or died trying.


    Despite the invasion, Saint Tourre will still stand. Perhaps¡­


    ¡°I could send a letter. Maybe someone will go home or be at Jacques¡¯s law office and read it and send advice. That¡¯s what my family does, you know. Advise people.¡±


    ¡°It is? Who is your family?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re¡ª¡± She hadn¡¯t told him this earlier, she realized. She hadn¡¯t lied, no really. She didn¡¯t know who she was here. ¡°Or, I will be a part of the Saint Tourre family. The keepers, you know, of knowledge and whatnot.¡±


    Oliver¡¯s upper lip curled slightly. ¡°I don¡¯t know what that means.¡±


    She said nothing. There was nothing to say. The idea that someone didn¡¯t know her family was so surprising that it literally took her breath away. In a quiet voice, she asked ¡°You don¡¯t know what Saint Tourre is?¡±


    Jacques had told her once that the Americas were like the Wild West they see in the movie. Hardly any oversight and remote enough from the Commission that unless someone intentionally brought a violation to their attention the creature there lived in relative obscurity.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Do you know what the Commission is?¡±


    That made him straighten up. ¡°What does the Commission have to do with Saint Tourre and your family?¡±


    ¡°My family can serve as a sort of middleman or counselor between people and the Commission. Represent them even to try to get the Commission to see reason. Like their position on humans knowing about vampires. There are historical examples of peaceful co-existence between the two groups and even romantic relationships. Plus it endangers the social network of witch communities. The black and white picture they paint now¡­it wasn¡¯t always like that.¡±


    ¡°Why did it change?¡±


    She shrugged, ¡°It depends but most people¡ªor most supernatural creatures who bother to study history, which isn¡¯t many¡ªpoint to the age of persecution as the shift. It changed the balance. Sure, there were parts of our lives better in the dark, like blood drinking. But the magique, the speed, and strength. These were things that we didn¡¯t need to hide. They were a benefit even.¡±


    ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound real, Estella.¡±


    She laughed, ¡°Tell that to the people who lived it.¡±


    He fell silent after that and stayed that way so long she thought he¡¯d given up on the conversation. Turning back to the window, Estella let her thoughts naturally wander from her studies to her family. They had been the focal point of her entire life. When it wasn¡¯t Jacques, Matthieu, and Theodora, it had been Marguerite and Timoteo who had formed her.


    ¡°You think they¡¯d respond to a letter?¡± His voice was so low Estella almost missed it over the sound of the train.


    ¡°It is what they do: help people. But still, they are probably not home.¡± She smiled wryly, thinking of Theodora. ¡°They were busy during this time.¡±


    ¡°And if they don¡¯t respond?¡±


    ¡°Saint Tourre still has resources that I can use. I suppose I will have to find my way there¡ªshould I need to.¡±


    Oliver quickly shook his head to indicate that her thought was was a bad idea. ¡°You know better than I do what is to come but I don¡¯t think it looks safe, Estella.¡±


    She didn¡¯t respond, he was right, of course. He took her silence as confirmation of that fact. ¡°What about Georgia? You said your grandparents live there.¡±


    It was a good question. What about Georgia? Her grandparents wouldn¡¯t be there yet. But maybe¡­


    ¡°I can think of some people I could reach out to who might be able to help me.¡±


    ¡°A letter writing campaign then?¡±


    ¡°Do you have any other ideas?¡±


    ¡°Not a one.¡±

 XXXVI:

    They lapsed into silence for a time after their conversation. Estella began composing the letters in her head, her heart aching at the formal voice she¡¯ll have to adopt for her family. To switch from ¡°tu¡± to ¡°vous¡± was a sign of the stranger status she now has with the people who mean the most to her.


    Her mind wandered to other things she might tell them, like how the train she now sat in was louder than she realized or how the car they drove to New York terrified her. ¡°I¡¯ve never been on a train without a member of my family. I¡¯ve never been anywhere without my family.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve never gone somewhere without your family?¡± He was suddenly leaning away from her, wariness and uncertainty marring his features. ¡°How old are you?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not like that. I am an adult, Oliver.¡±


    ¡°How old?¡±


    She huffed at him, ¡°Twenty one.¡±


    ¡°Then why¡­¡±


    ¡°My family is¡­It¡¯s that¡­¡± She fought for words, clenching her ugly dress in her hands. ¡°I¡¯m not the first one to disappear. There was someone else before me. I was¡ªand they were¡ªafraid that it would be me next.¡± She shrugged. ¡°And it was.¡±


    ¡°Someone else disappeared? What is your family? Cursed?¡±


    ¡°Feels like it.¡±


    Maybe it was the desolate sound to her voice but Oliver changed the subject. ¡°Can I ask you something else?¡± Estella lolled her head to look at him and gestured for him to continue.


    He leaned forward on his knees. ¡°When you first met me, you know, before, did I¡­did I know you? The way you knew me?¡±


    The question knocked the breath out of Estella. Did Oliver recognize her? Had he been looking for her? If he was coming to Saint Tourre, he would¡¯ve expected her. But it didn¡¯t feel right. They spent a month together in close proximity. They shared their interests, favorite music and poems between the restless bouts of work. They shared drinks and tea and laughs and¡­ Oliver cried over the first small meal they shared. He had been so adamant that he couldn¡¯t partake.


    ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t think so.¡± She licked her lips. ¡°No, I don¡¯t think you did.¡±


    ¡°What does it mean that I didn¡¯t know?¡±


    Excellent question. All possible answers were unsettling. Did he not know her because she hadn¡¯t met him in the past yet? If so, what is he going through right now back home? Or was it that he truly didn¡¯t remember her? Was she ripped from his memory? Buried? What would that mean for him, for her, for her family?


    Estella realized that Oliver was staring at her expectantly.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± She wished she did. Wished she could give them both answers but it isn¡¯t exactly like there were a plethora of treatises on the inter-personal impact of time travel on for her to study.


    What frustrated her the most was that she should know. Saint Tourre¡¯s archives and library was the leading research depository on the history of the supernatural community in Europe. Of course, Theodora had instructed her wryly one day, which only reflected the gaps in research and loss of intellectuals over time.


    And there was the theft. A few items went missing from the collections during the wars when the family was only sporadically at home and her family has yet to get over it.


    She sighed. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Oliver.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be. It¡¯s still more than we knew before.¡±


    ¡°Well aren¡¯t you on the bright side?¡±


    ¡°Might as well be. Keep on the sunny side and all that.¡±


    She turned away from him but smiled nonetheless.


    ¡°Get some rest, Estella.¡±


    You, too, Oliver.¡±


    ____


    They arrived at La Salle Street Station mid-morning. Estella and Oliver watched the natural landscape transition into the manmade city of Chicago with its fresh faced high rises and neoclassical architecture. It was a village compared to Paris.


    Oliver guided her out of the bustling station, her hand once again tucked into his elbow. The action reminded her of her trip to Paris. She was eleven years old. Jacques had kept a hold of her hand in the crook of his arm too and she had clung to him willingly, afraid she¡¯d be ripped away in a mere moment.


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    ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid, Este. There is safety in numbers.¡±


    Don¡¯t be afraid, Este, she told herself. She tried to keep the grip on Oliver light but her white knuckles remained the color of bone.


    He put his hand over her¡¯s and stroked his thumb across her knuckles. It was painfully sweet and Estella hated the way her heart skipped unnaturally.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright, Estella. I know where we go from here.¡±


    No choice but to follow him, she let him lead her through the crowded station to the ticket counter where he once again purchased tickets. This time to 91st Street Station.


    ¡°Beverly Station,¡± he explained. ¡°We have a house in the village of Beverly. It¡¯s where John and Eva brought me after¡­¡±


    ¡°Ah. After.¡± After his change.


    Oliver fiddled with his hat. ¡°Yes. It¡¯s where I readjusted to society.¡±


    She scrunched up her face. ¡°I¡¯m not certain I ever adjusted.¡±


    Oliver looked at her twisted expression and the tight press of his lips turned into a surprised smile.


    ¡°You are doing very well.¡±


    The train ride to Beverly took no time compared to the 20th Century Limited. Estella was back on stable ground well under the hour, her hand once again resting Oliver¡¯s elbow as he led her out onto the street.


    It wasn¡¯t so busy out on the street. A few hired cars loitered around, waiting for paying customers outside the station. Oliver looked between the sleek black death machines and Estella. ¡°How are you feeling?¡±


    Truthfully, she¡¯d forgotten about the pain in her body until he mentioned it. Surprisingly, considering she¡¯d been shot and all. Now though she was aware of a low beat behind her right eye and a pain in her torso so constant she would forget about it again easily. She was also hungry. And desperate for sleep. She hadn¡¯t slept in a proper bed for several days and her back and neck reminded her of that now. Part of that discomfort was probably caused by those menacing machines Oliver was considering putting her in.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±


    He narrowed his eyes.


    ¡°I want to see the neighborhood. Besides, I¡¯ve been sitting for hours.¡± She whined. ¡°How long is the walk anyway? It isn¡¯t like we have luggage to worry about.¡±


    He considered her, head tilted. His eyes flickered between her, the cars, and the ground at their feet. ¡°There are neighbors who will see us, Estella. And they will have questions. We should take a car to prevent spying eyes.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t they notice the car?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but they won¡¯t be able to look too closely if we were on foot.¡±


    He had a point. In the death machine she went.


    Turns out, going at a reasonable speed made the experience not as frightening. And sitting up was important. But still, the vibrating hurt and she was forced to lean into Oliver to alleviate the paint in her side.


    ¡°Could you be more careful around the dips in the road? My¡ª¡± Quickly, his eyes flickered to her. He seemed to be weighing something. ¡°Wife, she isn¡¯t doing well with all the travel. Unwell, you know.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Sir.¡± Said the driver.


    ¡°Pardone?¡± Estella cut in.


    ¡°Later,¡± he whispered into her temple. ¡°I promise. Later.¡±


    She lost the desire to argue when the driver hit a bump in the road.


    Oliver snapped at the driver and rubbed her back, assuring her that they were almost there. It was impressive he could be so gentle while sending murderous glares to the driver.


    ¡°Sorry, Sir.¡± Estella gritted her teeth. She was, after all, the one he was harming.


    Soon, but not soon enough in her opinion, the hired car stopped and Oliver was lifting her out of the backseat.


    The house he carried her to stood alone at the end of the lane. It was a four square farmhouse with a large, shaded front porch and two stories. Behind it was a wide, empty space. The house itself marking the very edges of Chicago. It was isolated and yet, when she looked over Oliver¡¯s shoulder, she could see the encroachment of urban expansion.


    Oliver was looking too. ¡°Place has grown up a bit. Not so many neighbors last time.¡±


    He sat her down on the porch. Estella watched as he carefully hid the door handle with his frame before breaking the locks.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you have a key?¡±


    ¡°I do. But not on me. I didn¡¯t think I¡¯d ever come back.¡±


    Inside the floors were dark and the walls were white washed. There were oddly shaped lumps beneath white sheets, presumably furniture.


    Stale air filled her lungs. Sometimes rooms carry the taste of the emotions that were experienced in them. The front room tasted bitter.


    ¡°The bedrooms are upstairs.¡± Up a dark stairwell he led her. The first room he didn¡¯t comment on, the second was a bathroom, and the third was the master bedroom. It was where she would sleep, he told her. The shape of the bed was obvious underneath more white sheets.


    Estella looked around the room while Oliver stripped the bed and replaced the sheets from a trunk stashed beneath a window overlooking the vast expanse of emptiness of the flat land that surrounded Chicago.


    Like the environment, the house, while preserved, was bare. Besides the furniture, there was no indication of who lived here. No personal items hung on the walls, no trinkets decorated the bureau now uncovered. The only art in the space was the dust dancing in the air.


    ¡°There you go,¡± Oliver declared proudly, wiping down the edge of a framed mirror.


    Estella didn¡¯t move as she watched him in the mid-morning sunlight that filtered through the window. He had discarded his jacket downstairs and had rolled up his shirt sleeves during the clean up. She was captivated by the sight of him.


    Myth dictates that vampires can¡¯t go into the sun but that is a lie nourished by generations of fear of things that go bump in the night. To enjoy the sun is a fundamental human trait. Why would we lose it when our paths diverged? We all screamed our way into the world the same way.


    Besides, even human monsters get to walk freely in that warm light.

 XXXVII:

    Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, which she was starting to suspect was a nervous habit. ¡°Okay. Right. Well. I¡¯m going to let you rest. I need to do some stuff to prepare for us to be here for a few days.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re leaving?¡± She hadn¡¯t expected that. Estella didn¡¯t know much about setting up a house but she supposed a lot of it has to be done in person in 1939.


    Hand dropping to his said, he said, ¡°Yes, but only for an hour or so. I¡¯m going to find someone who can take care of everything for me. And then I will come back. With food.¡±


    Her eyes lit up at the mention of food. ¡°Good food?¡±


    ¡°Good food.¡± He repeated. Not that Oliver knows what good food is but he did see the meals they tried to offer on the train, so he at least knows what is not.


    She couldn¡¯t rest though when he left. Sure, she sat down on the bed and closed her eyes, but this house was too strange with its empty walls and acrid ghosts. The abandoned farmhouse Oliver took her too was more real than this place. Like a home so lived in the bones couldn¡¯t bear the weight of life anymore.


    Estella tried to stretch out her senses. Wincing against the pain, she breathed deeply. Nel. Fuori. Nel. Fuori. Slowly, she attempted to search the room with her senses but Estella couldn¡¯t get beyond herself, a fierce headache bloomed behind her closed eyelids. Maybe it¡¯s too soon, she thought, throwing an arm over her face.


    Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow.


    There was no clock to tell the time but judging by the shadows, Oliver came back when he said he would. She listened to him softly close the front door then traced his soft footfalls into a back room downstairs. With care, he next mounted the stairs and quietly walked down the hall to the door outside her room.


    Turning to face the door, Estella watched in amusement the slow, gentle opening of it and the reveal of first black hair, then pale forehead, and finally a deep green eye. When he caught her, Oliver poked his whole head around the door.


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    Fighting back a smile, she waved meekly.


    ¡°I thought you might be asleep.¡±


    ¡°Not yet.¡±


    ¡°Did you get any rest?¡±


    No. ¡°Some.¡±


    ¡°Do you want some food?¡±


    ¡°Oui,¡± she said, crawling out of bed.


    Fast, so fast she would¡¯ve been embarrassed by her slow reaction if not for the gunshot wound, Oliver was beside her, firmly pushing her back onto the bed. ¡°I¡¯ll bring it to you. This is the cleanest room in the house anyway.¡±


    He returned moments later, a box in hand. After a deep, appreciative sniff Estella recognized the scent of red tomato sauce.


    An ache pressed on her chest even as her mouth watered. Sure enough, inside the box sat a pile of homemade pasta piled high with red tomato sauce dotted with basil and oregano. Oliver couldn¡¯t know about her nonno and if he saw the tears in the corner of her eyes he didn¡¯t say anything. Truly, he couldn¡¯t have picked a better meal for her when she needed comfort.


    While she ate, he told her his time in the city. ¡°Took longer than I would have liked but I found our property manager in the end. Everything will be set up by tomorrow evening.¡±


    Estella asked if that included warm, running water, which thankfully it did. She could weep.


    ¡°A maid service will be by later this afternoon. We¡¯ll have to go out for dinner tonight.¡±


    ¡°Is it really necessary to go through all this trouble, Oliver? We¡¯ll only be here a few days.¡±


    She yelped when he poked her side.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he drew out. ¡°Maybe.¡±


    Estella focused on her pasta after that.


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    They didn¡¯t talk much for the rest of the afternoon. After lunch, Estella really did rest in bed and only woke when the maid service arrived to clean the house.


    She didn¡¯t rouse herself out of bed until they made their way upstairs when she decided it was best to trade floors with the group of women.


    Downstairs, she found Oliver with his head buried in his hands, sitting on a deep blue sofa. He dropped his hands when she descended the last step. ¡°I hoped you would sleep more.¡±


    She gestured to the stairs. ¡°Maybe later.¡±


    He nodded and smiled, but it didn¡¯t reach his eyes.


    Sitting next to him on the couch, Estella twisted her borrowed skirts in her hands. ¡°Do you want to talk about it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s nothing, Estella.¡±


    She bent her head over and grimaced at the swing of the skirt around her ankles. Were women supposed to be covered from head to toe in 1939? She hoped not. The voices upstairs became clearer¡ªthey had left the room they were cleaning and reentered the hallway. The women were moving further down the hall, talking about the antics of their children and grandchildren. A boy named Joshua had started climbing trees. Another woman lamented the time her daughter broke her leg from falling out of a tree.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to have to hunt soon, Estella.¡±


    The overwhelming feeling of dry cotton took over her mouth. The reaction was one part repulsion because Oliver meant humans, and one part thirst. Squirming against the sudden discomfort, Estella realized that she needed blood too. She was still healing, her body still demanding more nutrients to fortify itself.


    She kept her eyes firmly on the ground. She should have realized it when she came down the stairs, the gleam in his eyes should have given his thoughts away. Vampire eyes are naturally bright, like any other predators. The noticeable difference came with their choice of diet. Humans were not the only source of blood available to them. Animals worked just as well, albeit Theodora says they are more gamey than humans. Human feeders cause the eyes to burn with an undercurrent of red. Matthieu liked to joke that it was the fire and brimstone Protestants used to yell about.


    Her family preferred animals. If you asked them why, their answers all boiled down to the same point: why would they intentionally hurt someone who wasn¡¯t trying to hurt them?


    Of course, if you asked Matthieu he¡¯d say, ¡°are we not all children of God, Este?¡± Her grandfather was a bit insufferable.


    Oliver¡¯s family had the same clear brightness to their eyes when she¡¯d met them. Unlike Oliver now, whose irises shone with a dull red darkening his otherwise green eyes.


    It must be hard for him, she thought, to sit with her at the diner, on the train, and to prepare the house. But why? Why go through so much effort to help her at all?


    ¡°Is that a problem?¡± Only when he spoke did Estella force herself to look at him.


    ¡°No. I¡ª¡± The policeman¡¯s terror-filled face fogged her vision. She shuddered involuntarily. He would not forget the horror so quickly.


    She¡¯s told that victims of feedings forget if not killed, so long as the bite holds. But what if that wasn¡¯t true? What if they may forget the attack, but suffer the loss, the violation of their person a ghost forever at their back?


    Turning her attention back to her ankles she said, ¡°I can live with it.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    Such simple statements. Such loaded guns.


    They were quiet well into the evening. The silence between them was uneasy as the sun dipped below the horizon. Estella declined going out to eat. She was tired, she was sick of her ill-fitting clothes, and she hated the air between them that seemed to become as bitter as the house. Oliver offered to bring her food again and he was gone.


    Alone in the night, Estella paced the floors. The backrooms of the first level told her no more of the home¡¯s previous inhabitants than the foyer or the master bedroom. At least the sheets were gone to reveal rich wood furniture that shone with fresh polish under the oil lamps.


    She sat at the kitchen table to compose her letters but the tight feeling in her chest suffocated any words. She returned to pacing, the ache in her side a constant companion. The longer the pain stayed, the sharper it became, twisting the world around her to match its uncomfortable pressure. The shadows became strange, like faces peering out at her.


    They only looked away when the door opened.


    His presence chased the voyeuristic shadows away, freeing her from at least that discomfort. In his arms was a now familiar box. ¡°You seemed so happy that it was pasta earlier that I got you it again. I hope you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    She smiled widely as she took the box. ¡°Merci.¡± Estella was so glad to see him and the food that for a moment the unease between them dissipated.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome?¡± Following her to the dining table, he sat across from her and watched, head in hand.


    Estella hummed while eating the fat, homemade noodles. She¡¯s had pasta since moving to France, of course, but there is something so perfect, so precise about pasta cut by vampires.


    ¡°What is it about this meal that makes you happy?¡±


    Chewing carefully, Estella thought through her answer and settled on the simple truth. ¡°The pasta is uneven.¡±


    Oliver¡¯s eyebrows knitted together. She smiled, feeling it stretch across her face. ¡°It¡¯s homemade. Reminds me of my family. And the sauce. It¡¯s a beautiful combination of basil, garlic salt, oil, and sweet crushed tomatoes.¡± Estella shut her eyes and breathed deeply, flashes of a small Italian man danced across her vision. A twinkle of a melody whispered in her ear. ¡°My nonno¡ªgrandfather¡ªhe was Italian. He would make us pasta every week.¡±


    ¡°So it¡¯s good?¡± She opened her eyes to find Oliver still watching her, his palm cupping his cheek.


    ¡°Delizioso.¡± She flicked her wrist to each syllabus.


    A soft smile teasing his mouth across from her. He didn¡¯t speak though, so Estella kept eating while her hand kept playing in the air, like her grandfather used to do when listening to music. I am a maestro, bambina, look.


    Estella finished her meal, enjoying her own private orchestra.

 XXXVIII:

    Oliver carried her plate away for her when she finished eating and returned to his seat across the table. Leaning back in his chair, that same soft smile on his face he asked, ¡°So, you know Italian too?¡±


    ¡°Si. Mio nonno era italiano.¡±


    ¡°English. French. Italian.¡± With each language he tapped a finger against the dining table. ¡°You are a child of Saint Tourre. And, by your own admittance, you are a fellow American. Who are you, Estella?¡±


    ¡°I am¡­my family¡­¡± she was stumbling just like on the train. Estella gritted her teeth. ¡°I am the payment of a generation''s old debt.¡±


    ¡°You said something about that¡ªabout being a payment.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Oui. My great grandfather is Matthieu de Saint Tourre. He married a woman named Estelle. She was a witch. A great witch. Her family was supposedly ancient and well-respected. ¡®Blood of the Gods¡¯ is what they were known as¡ªand a few other families. It was a saying used to describe the older families, mythologizing them. It doesn¡¯t mean anything to people anymore. Or to most people.¡±


    Oliver shifted in his seat, one long leg stretching out, dislodging another chair from the table. ¡°But it might mean something to some people?¡±


    ¡°It might.¡± She took a slow drink of the wine he brought with the pasta. ¡°But we haven¡¯t gotten there yet in this story. This is only the background information.¡±


    ¡°By all means, continue.¡±


    ¡°Matthieu was human when he married Estella. Together they had six enfants. During the age of Persecution.¡±


    Oliver blew air through his nose in the same way Jacques would say, ¡°putain.¡±


    ¡°In those days, Saint Tourre was different. It was only the village then and Estelle¡¯s family seat. They were easily accessible¡ªno magical boundaries, no formal systems of protection. Back then, the village was protected by vampires who were changed by lots. That¡¯s what happened to Matthieu. His name was drawn.


    But he got to stay with Estelle and his children longer than either though he would. He was only human after all. He would have died long before any of them. One day, Estella asked my grandfather to run an errand for her. She needed a special ingredient for an expectant mother. It would take him all day to go and come back but he went. He smelled the smoke long before he saw the village. Homes were trashed and bodies were burning in the street. Including his family. All six children and Estelle were gone.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand. If his family died, how are you related to Matthieu? What does the story have to do with you?¡±


    ¡°It has everything to do with me.¡±


    ¡°How?¡±


    ¡°Because the youngest girl survived.¡± Estella leaned across the table, her glass of wine long forgotten. ¡°We don¡¯t quite know how but she did. Matthieu believes that Estelle made a deal with a god, or a demon, something in order to save her youngest¡¯s life. The being accepted the debt and took little Marguerite with nothing but the clothes on her back, the family recipe book to her name, and put some place unreachable by the hunters.¡±


    ¡°Where?¡± he whispered.


    ¡°Late nineteenth century Italy.¡± This is where the story became more concrete for her. Her grandparents must have told it to her a hundred times, about the girl in the barn and the boy who found her. ¡°She lived in the barn of a family who eventually took her in. She fell in love and married the youngest boy, Timoteo. My grandfather.¡±


    ¡°Did she go back to Saint Tourre? Reunite with her father?¡±


    ¡°No, she never did and we don¡¯t know why. I can only imagine how difficult it was for her.¡± During her angriest moments, Theodora always reminded her of how hard going home can be after such tragedy. The irony wasn¡¯t lost on her now. Sighing, she continued, ¡°So, they married but wars kept coming to them in Italy. In just a few years they will leave. Jacques will help them out of Europe and she will reveal nothing to him. Not even ask after her dear papa. They will come to America and build a pretty little life with a child who cannot stand them. A child who, with his partner, they did not even bother to name.¡± She spat the last words. As a child her lack of parents wasn''t a problem. But as an adult she couldn¡¯t help but look back and wonder, why? Why? It was the perpetual question of her life.


    ¡°My grandparents named me. I am Estella in honor of the mother who saved her and the Italian blood that runs through my veins. But there was still the matter of the deal. Of the debt for Marguerite¡¯s life. Soon enough, things started happening to me. Visions and dreams and visitors. In one of my dreams, a frightening creature told me that ¡°she was the debt, you are the payment.¡± My grandparents understood it, I think, but they chose not to share their knowledge with me. There was also the matter of the Stranger. A vampire who came to find the blood of the gods.¡±


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    ¡°What did they do?¡±


    ¡°Ultimately? Nothing. Jacques and I were in the dark when he came to me after they died. It wasn''t until Matthieu and Theodora saw the family recipe book that any direct connection to Saint Tourre was made.¡± The palm of her hand smacked against the wood table top, a note of finality weaving through the air. ¡°This is who I am. The payment. And I am being collected.¡±


    She was tired. She felt ancient. Sagging against the chair, she thought of her grandfather. ¡°I cannot imagine what Matthieu is going through. And the thought of never seeing my family again is unbearable. I don¡¯t know how my grandmother did it. Am I trapped here too?¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re not. We¡¯re going to get you back to your family.¡± She was surprised at the iron in Oliver¡¯s tone and even more shocked to look up and find him walking around the table to her, kneeling at the side of her chair. ¡°That will not happen, Estella. You will go home.¡±


    Looking at him then, it was like an electric current ran between them. She needed him, she realized. ¡°How do you know?¡±


    ¡°Because I will remind you everyday that your family is waiting for you and you don¡¯t seem like the kind of person who keeps people waiting.¡±


    ¡°How do you know the kind of person I am, Oliver?¡± They still hadn¡¯t broken eye contact. And she knew. He felt that connection too.


    She forced her eyes away from his. Maybe it wasn¡¯t too late. Maybe she could break it.


    Maybe she wouldn¡¯t have to drag him down with her.


    ¡°I just do.¡±


    She wanted to ask him why. To confirm if what she thought was dancing through her veins was doing the same to his, dancing and knotting and forming the most cursed tie, the most beautiful bond.


    Instead, Estella went against instinct and pulled away from him.


    ¡°Will you tell me more about yourself? Who is Oliver Morris?¡± She asked as a distraction.


    It worked. The spell that held him to her side broke. He straightened and returned to his chair.


    ¡°I am a privileged boy from Connecticut. Had two parents with an average and comfortable life in an average and comfortable neighborhood in New Haven. I was an only child and stubborn and maybe more than a little spoiled.¡± He smiled ruefully at the last part.


    ¡°So self-aware.¡±


    ¡°Had a lot of time to think about it.¡±


    ¡°Was it happy, at least? With your human parents?¡±


    ¡°Yes. No. I don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know if you were happy?¡±


    He shrugged. ¡°It was a normal life, you know? And my hands were soft. So soft. Not a single rought day touched them. I resented that. It felt like my hands lacked a purpose.¡±


    ¡°In other words, you were bored.¡±


    ¡°Not very dramatic, I know. My father wanted me to go to Harvard but I was even tired of school. Despite my parents ire, I worked night shifts at the lumber mill.


    One night, or early morning rather, I fell asleep driving home. I woke up like this. John and Eva found me and decided to save my life. Or curse me, depending on who you ask.¡±


    ¡°Is that why you left them? You think they damned you?¡± A ludicrous notion if she ever heard one.


    ¡°No. I mean, perhaps they did, but they also saved my life. I left because John and Eva forgot to tell me one very important thing¡ªthe truth.¡±


    ¡°Which was¡­¡± She could not imagine that what they left out could warrant leaving but then again, she didn¡¯t wake up from a car accident as a vampire.


    His hands curled into fists on the table. ¡°They told me that we fed on the blood of animals. That if we fed on humans, it would drive us to madness. But that was a lie. We can drink from them, and we don¡¯t even have to kill them to do it. It is the natural order of things.¡±


    Estella pushed her back into the chair, uncertain of what to say. Oliver was still obviously angry at John and Eva. His voice was harder than she¡¯s ever heard it and the low burning Hell fire in his eyes shone like hot coals. It was a ridiculous lie on their part. Surely they knew he would have found out about human blood eventually. Did they value human life so much that they would just lie about it to the vampires they create? Her family was reputedly the most upstanding vampires of the supernatural world and even their palates weren¡¯t clean.


    ¡°How long were you with them before they told you?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t tell me. Another vampire we crossed paths with did.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± And she did. Or she thought she could sympathize with the lying part.


    ¡°You must think I am a jackass.¡±


    ¡°For abandoning an animal diet to hunt humans out of spite? A little bit. For being angry at your creators for lying to you? No.¡±


    Oliver dropped his hand into his hands.


    ¡°But I also think you¡¯re very human for it.¡±


    He peered up at her and scowled. ¡°I believe that is exactly what I am not.¡±


    Ah, so he did think he was damned. Estella waved her hand in dismissal, philosophy was never her suit. ¡°Whatever. My grandparents lied to me too, remember? I was angry. I am still angry. I spat on their names and I threw the family book, damaging the spine. I hurt people in my anger too. People who didn¡¯t deserve it.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s hardly the same, Estella.¡±


    ¡°Hurt is hurt.¡± But still, she had to know. ¡°Why are you doing it? If there¡¯s another way, why hurt people?¡±


    ¡°This is what I am supposed to be. I am a vampire, feeding off of people is the natural order of things.¡±


    ¡°Is it the natural order of things, or is it how society dictates vampires behave? I¡¯ve read the novels and the legends. You¡¯ve got some great role models if that¡¯s all you know.¡±


    ¡°What do you know?¡± He hissed. ¡°The Saint Tourre family hardly lives among us.¡±


    ¡°My family has nothing to do with your childish choices.¡±


    ¡°Childish? I¡¯m hunting people that¡¯s¡ª¡±


    ¡°In anger!¡± She snapped. ¡°At your creators! That¡¯s the definition of childish. Do you think you¡¯re the first vampire in history to react poorly to something their creator told them?¡±


    ¡°Says the woman who doesn¡¯t know how to define herself outside of her family.¡±


    ¡°Says the man who doesn¡¯t know who he is, period.¡±


    And like the adult she is, Estella stomped away from the table, away from him, and away from the whole conversation. If he wanted to be a bastard, he can do so without her help.

 XXIX:

    Estella didn¡¯t come down until morning, when she found a woman standing in the kitchen making breakfast. The older woman spotted her standing dumbly in the doorway, ¡°Good morning, you must be Mrs. Morris. My, what a pretty little thing you are! Mr. Morris is out. He said to make you breakfast. Pancakes and eggs alright, sweetheart?¡± She spoke in a rush, her words tumbling out one after another.


    Estella blinked blanky at her until her brain caught up with the speed of the woman¡¯s speech. She choked out a ¡°yes¡± eventually, strangling over the single syllable as her mind whirred over her new name.


    She had forgotten that particular detail in their story.


    ¡°You can have a seat in the dining room, dear. I will have your breakfast for you soon.¡±


    Five minutes later, a plate of food plus a coffee and juice was set before her in the bare formal dining room that she and Oliver had fought in the night before. The strange woman took the opportunity to introduce herself, her hands folded neatly over her yellow half apron. Her name was Mrs. Klein and apparently the temporary housekeep during their time in Chicago. Oliver has secured her for a month even though they might only be there for a single week. ¡°And he paid in advance too! Bless him.¡± She would be at the house from seven to four and would prepare all their meals in the house. Estella offered her a seat at the table but she refused, insisting that it wasn¡¯t proper and scurried off to the back of the house towards the kitchen.


    Alone again, Estella ate with vicious civility, taking slow, somber bites of her meal. With each swallow her anger grew. They didn¡¯t resolve their argument from last night and now he¡¯s left her in this bereft house with its ghosts. Where is he?


    When it was all said and done and the dishes were cleared away by the friendly and professional Mrs. Klein, Estella¡¯s anger had boiled down to a grating annoyance.


    She was annoyed, and yes, still angry, that Oliver had left her alone in a city where she is entirely dependent on him. She may have lived a cowed life in France, but it was hardly her family¡¯s fault. She pushed herself away from the table roughly.


    She had no money, no clothes, and no knowledge about her surroundings. Estella could do very little about the first one, maybe something about the second, and the third matter could be handled with a good walk.


    Upstairs she found tucked into a trunk the closet a small collection of dresses. They were clearly Eva¡¯s: a little too long, a little too roomy in the wrong places. But then again, she was already wearing one ill-fitting dress, what was another one?


    A knock on the door forced her to lay aside the soft yellow fabric.


    At her beckoning, Mrs. Klein¡¯s graying head poked around the door. ¡°Missus, would you like a bath? I¡¯ve got water heating downstairs.¡±


    This would delay her plans, but the idea of a wash was so appealing she didn¡¯t care. Perhaps a bath would make her better.


    And the bath was refreshing. With all the grime, dirt, and blood rinsed from her body, Estella could see herself clearly for the first time in days. The gunshot wound had already healed over, a shiny bright pink scar had taken the scabbing¡¯s place. If she didn¡¯t think about it then she could almost forget that it was there¡ªexcept for the smooth starburst that had taken its place.


    The yellow dress was blessedly simple in design. It hung straight on her frame, the hem skimming the ground as she moved. Taking a scarf from the trunk, she tied it around her waist, pulling the fabric so that it draped over her makeshift belt.


    Pushing her way through the front door out into the street, she tried not to think about the last time she had been on a city street when she and Marianne had been confronted by the apparition. What would have happened if she had been taken then? But Chicago of 1939 was no Paris of her day. On the outskirts like this, there was only one real direction for her to go. On one side lay barren land, on the other was the start of civilization. In 100 years, no doubt, the urban sprawl would colonize the landscape, perhaps even taking the simple she had just exited with it in favor of office buildings and too expensive apartments. She turned towards the buildings. Estella wasn¡¯t sure, but she personally believed that she wasn¡¯t built for the wilderness.


    The Beverly neighborhood was quaint. Oliver¡¯s family home was at the end of a sparsely populated street that reminded Estella more of a village than a city. After a few blocks, however, the residentials turned into commercial sectors. She learned that if she passed the train station she¡¯d come upon the post office but if she went left there was the Italian restaurant across from an Irish pub. Around the block were seamstresses and tailors. How much would it cost to turn her borrowed clothes into better fitting attire? And more modern. Looking around at the few other women on the street, she realized that the clothing she wore was out of fashion. Surely, Eva wouldn¡¯t mind losing the dress since she left it behind.


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    Around yet another corner, she stopped to admire some flowers outside of a florist. A few of them were just beginning to wilt in the summer heat. Casing the street, there was no one was about on this corner in the late morning on a weekday. Almost shivering with anticipation, Estella held up her hand, gently caressing the weakened petals. The rejuvenation of plants was child¡¯s play. It was one of the first things Matthew taught her because it required such a delicate touch.


    Stubbornly, the flowers refused to yield to her magic. Estella concentrated harder on the shape of the petal, on the dehydrated edges. She imagined them filling up, reviving to their former glory of brilliant blue and white.


    Nothing happened. Breathing heavily, it took all her willpower to not give in to the natural urge to hold on tightly to fragile petunia as she blocked out everything else around her. It was just her and the microscopic structure of the petal. No pull came from the air as she pictured the water molecules moving like dust in the sunlight to the plant itself.


    Simply nothing happened.


    She tried a different display. Same results.


    A third display, this time of roses. Nothing.


    Suddenly, a cracky voice behind her asked if she was alright, if she needed something from the florist. Looking behind her, a small elderly gentleman in a tan suit was watching her. She ran. It was a ridiculous reaction, surely the man will think her mad but Estella couldn¡¯t be bothered to care.


    Not when such a vital part of her identity was crumbling.


    Sprinting down the street, further away from the main business thorough far in the neighborhood, she found a miniscule industrial strip. Spotting a dumpster that had been thrown open and looted, Estella threw herself into an alley. She crouched opposite of the refuse, leaning her back against the brick wall and tried to lift the pieces into the air like she had done countless times with books and notes and pens at home. Like her nonno used to do.


    The litter remained in its place on the ground.


    She dove at the trash, grabbing handfuls of it. Throwing it into the air, she attempted to catch it with her magic, as if it would naturally react to garbage landing on her face and shoulders. It didn¡¯t.


    An animalistic scream ripped through her chest, echoing down the alley. Only when several construction workers came to investigate did she realize it was her.


    She felt ripped open, exposed. Chest heaving, Estella barreled past the strange men, back towards the florist, towards the seamstresses and tailors, towards the restaurants and post office, towards her temporary neighbors until finally the last place left the run towards was the Becker¡¯s house.


    She couldn¡¯t stop though. Her feet wouldn¡¯t let her. Maybe if she ran far enough, if she pushed her body past its vampiric limits then her magic would be forced to trigger, be forced to show itself.


    Shouts sounded behind her and then footsteps thudded closer, followed by strong arms around her waist.


    ¡°Estella! Estella! Wait! What is it?¡±


    That same awful, wild noise forced its way out of her chest again. And this time, because she knew it was her, another more ferocious cry came after the first.


    She kicked and bit at him, but as soon as he dropped her he¡¯d cut her off from the untamed land.


    If she dove one way, he mirrored her. If she feinted a move, he called it. Quickly fed up with this, she ran right at him, her only thought that maybe she could knock him down.


    Oliver easily overpowered her, pinning her arms to her side.


    The benefit to all this fuss was that it gave her brain enough time to backtrack, to come up with a different idea, a more simple idea.


    Kneeing Oliver in the groin, she spun around and raced back towards the house. She threw open the front door with too much force, cracking the wall behind her as she made a mad dash for the letter kit Oliver bought her.


    Hastily, she wrote a missive to Jacques at his Paris office but with a flawless address in a shaky hand.


    With Oliver upon her again, and Mrs. Klein watching through the curtains, Estella danced around him back to the curb where she placed her letter inside the mailbox. All mailboxes were magical. It was their nature to be a portal. She didn¡¯t even really have to do anything. Just put it in, really, and it should work.


    The letter was still there.


    Shutting it frantically, she put her two hands on top of the sun heated metal and willed with all her might that the letter would send. She dragged up the deepest parts of herself in the magical force she was trying to create.


    It was like wringing water from an already wrung out towel. There was no pull, no change in the air that her magic had manifested itself. Or that she had any at all.


    There sat her letter.


    The feral cry that had been bubbling in her broke free again. She collapsed to her knees and pounded the earth beneath her hands.


    Strong arms wrapped around her. They held her shoulders until she bruised her hands against the ground. They hey turned her into a broad chest that she also beat with her fists despite the coos of reassurance murmured in her ear. They held her as her rage gave way to loss and the tears finally flowed.


    They carried her inside to the couch. A blanket was fetched and a cup of tea was pressed into her hands.


    Estella was vaguely aware of these things and of someone¡¯s weight dipping the couch cushions beside her.


    At some point, food was also presented to her and she supposed she ate¡ªthey took the plate away.


    Someone asked her if she wanted to be taken to bed. She must have nodded because those same arms were now carrying her, now opening her door, now putting her under the covers, now turning out the light.


    She didn¡¯t think it would ever come on again.

 XL:

    It was dark. Pitch black. An abyss. Nor hands or any other body part could she see. She wasn¡¯t weightless, either. It was rather like she was being compressed on all sides as the blackness bore down on her. Though she knew her chest was heaving, she could not hear her labored breathing. Could not hear the words she tried to speak, tried to call, tried to cry. Only that ever present weight and an uncomfortable tickle behind her ear.


    ¡°Even the gods don¡¯t want you now.¡±


    She woke with a start in the purplish dark of night. The humid air was suffocating on her feverish skin, reminding her of the crushing weight from her dream. Throwing off her covers, Estella crept downstairs, stopping only at the chest of drawers beside her door. On top sat a white paper box with a note:


    Thought you might like a better fitting dress - O


    Inside laid a sage green dress with brown polka dots. Throat tight, she petted the soft fabric, the gentle reminder that she wasn¡¯t alone. She would wear it later, she decided. Downstairs, by habit more than necessity, Estella turned on the oil lamp on the desk in the study. The scattered papers from her desperate plea had been neatly re-piled and sat on the corner. Pulling the chair out, she sat down and placed a single page in front of her but that was all she could do. The paper stared back at her, mocking her. The utter blankness of it was so like the abyss from her dream, as if taunting her: who will help you now, girl?


    Who could help her? Her options were truly limited. A letter to Jacques may take weeks or months or never arrive with a war on the brink. Theodora and Matthieu were god knows where. There were her grandparents¡¯ friends in Georgia but she had no idea if they were there yet or not.


    But she had to try, damnit.


    The first letter wasn¡¯t her finest hour. It was frantic and desperate and borderline incoherent. The second wasn¡¯t much better. But by the time she got to the fourth, the fifth, a clear narrative line was established and her call for help was clarifying. By sixth, she felt confident in her word choices and direction. This letter would be for Jacques, addressed to the office in Paris he has kept for one and fifty years.


    The next letter was much simpler. She was having witch¡¯s problems, would Esther and Eloise terribly mind if she came to see them for help? A friend of a friend of a friend suggested them and she¡¯s awfully friendless otherwise and newly arrived from Europe¡­


    Such was her pathetic plea. From what she remembered of her grandparents¡¯ friends, the old women were kind. As for the magic part, she didn¡¯t really know what their education was but one witch¡¯s input was better than no witch¡¯s input. The pair lived with Eloise¡¯s brother, Jacob. Or they did, she¡¯s pretty sure. She doesn¡¯t remember Jacob in the way that she ever met him, but rather has an impression left from someone else¡¯s memory.


    A knock at the door caused her to sit back uneasily in the desk chair, shuffling the papers in front of her. He had heard her come downstairs, of course, but had left her alone so far. Now, he would ask about yesterday and she would prefer to not do so. She flicked her eyes to the window, surprised that the black night had lightened to a blue-gray. ¡°Come in.¡±


    The door opened just enough for Oliver to poke his head into the room, he black hair almost blue in the low lamp light. ¡°Do you want something to drink? You¡¯ve been in here a while, Estella. I thought you might need a pick-me-up.¡±


    She accepted and Oliver returned a few minutes later with a cup of tea for her.


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    He sat opposite her, on the other side of the desk, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He was, she realized, always leaning¡ªon himself, a doorframe, against a chair. It was a curious habit of nonchalance that she suspected Oliver rarely ever felt.


    ¡°How¡¯s the campaign going?¡± Immediately, her shoulders collapsed, relief spread across her chest. He wasn¡¯t going to ask about yesterday. At least not yet.


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    ¡°There have been many casualties, I¡¯m afraid.¡± She waved at the tornado of discarded drafts, all crumbled and rumbled in some fashion.


    ¡°Nothing we didn¡¯t expect.¡± He held out his hand, a silent request to read her letters.


    She granted it, fidgeting as he read. The only people who had ever read her writing was her family.


    He was silent for several minutes until finally he declared, ¡°You¡¯re a good writer. Or at least, you don¡¯t give anything away you don¡¯t need to, I think.¡± One corner of his mouth quirked up into a lopsided smile. ¡°Do you know where you¡¯re addressing these to?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Jacques has an office in Paris he frequents.¡±


    ¡°Why not Saint Tourre? Or your grandparents?¡±


    ¡°They are¡­preoccupied.¡± Which, she supposed, was true. And Matthieu and Theodora, as the official faces of Saint Tourre, would want to go through the proper channels. Jacques, on the other hand, would do what he thought the situation called for.


    ¡°And Georgia?¡±


    Sighing, she tapped her pen against the desk top. ¡°That one I am not certain about. I don¡¯t know the specific address, only the town and who I want to receive the letter.¡±


    ¡°If the town isn¡¯t large, the postman should know the letter recipient.¡±


    ¡°Well, we will try it.¡± She looked down at her drafts. The crossed out phrases and words seemed so violent.


    She would write a clean draft for them. After her tea. And a walk.


    Leaning back into the chair, Estella sipped the warm cup. ¡°You know, this might be hard to get soon. A lot of food stuffs will be rationed.¡±


    Oliver nodded. ¡°To be expected. During the Great War, the government gave ration bonds.¡±


    ¡°How old were you during the first war?¡±


    ¡°I was nine when it began, and thirteen by the time it was over.¡±


    ¡°Was it hard on you? The homefront experience?¡± Maybe he doesn¡¯t want to talk about it. Maybe she shouldn¡¯t ask questions.


    ¡°Not terribly. I remember thinking the food got worse but it didn¡¯t really impact me until the boys came home. I do remember that¡ªthe absence of the men. And then they came back, or some of them did. These men who were like oak trees to me as a child, gaunt and haunted. Spent the night with a friend once whose brother came back. We woke up to him weeping in the dark.¡±


    Estella grimaced. She¡¯d heard similar stories from her family. ¡°This one will not be any easier. In many ways, it will be worse.¡±


    ¡°How much worse?¡±


    Cradling her empty tea cup, she watched the morning light glint off the porcelain and lightly tapped a finger to the spot where the sun shined.


    He blew out a puff of air. ¡°You¡¯re already here, Estella. You might as well tell me. I don¡¯t think the future will implode.¡±


    She supposed he was right. ¡°Unimaginably worse. I¡¯m not sure when the first camp opens. Soon if not yet.¡±


    ¡°Camps? Like prisoner of war camps?¡±


    ¡°No. We will call them concentration camps and extermination camps. The Germans and their allies will round up millions of Jews, Poles, Roma, and more and at least eleven million will die in them.¡±


    Oliver sat rigid in his chair. ¡°No.¡±


    She said nothing. There was nothing to say.


    ¡°Estella. No. There has to¡ª¡±


    ¡°The world lets it happen, Oliver. They will spin it into some miraculous secret the Germans kept hidden but it wasn¡¯t. We let it happen.¡± And it will happen here, she wanted to say. It will happen in your backyard too. But she doesn¡¯t.


    He was silent for so long, Estella thought Oliver was letting it drop. That''s what when he voiced his next thought she laughed. ¡°What if you¡¯re here to stop it?¡±


    ¡°The world looks the other way and you think one young woman traveled back in time can stop the genocide?¡±


    His face fell, she¡¯d made him feel foolish. Remorseful, she tried to soften the blow. ¡°Nothing can be done about the event, Oliver.¡± She flipped her hand between them. ¡°It has happened. It will happen. It is happening. This is the past, the future, and the present that we belong to.¡± As she said the words, it was as if something slid into place in her mind, like a threaded needle ready to begin a tapestry. Time. Is this how time works? And if so, what can they do within its limitations? ¡°The best we can do is object in the ways we can¡ªwrite to your politicians, protest, and try to be better for those that come next. And maybe if we go to Europe¡­¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Truly, she did not understand Oliver¡¯s objection to Europe. She wouldn¡¯t take him with her anyway. The man is currently monolingual and she had other things to do besides teach him French. But still, she needed his help getting there. At the very least, she supposed she could stow away on ship if he remained adamant.


    She turned away from him, ready to be done with the conversation. The morning sun had grown longer, spreading its warmth up her legs. Enjoying the heat, she thought a change in venue was needed. ¡°It¡¯s a beautiful day. Would you like a morning walk?¡±

 XLI:

    Oliver blinked slowly at her. Had she said something wrong? She didn¡¯t think so. Maybe people in America don¡¯t go on walks?


    ¡°Err. Yes, that sounds lovely.¡±


    She sensed a but in his question. ¡°Except¡­¡±


    ¡°Your hair is not styled. Women do not leave the house without their hair styled.¡±


    ¡°You cannot be serious.¡± Estella rarely styled her hair at home. Loose hair was the norm in the France of her day and she preferred it that way.


    But he was. After an embarrassing ten minutes with Oliver in the master bathroom, they had managed to get her long hair tucked into a low bun and covered with a decorative silk scarf that matched the dress he had bought her. The green dress was simple in design, with an a-line skirt that was much shorter than her borrowed clothing that fell to her ankles or under her feet ¡ª and most importantly, it fit. Or it almost did but after days of much too large dresses, the one Oliver bought for her was like a glove.


    ¡°Do I have to do this every day?¡±


    In the mirror his concentration on her back hair pins diverted to her eyes and he frowned remorsefully. ¡°If you want to go unnoticed.¡±


    She sighed.


    He tried to comfort her. ¡°Maybe Mrs Klein can teach you some styles.¡±


    Down the stairs and out the door, Oliver brought up what she hoped he had forgotten. ¡°Do you want to tell me about last night?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    He stopped short and turned on her, crossing his arms. ¡°I am helping you, am I not?¡±


    ¡°Yes but¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then we need to be able to have difficult conversations if we¡¯re to work together to get you home.¡±


    Grinding her teeth, Estella forced herself to take deep breaths. He was right, of course. It didn¡¯t matter that she intended to leave him at some point. Right now, he deserved answers.


    She just really did not want to talk about it.


    ¡°Estella¡­¡±


    ¡°Later. We will discuss it later.¡±


    His mouth opened slightly, as if to say something more but their conversation was broken apart by a shrill voice.


    ¡°Mr Becker!¡±


    ¡°Damn.¡± And then with a smile, he turned towards a woman standing on her front lawn, already fully dressed for the day. ¡°Mrs Hart, how lovely to see you.¡±


    ¡°Well! Mr Becker, how nice to see you too. You haven¡¯t aged a day.¡± Damn indeed. ¡°How are you? And your parents?¡± She advanced on them quickly, as if afraid they¡¯d evaporate right there on the sidewalk if she didn¡¯t reach them in time.


    Oliver tucked her hand into his elbow again and rested his own atop of her¡¯s, whether to ground him or keep her quiet, she couldn¡¯t tell.


    ¡°Mrs Hart, how do you do? We¡¯re all well, thank you for asking.¡±


    Mrs Hart returned the pleasantries, mentioning her daughters in the process. ¡°Harriet will be some soon and would love to see you, Mr Becker. Come over for dinner tonight, she¡¯ll be delighted.¡± She eyed Estella as she said this, scrutinizing her appearance and the scarf on her head. She wanted to squirm under such obvious supervision and was positive that she did not meet whatever yardstick she was being measured against.


    A light pressure grazed her knuckles. Oliver was running his thumb over them as if sensing her discomfort. She returned the reassuring sentiment with a gentle squeeze on his arm.


    ¡°How rude of me. Mrs Hart, this is my wife, Estella.¡± He stressed the word wife.


    Her grateful squeeze turned into a death drip.


    But it worked. Mrs Hart visibly withered at her new position.


    ¡°Pleased to meet you.¡± She spoke slowly, forcing an American accent. Her English was near perfect, but any native speaker would pick up on the slightly different pronunciation of her words. It wasn¡¯t as bad as Jacques, who couldn¡¯t (and didn¡¯t want to) stop the hs sneaking into his speech or the literal translation of words that led to awkward sentence structure in English. There was definitely a certain tilt to her words though. Marianne had described it as nasally.


    She felt Oliver¡¯s eyes on her, perhaps trying to understand her new found language restraint. The last thing she needed to do was give this nosy woman more to gossip about. She hear it now, ¡®Oh, he married a French girl.¡¯ In her day, there was a bit of a fetishization of the French. If that was the case now, well, she didn¡¯t want to deal with it. If that wasn¡¯t the case now, she didn¡¯t want to know what the alternative was.


    Uncertain how much more she could say while hiding her accent, Estella ¡®mmhm¡¯d¡¯ and nodded her way through the rest of the conversation. Thankfully, Oliver caught on to her distress and answered most of the questions for her. To Mrs Hart, it probably seemed like he was overbearing. For every question about her background, Oliver had an inquiry ending answer:


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    ¡°Where are you from?¡±


    ¡°Georgia.¡±


    ¡°What does your father do?¡±


    ¡°Both of them are dead.¡±


    That made her stop. She couldn¡¯t possibly ask any more questions without being rude. Estella thought that she might continue her interrogation with the way her lips quivered and her fingers twitched the fabric of her skirt.


    Oliver took advantage of her momentary indecision and edged them around Mrs Hart on the sidewalk, tipping his hat to her as they left her.


    Once they were far enough away, she turned to him. ¡°Oh, daughters, Oliver.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Left broken hearts behind you, hm? Poor Harriet.¡±


    ¡°Hardly. Mrs Hart is ¡­ kind but she is also nosy and has it in her head to matchmake.¡±


    Ignoring the uncomfortable twisting in her stomach, she focused on his words. ¡°And she had it in her head to match you.¡±


    His Adam¡¯s apple bobbed nervously. ¡°That would certainly be unpleasant.¡± She said pointedly.


    He started examining the roses they were passing.


    ¡°Perhaps even something you would like to avoid by any means necessary.¡±


    Estella dug her heels into the ground, gripping his arm with excessive force, causing him to turn to face her.


    He gave in immediately. ¡°It is true that I would like to avoid Mrs Hart¡¯s nosiness.¡± He held up one finger, stopping her next comment. ¡°It is also true that an unmarried man and an unmarried woman cannot reside together in this society. Your life will be much easier for you as a married woman.¡±


    ¡°We could have pretended to be related.¡±


    ¡°When we all lived here we made it clear that there were no family members beyond ourselves to stop questions. Mrs Hart would have remembered that. She¡¯s already commented on my age.¡±


    Estella frowned. ¡°It is annoying, but I¡¯m relieved you had ulterior motives. Makes you feel more real and less like a saint.¡±


    He raised an eyebrow at her. ¡°Did you miss the part where I drink human blood?¡±


    ¡°No, but you¡¯ve been absurdly helpful that if I wasn¡¯t trapped in a nightmare I might think this was a harmless dream. You¡¯ve been such a good samaritan that I was starting to think you weren¡¯t human.¡±


    ¡°I am not human.¡± Well, she should have expected that rejoiner.


    She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. ¡°Semantics.¡± They were passing another lovely flower garden. Since the conversation was veering dangerously close to the philosophical, she gave her attention to the blooms instead. The roses were exceptionally fragrant, dotted with bright coneflowers and peonies. There was a vibrant patch of marigolds closer to the home. Her grandmother Marguerite always planted marigolds.


    Oliver was watching her, his head cocked to one side but otherwise didn¡¯t comment on her obvious diversion from the conversation. After his momentary pause, he stepped forward to admire the flowers himself before she tugged on his arm to continue their path around the residential area, passing several more flower beds. He indulged her each time, stopping at each to comment and appreciate the simple beauty. He even listened patiently to her identify each plant and their attributes.


    When they began their journey home she was in an exceptionally good mood. After the realization the night before that her magic was gone, she felt so far from her family, so horribly separated from them that she truly wondered if she could ever go home again. The walk this morning brought them closer to her. Look at her! Talking about flowers! She sounded like Matthieu. Oliver was a much better audience than she ever was.


    Their return to the house coincided with Mrs Klein¡¯s arrival. While the older woman made breakfast, Estella went upstairs for a quick wash before putting her dress back on. This time, she left her hair loose down her back. In private, she could do that, right?


    Perhaps not. When Mrs Klein saw her, her eyebrows rose but she otherwise didn¡¯t comment.


    She met Oliver in the dining room where he waited with a newspaper.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t tell you earlier, but thank you for the clothing. It is lovely.¡±


    He dipped his head lower into the folds of the paper. ¡°You needed a dress. I was afraid you would drown in Eva¡¯s dresses and that¡¯s simply no way to go.¡±


    ¡°How much do I owe you for it?¡± She asked after Mrs Klein laid out their plates.


    The newspaper crumbled into his lap. ¡°Nothing. I am helping you and I intend for you to get a few more.¡±


    ¡°More? But ¡ª¡±


    ¡°Eight or ten more. Eva must have had at least ten or twelve dresses.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s absurd, Oliver. I¡¯m not ¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not what, Estella? Not going to be here for that long? In this time or do you mean Chicago? Because luggage exists. I know I am a simple vampire, but unless you do have a magical fix then I think you might be here a while.¡±


    She spluttered, unable to form a proper response. It was true, the journey home would likely be very difficult. That¡¯s didn¡¯t mean she wanted him to say it.


    He leaned over the table to her, a mischievous glint in his eyes. ¡°Let me put it another way: I do not want to travel with someone who wears the same dress every day. Sensitive nose and all that.


    Despite herself, a laugh burst out of her. ¡°Batard.¡±


    He winked at her.


    She wasn¡¯t going to let him buy that many dresses but she didn¡¯t see the point in arguing with him any further. A vampire who accumulates items over a theoretically infinite life was hardly the yardstick to measure how much of something you should have. She¡¯s fairly certain that Theodora doesn¡¯t even know how many clothes she had ¡ª she has a textile historians dream in a trunk or closet stuffed into a corner of Saint-Tourre or in her hunting lodge.


    She peeked at Oliver over her plate. He was clearing trying to hide his disinterest in the food in front of him, shoving it around with his fork. Occasionally, he would pick up a piece of toast, rip off a corner, ball it up, and stuff it into his trouser pocket.


    Her family members typically avoided food based events outside of Saint-Tourre. Once, Jacques was roped into attending some lawyer event in Lyon and he brought her with him. She hadn¡¯t wanted to go that far from home, afraid of causing trouble ¡ª or of it finding her ¡ª but she had a lot of fun that weekend. At one of the dinners, she kept sneaking bites off of Jacques¡¯ plate to help with the charade.


    Comparing their plates, her and Oliver¡¯s were exactly the same. That was part of the trick: if one of the plates had different items on it, you either had to switch them back at the end or move food around. This would be a simple switch and she was pretty much done eating¡­.


    Swiftly, she switched their plates. Oliver froze at the sudden movement, a mutilated egg dropping from his fork.


    Quickly and without much thinking, Estella shoved two spoonfuls of food into her mouth. As she set her utensils down she heard the pitter patter of Mrs Klein¡¯s footfalls coming from the kitchen.


    It was Oliver¡¯s turn to be speechless. The footsteps were getting closer though and he hadn¡¯t moved. She kicked him under the table. Mrs Klein had just stepped in to take their plates and he flipped the newspaper back in front of his face. When she¡¯d gone again, he lowered it and resumed his incredulous look at her.


    What did he expect? An explanation? It seemed fairly self-explanatory and uninteresting to her.


    ¡°What now?¡±

 XLII:

    After writing clean copies of her letters, they set out. Oliver only got half of his planned dresses. The shop girl, while confused by how little Estella knew, helpfully explained that women usually had five day dresses and a few others for different occasions. Since Estella saw no need for special occasions, and indeed Oliver wasn¡¯t likely to be put into such a situation anyway, he relented on the number of dresses.


    Clothes shopping took most of the day but before they went back to the house, Oliver brought her to the city library. Scratching the back of his head, he explained that there wasn¡¯t much for them to do at the house while they waited for the letters. She happily accepted this change in their plans.


    Seeing the excitement light her face, the corners of his mouth tipped up. ¡°We can go to museums too, and maybe lectures. Certainly shows, if you¡¯d like too.¡±


    Her cheeks warmed at his offerings. They were made out of kindness, maybe pity, for her unfortunate situation but he looked so eager that she accepted him.


    The library was located on Michigan Street and built in the classical style with its large masonry walls. She had seen many such designs in Paris. Oliver took her around to the main entrance on Washington Street, where inside they were greeted with a vaulted lobby, marble walls, and mosaics.


    She stood silently behind him while Oliver registered them at the front desk. They were closing soon, the librarian warned, but she could be quick¡ªshe did grow up in a library, afterall. While Oliver was signing and filling out forms, she sniffed out the card catalog and found two books that would be good rereads and she wanted a glance at their academic offerings.


    Cards given and received, she shuffled away from Oliver and wound her way through the stacks. First, she picked up the books she already had in mind before hurrying over to the history section. The books here were unfamiliar to her and mostly concerned United States history and England¡ªan uninspired collection. Nothing close to what she was hoping for.


    She passed a small Science section filled with books about dinosaurs. Huffing, Estella returned to the front desk with five minutes left on the clock. Three minutes left when the library handed the books back.


    Don¡¯t ask don¡¯t ask don¡¯t ask they are closing soon don¡¯t ask¡ª¡±Do you have any books about time? Or time travel? Anything at all?¡± Damn her, she could have come back.


    Two minutes left. The woman flipped her hand towards the stacks. ¡°Check the catalog.¡±


    ¡°I did.¡± She ground out.


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    ¡°Then there is nothing.¡± Her eyes flicked over Estella¡¯s head. ¡°We¡¯re closing now. You will have to come back tomorrow.¡±


    Sighing, Estella accepted defeat and turned to Oliver who looked at her with a downward expression. Unable to bear it, she walked towards the door. Once on the sidewalk he simply said, ¡°We¡¯ll go to the university library tomorrow.¡±


    They were silent the rest of the way back to the house at the end of the street. Mrs Klein had dinner waiting for them, which Oliver profused over while shooing her out the door as politely as he could, promising to clean up after dinner himself. She was horrified by the notion and looked to Estella for reassurance. The older woman must have seen the lack of help in her bemused expression and tried to protest her way back into the home but Oliver was able to get the upper hand again, calmly charming her right out the door.


    Collapsing into the dining chair opposite from her, Oliver finally approached the subject: ¡°So, time travel?¡±


    She stabbed her ham. ¡°I have to start somewhere, Oliver. If I could just get an idea of it, maybe I can make a picture.¡± Her frustration leaked into her speech, her French accent almost thickening the vowels beyond recognition.


    ¡°A picture?¡±


    ¡°Yes, a picture. A portrait. A photograph. An artistic rendition of a scene. If I can get the tools one, perhaps I can create something out of it, a message or even a way home.¡± A sob choked the rest of the words wanting to explode from within her. Maybe ¡­ maybe ¡­ maybe ¡­


    Impossible. It was impossible. Everything felt so impossible. She shoved her plate away. Even eating was impossible. She covered her face with her hands, trying to hide the appalling emotions coursing through her. She had to stay positive. Stay hopeful. Her family needed her to come home. Not because she¡¯s special, or because the world will end, but simply because they were her family and it is awful to not have your family.


    Low, slow footsteps. The scratching of the chair legs next to her on the hardwood floor. Oliver¡¯s low voice next to her head, ¡°You will.¡±


    You will. Such a mundane statement had her chest blooming with warmth. Without thought, one of her hands reached for him, cupping his face then his neck then landing on his shoulder.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Maybe he truly believed in her, maybe he was merely offering words of encouragement and comfort. Regardless, she appreciated it.


    While her hand touched him, he looked at her with wide, dazed eyes. When she pulled away, his voice softly spoke, ¡°You¡¯re welcome.¡± He sounded very far away. In a moment he recovered, his expression became unaffected and he returned to his seat across from her and picked up his newspaper.


    Estella sat with the feelings Oliver¡¯s plain belief invoked in her while she struggled through the rest of her food. They were familiar, those emotions of warmth and faith, of emotional security with the person sitting next to you. It was how she felt in the presence of her family. After so long away from then, she reveled in the feelings of home they inspired, only half listening as Oliver recounted newspaper stories to her from the safety of the other side of the page.


    The rest of the evening was wonderfully calm. As promised, Oliver cleaned up after dinner while she indulged in a painfully neglected hobby: reading. He soon joined her and then before she knew it, the day was well and truly over and she was going to bed.


    Not all days would be this pleasant, she knew, but Estella enjoyed the quiet moments with him while she could.

 XLIII:

    ¡°Oliver, what is this?¡±


    ¡°I believe it is what we call ¡®clothing.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Yes, but why is there a trunk of it?¡± Sitting just inside their entryway was a lovely cedar steamer trunk, freshly delivered from the department store they had gone to early the day before.


    It was filled with much more than five dresses.


    ¡°I asked them to prepare a trousseau for you of everyday essentials since you had recently lost everything.¡±


    Estella was speechless. Does this man ever do anything by half? He appeared so unbothered by how much he must have spent on her while she felt deeply ashamed.


    It wasn¡¯t that she was uncomfortable with money. Her family lived in gaudy opulence at Saint-Tourre, but that wealth came with a price and each of them knew it.


    What was Oliver¡¯s motive for spending his?


    ¡°Why?¡± Such a simple question, such an important answer she wasn¡¯t sure she was ready for. The invisible string she felt tugging them together back home nudged her again. Remembering her last day with Oliver then, the way they clung together as if they both knew it was goodbye, she wasn¡¯t sure she wanted the answer.


    Maybe he didn¡¯t remember her then, but what if she left an impression? The way he gravitated towards her ¡­


    ¡°Are you ready?¡±


    Estella snapped out of her thoughts, cheeks blazing. In the middle of her tangle of thoughts, Oliver had swept away the trunk and stared down at her from the top of the stairs.


    Trailing after him, she followed Oliver into what had become her room where he set it down in an empty corner.


    ¡°We¡¯ll, there you go.¡± And he was gone.


    She couldn¡¯t stop staring at the trunk. It wasn¡¯t just a delivery crate. It was truly a nice cedar steamer trunk. He got her a traveling trunk, something she could use to store and move her things. Touched didn¡¯t begin to describe the sharp feeling in her chest, threatening to overwhelm her. Shoving past those emotions, she opened it. A trousseau, to her, was old-fashioned and outdated, but she knew they traditionally went with a new bride. And with a new bride came a wedding night. Now endangered by a hot blush, she lifted the tissue paper covering the contents. Underneath were nearly arranged white paper boxes and a few cloth bags. It was ridiculous, truly. She had no doubt in Oliver¡¯s intentions, but would the women at the department store know? What had he told them?


    Preparing herself, she tentatively opened the first bag, her blush dissipating.


    Inside was a boar bristle hair brush. In another were a few toiletries and personal care products. In the boxes were her dresses, carefully folded and wrapped. Beneath those were her under clothes and even, to her surprise, shoes. Of course she would need more appropriate shoes. They ditched her shoes back east and all the stolen and borrowed pairs she¡¯s worn since fit poorly. She merely assumed she¡¯d live with it.


    Throat tight, Estella fought rising tears. There wasn¡¯t a single uncomfortable item in the trunk. They were all something she needed or would need to make her time here more comfortable.


    Overwhelmed, she gripped the lid and leaned her head against the opening. It was thoughtful and considerate and ¡ª and ¡ª and she couldn¡¯t think. Her head filled with Oliver¡¯s face. How much had he told them? Did it matter? The important thing was that he thought to have the trunk made at all.


    He saw the bigger picture.


    At Saint-Tourre, after their initial introduction ¡ª or reintroduction ¡ª he had always been attentive to her, seeking her out in the quiet moments, talking or working alongside her in the kitchen, or the library, or the Archives, or the garden on the rare moments she felt safe to go outside.


    Is this where it started? Confusion, hope, and fear fought for supremacy in her heart.


    She pushed herself up and away from the trunk. Oliver was in his room down the hall, studiously staring out the window, she could see his reflection on the hallway mirror across from his open door. At her approach, he turned and the look of apprehension on his face settled her emotions temporarily.


    For the moment, she was glad. Happy, even, as she felt that she got the one thing she wanted with Oliver: time.


    Finally overcome, she cried, ¡°Thank you!¡± And launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.


    He received her willingly, if startled, his arms encasing her. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. The last time she would have been held like this was by her family ¡ª when they left her to find answers in Greece, when Jacques left to help Matthieu and Theodora.


    And yet it wasn¡¯t the same. Underneath the current of warmth, of safety, of care, was an extra undertow of unidentified emotions that increased the tempo of her heart.


    Once again, she was painfully aware that this wasn¡¯t a family member, was no Jacques stand-in. Estella extracted herself from Oliver¡¯s embrace. He let her go, not even his hands lingering on her waist like she secretly wished they would.


    She said another ¡°thank you¡± as she fled from the room.


    ____


    When she came down for breakfast in her brand new, properly fitted dress she tried not to smile too brightly at Oliver¡¯s vieled attempt hide his admiring eyes.


    She shouldn¡¯t be happy that he seems to like her. This man barely knows her, even if he is incredibly kind to her. She would just end up breaking his heart anyway, aside from potentially endangering his body too. Besides, she hasn¡¯t changed her ind about leaving him in Chicago. Take her money and run, so to speak, was the necessity of the day.


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    Her stomach turned sour at these thoughts. The modest breakfast before her no longer appealed to her. Would she truly accept these gifts only to cut and run a few days later?


    ¡°I thought we could go to the university today. See what is in the library there for you. If we¡¯re leaving to go to Georgia soon, then we probably shouldn¡¯t check out anymore books but we can create a list. A bibliography, I think?¡±


    Estella barely caught a word Oliver said. All the ¡°we¡¯s¡± bounced around her head, knocking any other information out.


    He was still talking about the books, the research, and the learning. He looked so excited at the prospect of the puzzle before him.


    What was it that he said back in New York? This is the most interesting thing to happen to him in three years? He had immediately apologized when he realized she didn¡¯t share his perspective.


    ¡°Oliver, why?¡± She blurted out. She¡¯s asked this question many times and wondered it even more.


    The light in his eyes dulled with regret. Estella bit her lip, she almost wanted to apologize.


    But she would never stop wondering. And maybe, secretly, just a little bit, she hoped his motive were mercenary.


    It would make leaving him again easier.


    ¡°I told you, Estella, because I want to, because you¡¯ll help my family when we need it.¡±


    ¡°And because it¡¯s interesting?¡± She probed.


    He pressed his mouth into a thin line. ¡°It is interesting but that¡¯s not why.¡± He snapped the newspaper open, obscuring his face again. ¡°We should leave for the university this morning. That way we have time to look through the collections.¡± He said, his voice muffled behind the paper.


    Estella couldn¡¯t tell if she had offended him with her questions about his motives or there was something he didn¡¯t want to acknowledge. It was not that she didn¡¯t trust him but she needed to not trust him. To not like him. To not want him to stay with her. It would be easier if he gave her a reason to leave him.


    Because she couldn¡¯t stay, wouldn¡¯t stay with him.


    The conversation ended. Oliver feigned interest in the paper and Estella fermented with uncertainty.


    Unable to stay uncomfortable with each other for long, however, they had regained their equilibrium by the time they stepped on the train to the university.


    Oliver served as her ever-faithful tour guide, pointing out landmarks big and small and even personal, ¡°That¡¯s the theater they took me to our first Christmas together.¡±


    By ¡®they¡¯ he meant John and Eva, who he never mentioned by name. This was the first time he had brought them up himself in conversation.


    She worried her lower lip, afraid to somehow mes sup the moment. They were still walking past the theater, his face slightly turned from her as he gazed at it across the street.


    He looked wistful, she thought.


    ¡°Maybe we could go? Before we leave?¡± She shouldn¡¯t ask these things, shouldn¡¯t engage in extra time with him.


    But his face swiveled to her, then back to the theater now behind them.


    ¡°You said you¡¯d take me to a show.¡± God, could she shut up?


    She thought he¡¯d be torn or uncertain, but Oliver looked positively delighted at her suggestion. Fantastic.


    ¡°We¡¯ll go this weekend.¡±


    It¡¯s a date, she wanted to tease but finally her brain and her mouth were on the same page and she stopped herself from speaking. She needed to get a hold of herself if Oliver was going to make it through this relatively unscathed.


    ____


    The Harper Memorial Library was magnificent. Like the city library, the university created an identity out of gothic architecture.


    Standing inside it now, Estella felt as if the seams were set to bursting in the building from the endless books. She felt the mechanisms keeping such a complex system intact thrum under her skin. Even humans could work their own kind of magic.


    After a brief stop at the front desk, Estella followed Oliver through the stacks. The plan was rather simple and not the most refined research methods. This younger Oliver, she is learning, didn¡¯t have much intellectual experience outside of the basic education every young, middle-class man in the United States might expect in 1939 before going to college. Which Oliver did not do. But he was eager to take part in the pursuit now that it seems to have a purpose. She guided him through the card catalog, him jotting down references as they explored. In the stacks, they pulled titles and flipped through indices before taking over a worktable they slowly filled with books.


    She had no reference point on how well university libraries in 1939 should be stocked but she was impressed ¡ª and perhaps a little overwhelmed by the selection of books. After their initial search, they separated. She started in physics, but wandered into science fiction, literature, and history. You never know if the human writing farfetched ideas was a witch. There were no laws preventing witches from playing the academic, after all, so long as they didn¡¯t come out and say it.


    By the time Oliver found her again after completing his own part of the project, she had a healthy stack. As they expected, there was a lot of crossover in their selections but Oliver had some books she hadn¡¯t seen and vice versa. Estella felt fairly confident in the net they had cast.


    ¡°I was thinking, too, that your letter campaign could keep going. There¡¯s no reason I couldn¡¯t take up the mantle and contact some of these authors for more references while you start reading.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Uh.¡± He looked so earnest and eager with his bright eyes shining hope at her.


    She nodded numbly, unable to break it to him that whatever references the authors had would likely already be in the books. Oliver did that to her sometimes, made her insides topsy-turvy and unwilling to break his enthusiasm.


    The trip was just as Oliver had promised: reconnaissance and nothing more. He¡¯d offered to check out a few of the books for her on their way out, but she declined. Better to wait for some guidance lest she muddle the road before she even walks down it.


    They spent the rest of the day in quiet companionship at the house at the end of lane, both reading books they had picked out. For a moment, she could believe she was still home, still solving someone else¡¯s crisis rather than her own.


    Estella did her best to focus on the fiction books in front of her, but her mind raced, and her hands ached for some kind of release of energy.


    Recalling the extra paper in the office, she retrieved it and returned to the sitting room, taking a seat beside Oliver¡¯s knee to use the low coffee table as a work surface. If he had any thoughts about her actions, he did not share them.


    At his knee, she strained at the blank page, begging for the words in her throat to reach her hand. Stubbornly, they stayed firmly lodged, suffocating her.


    Never one to wallow, or at least to give attention to the feeling, she turned to a less emotionally intense task.


    The room they were in was a simple subject but the act was soothing to her nerves. Oliver left her alone about it, quietly sitting beside her, not quite touching but near enough to constantly be aware of the other until she retired late in the evening, leaving a startling detailed graphite drawing behind.


    ____


    The next day was much of the same as the evening before until seven that night, when Oliver came down the stairs dressed in a press shirt and pants, tugging an overcoat onto his shoulders.


    Pointedly, she felt, he did not look at her as he left out the door. Estella tried to fight the pit forming in her stomach, that quietly uncomfortable feeling that rises when you know something is wrong but you let it happen anyway.


    She knew what Oliver was doing --- being the monster he believes he ought to be --- and said nothing. Who will get hurt tonight? And how many?


    He¡¯s so kind but thinks he¡¯s a demon. The Oliver she met at Saint Tourre flashed across her mind. So full of regret, of sadness, of a missing piece.


    He¡¯s only doing this because it¡¯s who he thinks he should be, not who he wants to be.


    She¡¯s still learning this Oliver but the one she does know, the doting brother and devoted family man, hates the choices he made.


    With that last thought, Estella threw on her new coat and headed out the door.

 XLIV:

    Tracking wasn¡¯t something she regularly did. The first time Jacques took her hunting he stood her in the middle of the woods and asked her what she smelled.


    She took one long, concentrated sniff expecting the world to open to her in entirely new ways.


    How disappointing that nothing exceptional happened. The forest smelled like trees: damp, crisp but with an underlying scent of decay. She knew the foliage and vegetation around her but if you asked her to find a plant while blind folded with the breeze blowing it would take an extraordinary amount of time to find it.


    And most importantly, she could never find an animal in that sharpened way her family hunted. Sure, perhaps she could catch the muskiness of a deer, but following it on smell alone was out of the question. They smelled too much like their natural homes and when she could find a trail, she inevitably lost it.


    Jacques had encouraged her, soothed her, and eventually consoled her when they finally called off the practice.


    Those failure weighed on her coat laden shoulders and whispered around her legs, pleading with her to turn back, turn back, as Estella stepping into the cool Chicago evening. She knew how Oliver smelled: clean, fresh, with just a hint of evergreen. It was a decidedly unexceptional scent, but it was his.


    Now, if she can just avoid confusing it with laundry.


    Thankfully, the evergreen scent stood out among the burgeoning neighborhood around them. She turned and followed his trail past the houses, the brick-and-mortar businesses, deeper into the heart of the city where the more active night life made the smells mix together. By the time she made it downtown, the evening had fully bled into the night. The groups of families on their way home turned into couples and friends heading out. Oliver¡¯s scent got lost in the change. What had once been distinct in the night air against the stark pavement, now blurred and melded with the crowd.


    Standing around the corner from a dance club, Estella cursed. She¡¯d been looking for hours. At first, she assumed that she¡¯d catch up to Oliver quickly --- she hadn¡¯t left that much later than him.


    Whoever she hoped to save tonight --- Oliver, a stranger --- she had failed.


    ¡°Why a pretty lady like you so glum?¡± It took her a moment to realize that the voice was addressing her.


    A man stood in an overcoat with a tilted fedora on his head at the entry to the alleyway wall she leaned against, muffled jazz music filled the street behind him.


    ¡°I --- uh.¡± She waded through the muddled disappointment and surprise. The men in New York had also been bold in approaching her and Oliver. Truly, what was with Americans? Although this one seemed to sway a bit on his feet, so maybe he was drunk.


    Emboldened by her tied tongue, the man stepped forward, crowding her deeper into the shadows. He smelled faintly of gin and strongly of sweat. People passed behind on the streets, but none attempted to peek over the broad shoulders of his padded coat.


    She would not be cowed by a human man, of all things.


    ¡°Hey now, sweetheart, don¡¯t be fussy. I only wanna check on you, that¡¯s all.¡±


    Estella did not bother to respond in words. If Theodora taught her one thing, and one thing only, it was not to suffer men. Albeit, she¡¯d never really had to put it into practice before, but this fool seemed as good a time as any.


    With more force than she normally used in her daily life, she swatted away his encroaching hands, smacking one of them into the brick wall. Sidestepping him quickly, his curses were lost in the crowd she swiftly joined. She followed it along, unsure where to go, and feeling oddly giddy about the recent encounter.


    She was alone, in a foreign city, a man had attempted to accost her, her new friend was hurting others to hurt himself, and she felt joy. It was like a bubble had filled up inside her and floated her along to the beat of the music.


    It guided her to a club, The Savoy. Terribly underdressed and underfunded, she didn¡¯t even bother with the line. Instead, she found herself another alley (she was becoming rather fond of side streets) around the building and snuck in through a maintenance door. When she broke through to the main floor, it was like stepping into a fever dream.


    It was darkly lit, there were people dancing in styles she had never seen, and they were contrasted by the booths and tables filled with couples drinking and smoking. The band played on a stage, bopping to the rhythm of their music.


    The bubble that brought her there pushed its way up her abdomen, through her throat, and burst in her mouth in a fit of excited giggles. She¡¯d never seen anything like the club in all her time in Paris. Had never even considered partaking in nightlife, despite Jacques¡¯ best coaxing, out of fear of the boogie man.


    But there was no boogie man here. She had lost the creatures somewhere in time and space.


    Maybe, for a little bit, she could live.


    The euphoria was like a drug. In her day dress and overcoat, she approach a man standing aside, watching the dancers.


    ¡°Care to dance?¡±


    His head snapped to her, eyes trailing her body, as the corners of his mouth curved upward.


    ¡°Absolutely I do.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know any steps.¡±


    He grinned. ¡°Won¡¯t be a problem.¡±


    His name, she learned, was Jackson, and he was perfectly amiable. He was a patient teacher, and she was a fast learner. Soon enough, the lesson turned into an enjoyable dance. Another man came up to ask her for a dance, and then another, and then Estella simply didn¡¯t know what time it was, but she knew she¡¯d drunk enough from the cup of freedom when the tables started to clear.


    Her dance partners escorted her out the door, tried to hail a cab for her, offered her rides, or beds. She laughed and flirted and begged off. Maybe some men could be suffered, for a time, at least, she thought as she disappeared around a corner.


    The dark night was eking into gray morning when she walked up to the house at the end of the street. Happiness had carried her home, but the sight of the front door brought her back to reality. There was man, probably inside by now, whose life was a mess, and she was somehow caught up in it.


    When she crested the top step, the door flew open, and Oliver stood in the door frame.


    ¡°Where the hell have you been?¡± He demanded, the fresh red glare in his eyes piercing in the dark.


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    Estella couldn¡¯t raise herself to meet his mood. She didn¡¯t owe him an explanation and she certainly wouldn¡¯t offer one. Tonight had been depressingly low, and enchantingly high. A disorienting combination for anyone. The worst of it was that she wished he¡¯d been there.


    Instead of answering him, she side stepped him, the grace of the maneuver belying the disjointed feelings in her abdomen. He called after her when she ran up the stairs to her temporary room, where she let the long shadows consume her.


    ____


    Sleep, unsurprisingly, evaded her. Oliver, who surely heard her restlessness, quietly asked for a cup of coffee from Mrs. Klein when she finally tottered down the stairs.


    Estella offered him a subdued thank you from her side of the table. He watched her again over his newspaper, but today she wouldn¡¯t meet his eyes, wouldn¡¯t invite conversation.


    Despite his kindness, despite the pleasure she got from his company, last night showed her why they could not stay together. The journey ahead of her will be a long one. It will require studying, perhaps of material difficult to find. It will take her full concentration to understand what she needed to do to get home, and to actually do it.


    She¡¯s been so concerned with the danger that she can put Oliver in that she forgot he could be a danger to her too.


    For all her life, Estella was overly cautious in public. That she went out, alone, in the dark, into a strange city searching for a man, a full-bodied vampire no less, who had made his choice about his life because she thought she might be able to save him from himself was the hallmark of self-important stupidity.


    Yes, Oliver Morris made her stupid. And she couldn¡¯t afford lack of clarity right now.


    She had to leave him before he took up any more space in her head.


    Hopefully the guilt won¡¯t eat her first.


    ____


    By the next day, Estella roused herself enough to act normal with Oliver. Now fully aware of the dangers he posed to her, she was alarmed at the ease of their companionship. Sure, she knew him already but not this Oliver and he didn¡¯t know her at all. And yet, he chose her.


    What was the basis of his attachment? The nagging concern that it was too late, that their connection was already permanent, roared in her eats, threatening to overcome every conversation, every glance.


    She had to get away from him. But how?


    The answer came with the afternoon post.


    Jacob had written her back to tell her that his sister was currently living in Oregon, in a small town west of Portland. He took the pleasure to call his sister and inform her of this most curious charge and she, in turn, was quite eager to settle her curiosity and invited Estella post haste to her home, ¡°No further contact necessary.¡±


    ¡°What did he say? Can Jacob help you?¡± At Oliver¡¯s voice, Estella quickly folded the letter over his fingers, hiding its contents.


    ¡°They. Uh. Yes.¡± She cleared her throat. ¡°Yes, he can.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s great. When do we leave for Georgia?¡±


    ¡°Next week.¡±


    Oliver didn¡¯t look convinced by her enthusiasm. Before he could ask she continued, ¡°This is such great new! Finally, I¡¯m getting somewhere.¡±


    That, at least, wasn¡¯t a lie. She was excited to Esther and Eloise.


    ¡°I¡¯ll go to the state to check the schedules and get our tickets.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m coming too,¡± she insisted. Maybe she¡¯ll be able to see if a train can take her to Oregon. Having no money of her own for a bus, Estella figured she¡¯d have to go by foot or trade in the train ticket Oliver will buy.


    Her morals did not stop her from preferring the latter course of action.


    At the station, Estella found that she could take the Great Northern Railway from la Salle Station to Portland in a trip that rounded into two full days of travel.


    Two full days between her and Oliver.


    ¡°You¡¯re quiet,¡± the man in question said, bumping her shoulder.


    Staring at the schedules had made her plans real. She was going to leave him. It was for the best, for the both of them. But that didn¡¯t stop her from feeling sick over it.


    And worse, she left room for a week of sweet torture before the separation.


    When she told Oliver a week she wasn¡¯t thinking --- just trying to buy herself some time to figure out a plan. She hadn¡¯t expected it to come around so quickly.


    A soft pressure on her arm drew her attention. Oliver. He had asked her something.


    ¡°Oh. Um. Oui.¡± Still in a bit of a fog and not entirely well from the direction of her thoughts, the words came out heavily accented.


    ¡°Are you certain? We don¡¯t have to go out tonight if you¡¯re not feeling well, Estella.¡±


    Go out? What were they --- the show. He had promised to take her to see a show this weekend and it¡¯s Saturday.


    A lump lodged in her throat. Maybe she should bow out, put some distance between them before she leaves him.


    But a part of her, a significant part of her, wanted to enjoy his company as much as she could before the separation. It will likely be years before she sees him again. Why not embrace the moment?


    She managed to wade through her conflicting thoughts and emotions to respond, ¡°Positive. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    ____


    Later, when she came down dressed in a simple lilac dress and spotted Oliver at the foot of the stairs, Estella forgot all her misgivings, doubts, and plans.


    Oliver always dressed well in the sense that his appearance was exactly proper and never once disheveled but tonight she thought he took extra steps in his routine. There was a kerchief tucked neatly into one breast pocket, a pocket watch chain dangled against his thich, and there wsa the faintest scent of cologne in the air --- just enough to be pleasing but not overbearing. At feat for a vampire, to be sure.


    These were small touches, really, that shouldn¡¯t signify anything more than they were going out for an evening. But the tiny pull in her gut said otherwise. Like.a fly to honey, Estella tucked her hand into his proffered elbow and let him lead her into the night.


    The streets downtown were bustling with friends, lovers, and lost souls, all off on their own adventure. Was it truly a few days ago that she followed Oliver to the heart of Chicago? Determined but overwhelmed? But unlike that night, alone on an uncertain path, tonight she had Oliver¡¯s guiding hand and steady presence. Instead of the streets, he had hired a car. And instead of a meal, they were looking at the bright lights of a marquee sign that advertised a Quiet Wedding.


    The play was funny, it was heartfelt, it was a good lesson on proper relationships in 1939.


    Estella felt incredibly sympathetic towards Janet. ¡°It¡¯s just so sad,¡± she told Oliver over her after theater dinner. ¡°I know it is poking fun at the social mores of propriety but they were engaged! Why should they have to hide that they spent the night together?¡±


    He tried to answer, but she waved him off. ¡°No no. Do not tell me. I know why. It only hit me, I guess, why we had to be ¡®married.¡¯¡±


    Wiping her mouth with her napkin, she continued, ¡°And all of that is to say: thank you fo rlooking out for me. If Janet was afraid of what her family would think of her spending the night with her fiance, I¡¯m certain the neighbors would be scandalized by me. Afterall, us French women will be depicted as gifts to your GIs in a few years.¡±


    Oliver covered his heart with his hand. ¡°Am I not scandalizing too? Perhaps I needed the cover to protect my virtue, not yours.¡±


    A snort escaped her, ¡°I think they might be too preoccupied trying to marry you off to their daughters to care.¡±


    ¡°Much to my dismay, I assure you.¡±


    His obvious sincerity pleased her greatly, like a warm, happy feeling bubbling in her chest. She beat it back viciously.


    ¡°As if you didn¡¯t enjoy the attention,¡± Estella tried to tease.


    He gave her a wolfish grin, leaning towards her across the table. In the small space it brought them uncomfortable close. ¡°I never said I was a saint.¡±


    There went those bubbles again.


    Estella angled away from him and watched other late-night couples walk by their window, admired the flowing bodies in the reflection of dancers deeper in the restaurant. Pop pop pop.


    ¡°Do you dance?¡±


    ¡°Not really, no.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to?¡±


    No. ¡°Yes.¡±


    The trip home wasn¡¯t as much of a crush as it was to get downtown. She didn¡¯t have the hold onto Oliver to navigate the crowd or the traffic. Instead, she allowed the wind to fill the space between them, to cool her skin where she felt his shoulder on her cheek, his hand in the dip of her hip. The air danced around them, as if enticed by the reluctant energy of their separation.


    Estella breathed cautiously, lest the breeze fill her lungs with action instead of mere desire.


    ____


    Nothing changed too much after their outing on Saturday night. Over the blood ordered from the butcher, Oliver and Estella finalized their plans for Georgie. And later, alone in her borrowed room, she nailed down and repeated her plot to leave him.


    Despite her better judgement, she had gotten thorough attached to the man. Each repetition of her journey west chipped away at the hole in her chest.


    She didn¡¯t know it could get any bigger than the day she lost her grandparents. Even as she gained Jacques, Mathieu, and Theodora, Estella knew she could not keep them. Or that they could not keep her.


    On the Friday they were set to leave, Oliver and Estella packed their clothing and notes. She enjoyed a simple breakfast and the news articles Oliver read to her over the table.


    Together, they packed a hired car that took them straight to La Salle Station. Together they carried their cases to the train that would carry them to Georgia. Together they boarded and took their cabin, but before settling in Estella begged to look around, leaving Oliver along in their cabin. Alone, she stepped off the train.


    In the end, it was too easy to leave him.

 XLV:

    In the end, it really was too easy. At Portland she caught another train on a regional line. This was trickier because she had to stow away, but she managed to make it to the small-town Jacques had directed her to. ¡°Town¡± was generous. ¡°Village¡± was more accurate. From the rural train station, she walked to the post office where the postman gladly offered her a ride with the next morning¡¯s post to her dear aunt¡¯s house.


    ¡°Poor thing, running ahead of the war?¡±


    She agreed to the ride but offered no comments on the war. After all, what could she say?


    After a two-hour ride, the postman dropped her off at the end of a long dirt lane, a lone bag in hand. She couldn¡¯t stomach taking everything Oliver had purchased for her.


    At the door of a little white, two-story house she stopped, hand raised. For the last week her mind had been a whir, a constant mindless buzzing like radio static. And suddenly, it cleared.


    She knocked, a strange almost out of body feeling propelling her on. An older woman with more gray in her hair than black answered the door.


    Estella was here, on the porch, with Eloise (or was it Esther?) and she was there, at the airport telling them goodbye. May we meet in another time.


    Had they known something then? Or was their choice of words mere coincidence?


    Behind the graying black-haired woman appeared another aging lady, this time blond hair streaked with white.


    They were speaking, Estelle knew they were speaking, and maybe even to here, but she was too gone, too deep in the past, in the future, that the present got lost.


    The two women were old. Old now, old then. She assumed they belonged to her grandparents¡¯ generation. Had assumed they died between then and now, now and then.


    But they were old. Old like aged whiskey kept in wine barrels.


    Estella thought she was grasping at straws coming to their door. Instead, she was staring in the face generations of learned and experienced knowledge.


    ¡°Well, girl?¡± One of the two hundred or so year old women bit out. She still wasn¡¯t certain who was who. She may have missed that part.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± Asked the other.


    The airport disappeared, the little girl grew again into a young woman, and she was finally present, standing on their front porch.


    ¡°Estella,¡± she said.


    ¡°Alright, Estella. What do you want?¡±


    ¡°Help.¡± It would be beneficial to explain further, but now she wasn¡¯t sure what to say. Her problems felts too unwieldy, too large to explain on a doorstep. She tried to say more, opened and closed her mouth, worked her throat, felt words on her tongue. But nothing came.


    The old women¡¯s faces relaxed, their gazes met. They gray-black one nodded and the white blond turned down the hall and walked away.


    ¡°Come inside, girl. Have some biscuits and a spot of tea.¡±


    The kitchen was a multi-colored cluttered, clearly frequented and used by the two women now sat across from her on matching chipped pale-yellow chairs. She still didn¡¯t know what to say or how to begin but surely something had to be aid and she still wasn¡¯t certain who was who so she really couldn¡¯t stop herself from blurting out: ¡°who¡¯s Esther and who¡¯se Eloise?¡±


    Like at the door, they exchanged words with a glance, a communication so silent Estella tried to remember their relationship from when she was a girl. They were always spoken of as a pair, one always leading to another. Just like her grandparents. Had she been told that they were friends? Lovers? She couldn¡¯t remember, they simply always were to her.


    The two sets of eyes turned back to her.


    ¡°I¡¯m Esther,¡± the gray-haired one said.


    ¡°And I am Eloise,¡± the platinum haired one said.


    ¡°How did you come by our names?¡± asked Esther?


    Estella reached for a lie, a story that made sense but the deception she fed Oliver was like acid in her stomach, roiling its contents.


    She bit her bottom lip before jumping headfirst. ¡°You were friends of my grandparents, Timoteo and Marguerite de Luca.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t know any couple by that name.¡±


    ¡°Or any individual.¡±


    ¡°Not yet, but you will,¡± and then the words came easier and easier until the flowed so swiftly that Estella marveled that she hadn¡¯t been able to form them at all an hour ago.


    At the end of her story, she worried the inside of her cheek between her teeth. ¡°Can you help me?¡± And the two women now understood what she meant: Can you help me get my magic back? Help me get home? House me, feed me, teach me so I may help myself? Can you can you can you¡­


    ¡°Aye girl, we can help. ¡®Tis a witch¡¯s duty, after all.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re no miracle workers. We can only take you to a point.¡±


    ¡°And then the rest is on you --- you and the gods.¡±


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    ____


    That first day they insisted she rest from her travels, but the next day was a very different process. ¡°You need to restore yourself,¡± they said, ¡°before starting any study. Otherwise, you truly will run out of wick.¡±


    It started with the gathering of materials: regenerative plants and talismans and the like. Estella followed them everywhere, watching what they gathered but forbidden to take part in the labor. She was required to fast, only breaking it for a little bread and wine ¡°To welcome Christ,¡± they explained. She smiled and nodded, though her religious sentiments leaned more in favor of Jacques and Theodora than Matthieu¡¯s. It was a confusing mix of traditions and ideas. Magic and religion didn¡¯t truly connect except in the perception of the beholder, and herbs were also not much help except for their actual medicinal qualities. The talismans were more accurate to earlier modes of witchcraft, but again, all their practicality was in the eye of the beholder.


    Magic was more about the power we give something than the power the said object actually held.


    They took her to a claw footed bathtub and stripped her bare, anointed her in oil, then ritualistically bathed her. There must have been something in the air, some heavy mixture of scents that filled her senses and clogged her head.


    The hands on her multiplied. Was only Esther and Eloise there with her? She tried to see, to check but faces always moved, hands skidded out of sight.


    The warm water of the bath enveloped her, lulled her into an ease and compliance. How much time had passed? Time¡­ time¡­ time¡­


    ¡°Still lost I see,¡± rasped a voice behind her.


    Estella¡¯s eyes flew open. Before her was a forest thick with foliage and fog.


    ¡°Well, girl, turn around. I¡¯m not that hard to look at.¡± She waited the span of three breathes before complying. The woods were familiar, had run through them countless times.


    And she knew that voice.


    The woman was exactly as terrible to look at as the last time. All mummified skin stretched over bone, deep set eye sockets atop hollow cheeks. A smile not meant to be mocking but couldn¡¯t help to be so spread across the priestess¡¯s gruesome features.


    ¡°There you are,¡± the old woman crooned.


    The temple stood just behind them, so close that one step would put her under the protection of its roof. The friezes were pristine, but the images meant nothing to her. They could have been everyday objects, or ritualistic imagery for all she knew. Archaeology wasn¡¯t her strong suit.


    ¡°What am I doing here?¡± She asked.


    Bone shined through taut skin when the priestess shrugged her shoulders. ¡°Resting. Can¡¯t have you powerless when they claim you.¡±


    ¡°Claim me?¡± She remembered what the priestess told her last time: Not your time. But it was her time now, this is what she was trying to avoid.


    A slow, awful smile cracked the woman¡¯s lips. ¡°Haven¡¯t sorted it all out yet have you? Let me help: you are my replacement. The gods granted me retirement so long as I provide the incumbent.¡± Her nose --- or what had been her nose --- twisted up, ¡°If only my hunters could find you. Where did you go child?¡±


    Fear encompassed her. Before Estella had forced it down, swallowed it back in the face of an uncertain situation. But now¡­ but not it finally gripped her in competition with the hold the priestess had on her arm.


    In terms of fight or flight, she was choosing flight. Rearing back, she kicked and clawed at the undead creature. Her hand brushed the metal brooch --- and fumbled out the pin knife.


    Lunging, she plunged it into the priestess¡¯ shoulder. A shriek pierced the clearing.


    She was gasping for breath, panting heavily and still gripping the pin knife when Estella bolted upright in the bathtub in Esther and Eloise¡¯s home. The candles sizzled like oil had been added to their wicks, and the bath began to steam like a sauna.


    ¡°Ah, there it is.¡± Eloise sighed behind her.


    Hysterical giggles built up in her chest, joy and terror combined to make horribled uncontrollable laughter take over the room. The candles oscillated between lit and blown out, the water had reached uncomfortable temps, and the incense turned sour.


    Esther and Eloise grabbed Estella and hauled her body out of the tub. Her naked form spilled over the floor, water sloshing around her. She couldn¡¯t feel the cold tiles beneath her or the hot water or smell the incense. She was still laughing. Maybe the old women were talking to her, maybe they offered her comfort, maybe they left alone on the floor.


    She didn¡¯t know. She was laughing too hard.


    ____


    The cleansing ritual had worked. Her magic was now a touch unpredictable ¨C it will do that you know ¨C but it was certainly there when Estella woke up the next morning. At the breakfast table, Esther carefully guarded her coffee mug after Estella sat down and created a gust of wind from the action so strong it blew off the plates.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright dear, young magic can be so temperamental,¡¯ Eloise soothed.


    Estella knew that, of course, but she bit her tongue. Not that she had much chance to speak with the alacrity with which Esther and Eloise threw themselves into her problem.


    Like Oliver, the troubles of her life were highly interesting to people not suffering them. Esther jumped on her book list and got the work. Apparently, she knew a guy who knew a guy at the University of Massachusetts who could get them the materials.


    Witchcraft really was about who you know.


    Until then, Estella followed Eloise around practicing household magic. ¡°The best way to get your motor skills back,¡± the older woman declared. Esther was often in the background of these lessons, prepared to defend whatever Estella was about the damage.


    ¡°We worked hard on this house; you don¡¯t just get to come in and destroy it.¡±


    ¡°I was educated within Saint-Tourre, by the family nonetheless.¡± She curtly reminded the old woman. Of course, it didn¡¯t help that she shattered a glass soon after that statement. Esther laughed as Eloise gently coached her into putting the broken glass back together.


    Two and a half weeks passed in this manner until the first books arrived. Two were basic histories on witchcraft, one was on ancient Roman magic, and the fourth was on the Celts. A final two were literary depictions of time travel. Estella hoped that if nothing else, she would at least be entertained. The little village they lived in wasn¡¯t Chicago and their home wasn¡¯t filled with many pursuits that didn¡¯t fit their needs. If her hosts weren¡¯t working, they were listening to the evening radio shows for news on Europe. Not the most exciting life for a young, introverted women like herself.


    Now Estella spent her mornings crowded around the kitchen table, taking notes and throwing thoughts at her hosts who were happy to discuss the history of magic and cultural representations of time. They were not so pleased to do so when the physics books arrived. More than once she eyed them backing out of the room, or simply disappearing.


    In the afternoons and evenings, she worked in the house and around their small property doing, fixing, and helping where they asked. She was happy to labor for her room and board, plus there was the added benefit of being kept so busy she barely had time to think about Oliver.


    Barely.


    She thought about him, of course, and how she left him --- twice --- but she consigned him to that painful hole in her chest where her family lived. No matter, she wouldn¡¯t see him again until she returned home. No sense in wallowing over it.


    But at night, when her head touched the pillow, she did think about it. The tug towards Oliver was different than that of Matthieu, Theodora, and Jacques. The desire for her family was that of a nourished seed seeking water and soil to embed its roots. For Oliver though¡­ for Oliver it was like leaves turning towards the sun after a heavy rain.


    She had been right to worry in Chicago about his attentions to her, his attraction. She had a whole month on him though in their connection, hopefully he¡¯ll forget her, hopefully the ties that bind hadn¡¯t bound him yet.


    He must forget her; she shouldn¡¯t exist here. Memories played behind her eyelids of his time at Saint-Tourre. He will forget her.


    That didn¡¯t make remembering him any easier.

 XLVI:

    Weeks passed into a month. A letter from Jacob arrived but there was no mention of Oliver. After she left it seemed he gave up on her. Good, she told herself and promised to put him out of her thoughts.


    Her studies helped. Research into specific topics was a well-practiced skill for her. Estella might have been a home body, but Matthieu and Theodora took her education seriously and you don¡¯t live in the same building as one of the deepest libraries and archives in Europe without having to do a project or two (or three) a semester.


    The rest of the books arrived and she in full swing, reading and taking notes. Some nascent ideas were forging but she hadn¡¯t yet the threads to pull them together. Much of it was theory and she hated theory. Never been good at it. Never had the patience for it either.


    Her magic was improving too. She was still too stiff to have the finesse she was used to but Esther stopped cradling her morning coffee in a protective embrace over breakfast.


    Small wins and all that.


    About a month and a half into her stay and summer was just showing signs of giving way to cooler weather. She was with Eloise in the back garden collecting the waning harvest. Besides them basked buoyed with vegetables. Esther was around the corner of the house, muttering over laundry. ¡°I hate laundry,¡± Estella heard her grumble every week for the past six weeks, but she hated smelling like tomato plants more.


    It was a calming, repetitive routine. Her life in Oregon kept her busy, kept her moving enough to quiet the raging anxiety over her situation. Her time in Chicago almost felt like a fever dream between the gunshot wound and a dislocated Oliver.


    She almost felt normal, as if she was small again playing in the garden with her nonno. Maybe he was right around the looming sunflowers.


    One day they were repeating this exact same scenario when the air shifted like a thread pulled taut. The windchimes strung up outside began to sing. Esther joined them in the garden, the laundry intentionally laid aside on the ground. They also set down the garden supplies and baskets and together the three of them gathered inside with Estella shoved into the kitchen out of sight.


    Around the corner, down the hall, Esther and Eloise greeted their visitor, Esther gruff and bossy as always. ¡°What do you want, boy? Don¡¯t get a lot of your kind around here. Not that you¡¯re welcome.¡±


    Your kind? Her breathe caught. No. It couldn¡¯t be. He wouldn¡¯t. But so much time¡­ Not after she --- hope, treacherous hope, spring joyful in her chest.


    A male voice floated down the hallway. ¡°Your brother Jacob sent me. Said I might find my friend, Estella de Luca, here.¡±


    Oliver! Tipping sideways, she had to grip the counter to steady herself.


    Why had he come? Why had he bothered? Hadn¡¯t she been terrible enough?


    ¡°Don¡¯t know her.¡±


    ¡°Esther!¡±


    ¡°She doesn¡¯t want to see you.¡±


    ¡°Now, we don¡¯t know that. We haven¡¯t asked.¡± Cheerfully, Eloise told Oliver, ¡°She doesn¡¯t like to talk about it, you know. She¡¯s had a very difficult time of it.¡±


    Eloise, please.


    ¡°Could you tell her that Oliver Morris is here to see her?¡±


    ¡°I imagine she knows that what with the superb hearing of you lot.¡±


    Estella wanted to disappear into the floorboards, be devoured by the faithful ants as a sacrifice to their queen. Anything except see Oliver. Or to listen to Eloise hint to obviously that she may have missed him.


    But Esther was right about their superior senses. Not only did vampires hear exceptionally well, but their sense of smell was terrifying when honed in. And if Oliver was looking for her, he would know she was here by scent alone. He was only being polite in asking for her.


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    He had questions, she was certain. The least she could do was answer them and hope he agreed with her reasoning.


    Nervously wiping her hands on her waist apron, Estella turned the corner. The hall wasn¡¯t long, and she could easily see Oliver¡¯s black mop of hair over the older women¡¯s heads. She had only a second to take in the sight, the reality of the situation before Oliver¡¯s face snapped up and his dark forest eyes met hers.


    His eyes widened, mouth fell open slightly as if to speak or perhaps simply stunned to see her look so tame.


    But the window into his thoughts lasted only a moment. He shuddered them quickly, narrowing his eyes and mouth, which he pressed into a firm, thin line.


    So, he was angry. Of course. Estella didn¡¯t know why that knowledge deflated her, but it did. Maybe she¡¯d hoped he would have understood, but then again, how can you understand someone you barely know?


    She invited him on a walk through the orchard, just a short distance from the yard. He accepted willingly but that was as far as he intended to the conversation. They fell into silence. Estella thought of many things to say that weren¡¯t looking what she¡¯d done in the face but they each came back around to the same point: Oliver had been a part of all her opening conceived plans.


    Every detail she could share with him he had wanted to be a part of.


    It was in this state of mind when Oliver pulled up short, forcing Estella to turn and face him.


    But he wasn¡¯t looking at her. Oliver stared to her right, off the path. It felt like a very fragile moment, like her very breath might shatter whatever was left between them.


    In a controlled voice, he finally spoke, ¡°I brought you¡¯re your trunk.¡±


    An obvious statement. She saw it with him on the porch. ¡°The case and everything in it are yours Oliver. You purchased all of it.¡±


    He shut his eyes, breathing in. ¡°I bought all of it for you. You¡¯ve nothing here.¡±


    ¡°I---¡± She lost to a large lump that choked her voice. Clearing her throat, she wanted to try again. She just couldn¡¯t stand this. Couldn¡¯t stand his even voice, the way he wouldn¡¯t look at her, and even the way he was breathing, all short and measured.


    ¡°Oliver.¡± He wouldn¡¯t face her. ¡°Oliver.¡± Wouldn¡¯t look. ¡°Oliver.¡± The last, more like a whine, thickened by her accent, finally made him look at.


    And he was angry.


    ¡°What, Estella? What do you want?¡±


    The questioned rattled in her head. She wanted so many things. To apologize, to beg him to stay, to make him understand that he has to go, to tell him that she¡¯s thought of him every day.


    Words twisted and tied around her tongue. She felt like a child again, testing vocabulary on her tongue.


    He threw his hands in the air. ¡°Right. Of course. How sill of me to ask. Obviously, you want me gone. I¡¯ll go.¡±


    She should let him go, but her traitorous hands reached out, gripping his sleeve. He stopped but didn¡¯t turn towards her, didn¡¯t look, didn¡¯t ask.


    ¡°That¡¯s not---that¡¯s not why.¡±


    ¡°Then what is it, Estella? I thought¡­I felt¡­¡± Words escaped him, or perhaps he shoved them down. He still didn¡¯t turn around, but his chin dipped lower, bringing their heads closer together, while his free hand rubbed at his chest, where his heart was located.


    She didn¡¯t want to say it, didn¡¯t want to give voice to the feeling, to the ache she felt with him that was so different to the pain of missing her family.


    ¡°Estella,¡± He breathed, his breath hot on her cheek. He faced her now, only inches away from her own. And she knew. It was already too late for him. Knew it with a certainty that was rooted in her bones. Teared pooled in her eyes, threating to spill over.


    She didn¡¯t want to do this to him. She didn¡¯t to do this to him.


    Estella ripped her hand away form him like she¡¯d been burned. She didn¡¯t want to be the melancholy in him she saw at Saint-Tourre. She didn¡¯t.


    Hands fisted in her eyes, she paced away from Oliver. ¡°I don¡¯t want to do this you!¡± She all but yelled. ¡°I don¡¯t want to! It¡¯s not fair!¡±


    They say Theodora went mad when her husband died. That Matthieu was even worse. In some stories, the broken heart literally killed the one left behind.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s your choice, Estella.¡±


    ¡°I will leave you, Oliver. That won¡¯t change.¡±


    ¡°You will come back to me too.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not too late.¡± It couldn¡¯t be. Lives bled together behind her eyes, them together at Saint-Tourre, their intimate breakfasts in Chicago, them bent over books and paper. Past, present, future. Future, past, present. ¡°Leave. Leave and don¡¯t come back.¡± She pleaded.


    ¡°It is for me.¡±


    She ground loud and long. When she ended, Oliver asked, ¡°When I asked if we were friends, you said ¡°Of a sort.¡± What did you mean?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡± She burst out. ¡°We got along so well. And when we weren¡¯t working, we were together and we talked and--- and--- don¡¯t make me do this, Oliver.¡± The man himself was much closer to her now, reaching for her, holding her.


    She fisted his shirt sleeves in her hands, resting her head on his shoulder.


    ¡°I only want to stay. Let me stay with you, Estella. We can figure the rest out later.¡± He whispered into her hair. ¡°Please, I only want to stay.¡±


    How did this happen? How and why did they get so attached? Why did it have to be now? Or then? When did it have to be this way?


    Letting go, she walked away from him, back towards the house. ¡°You have to talk to Esther and Eloise. It is their home.¡±

 XLVII:

    The helpful women were only too willing to let Oliver stay --- with an embargo on human blood, of course.


    Her friend was only too happy to give up that habit. ¡°Had to abstain in Georgia to get Jacob to speak to me. I won¡¯t be a problem here.¡± Estella would have been deeply touched if it weren¡¯t for the fact that she was so stressed out.


    They put him up in a small room in the back of the house with a little cot and wash basin. She lingered at the door, but heard very clearly Esther tell Eloise back in the kitchen, ¡°Hopefully, now she won¡¯t be talking to me about science whatnot!¡±


    ¡°I heard that!¡±


    ¡°I know!¡±


    Behind her, Oliver laughed from his small bed. He looked up at her with a smile. ¡°They¡¯re nice. I¡¯m relieved. I know you said you knew that them but still¡­¡±


    ¡°More about who I would meet than how I got here?¡±


    ¡°I worried over that too but you¡¯re capable, I had faith you would at least make it to them.¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you¡¯re not more angry.¡± She told him, leaning against the doorframe.


    He cocked his head a bit, wringing his neck. ¡°I was, but a month is a long time to think and---¡± He scratched his ear sheepishly. ¡°I was a little overbearing, I have to admit.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well, it is an interesting case, isn¡¯t it?¡± She teased.


    He shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m not going to pretend that it isn¡¯t but that¡¯s hardly why I¡¯m in this room now.¡±


    Looking away from him, she eyed the wallpaper and fought between feeling delighted and uncomfortable. Still, she should let this develop further than it had.


    ¡°I have some notes, she said by way of distraction. ¡°You should read them and catch up with my thoughts.


    He smiled broadly at her, ¡°Whatever you want, Estella.¡±


    Having a second person around who was willing to listen and actively learn and research with you was more beneficial than Estella realized. Esther and Eloise listened to her, but they didn¡¯t sit with her and word --- it wasn¡¯t their problem after all and they had lives to live.


    Oliver though, Oliver threw himself into the work. Three weeks in and he had caught up to her reading, making red annotations over her notes with questions and thoughts and notes of his own.


    He even joined her on her lessons with Eloise, which turned into lessons for him on the fundamentals of magic and its principles in practice. These were things Estella knew well, matters she had borderline been born into that the lessons now were about staying in practice and having a bit of fun.


    Because it was fun to watch Oliver discover magic. Not that he could do it, but the man was enthralled by the things they were doing and attacked the theoretical study of magic with such enthusiasm that Estella simply couldn¡¯t let the timeslot go to the books.


    The outside perspective her brought to magic didn¡¯t hurt either. In the early day of their stay, Estella was feeling particularly frazzled from a bad dream. She had been running again up a mountain, trying to reach some impossible precipice. In her heightened state, she shattered the bowl she and Eloise were working in.


    Taking deep breathes to calm herself, Estella managed to stitch the bowl back together, feeling the edges, imagining the clay in its pre-baked state, still malleable, still whole in a different form.


    Oliver was completely amazed. ¡°How did you do that? It¡¯s good as new.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps, but it is not the same. See?¡± She pointed at the cracks and chip evident now on the bowl. ¡°And even the color is off.¡± She said frowning.


    ¡°But it still formed backed, Estella.¡± He took the bowl from her and turned it this was and that in the light. After a moment of consideration, he handed it back to her and asked seriously, ¡°Can you do it again?¡±


    She didn¡¯t entirely understand his expression: serious, contemplative, eager; but she knew the excited look in his eyes and felt a similar sensation rising in her chest, warming her from the inside out.


    Loosening her hold, she let the bowl slip between her fingers. ¡°Yes.¡±


    Later, in the quiet of the night, Estella would relive that moment, that joy. She had done magic many times, had practiced and learned until it was a part of her but never had it felt so fun as when Oliver looked at her with astonished eyes and asked what else she could do.


    The days passes. They studied and they played, and they earned their keep with Esther and Eloise. Later summer blurred into early Autumn, which inevitably gave way to Winter. By then, Estella felt a bit like a car stuck in the mud, gaining no traction and spinning her wheels over the same information.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    She and Oliver had made progress, she was certain of it. It may not be progress that could be measured so to speak but she felt better, more grounded in her understanding of the world around them and the role magic played (or theoretically played) in its impact on the physical environment. Magic, biology, and botany had always been closely related to her---it¡¯s how Matthieu taught her---but the physics of it had never been truly broached. Maybe because both were deeply intangible beneath the surface.


    She just wished she had someone to talk to about it. Oliver gladly discussed it with her, and Esther and Eloise patiently listened, but they didn¡¯t look at magic the way she did---it was too close, too personal for them to really view such a vital part of themselves with such an analytical eye comfortably.


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised,¡± Oliver commented after Esther grouched her way of the kitchen following one of Estella¡¯s sessions of verbal working through magic¡¯s impact of time and space (Oliver had asked her how a witch¡¯s ¡°long step¡± worked, which is when an individual crosses a distance, such as a hallway, in the span of a single step). The older woman grumbled that ¡°they are not interested in the mechanics of their lives.¡±


    This, she thought, was a fundamental difference between vampires and witches. Vampires wanted to know why---why they weren¡¯t born the way they ended up, after all. Witched though¡­asking a witch how their magic worked was like asking a human why they had skin, or breathed, or had opposable thumbs. They simply did and answering any question further than the routine basic one given by primary educators was seen as ridiculous.


    Oliver, upon hearing this, was aghast at the general lack of curiosity.


    ¡°It isn¡¯t only a lack of curiosity¡ªthough there certainly is a sense of complacency. Witches suffered generations of lost knowledge, first with the age of persecution, followed by each subsequent war that dwindled their numbers and drove them closer to humans. There are few witch quarters left in Europe and never was one successfully established in North America. Any scholars there are, are few and far between and probably underground, especially now that another war is underway.¡±


    ¡°That sounds terrible.¡±


    ¡°It isn¡¯t only witches who are hurt by this. Vampires, werewolves¡­the loss of knowledge hurts everyone.¡±


    ¡°And the knowledge is what Saint-Tourre preserves and makes available for us to use?¡±


    ¡°Yes, exactly.¡±


    It had been an important conversation, one that brought her and Oliver closer in alignment. Estella went to bed that night feeling good about their time together, about Oliver¡¯s understanding of the culture of knowledge they were deep into. She hoped he felt the same.


    Estella just hadn¡¯t realized the impact of those late-night discussions until days later. Esther and Eloise went to bed and they had stayed up, huddled around the kitchen table in warm lamp light.


    It had started usual enough. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about what you said, about Saint-Tourre and its bastion of knowledge.¡±


    She waved her hand at him. ¡°Let¡¯s hear it.¡±


    ¡°Does it¡­do you know where we came from?¡±


    For one fleeting, awkward moment she thought she was going to have to give Oliver the sex talk. ¡°You mean vampires.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Jesus, I¡¯m not a monk.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­no, no one truly does. It was so long ago. Prehistory, even. All we have are creation myths like any other ancient people. And like creation myths, the stories are built more or less with the same elements: a flood, violence, fighting gods.¡±


    ¡°What are the details?¡±


    ¡°Well, one story is that the gods flooded the earth. The lover of one of the lesser gods died in the flood water when it took her city. The lesser god organized a revolt against those who let the flood happen. When they won, he used the blood of the gods to resurrect his lover (an act of witchcraft), but when she came back, she suffered insatiable blood lust. And thus, the vampire was born.


    Another story is similar but different. In this one, there are no lovers. Only a mad priest (or witch) on the hunt for immorality. They decided to trick a god for a drop of their blood, which they succeeded at doing. After they consumed it, the blood infested the priest---they got their wish. They were immortal but at the cost of their relationship with everyone else, who they now desired to drain.¡±


    ¡°They had to hurt not to exist.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    He tapped his index finger against the tabletop. Tap tap tap. Estella waited, anticipating more from Oliver. She got the sense that he wasn¡¯t merely asking. He wanted something more.


    ¡°So in both of these stories, the vampire and witch are connected. One begot the other. Did they¡­was there ever and attempt to reverse the vampirism?¡±


    ¡°Oh, Oliver. Oliver, no.¡±


    His face fell in shame and embarrassment. Remorseful of her indelicate dismissal, Estella reached across the table and held his hand.


    ¡°You¡¯re not the first person to wonder or want that.¡± Or she assumed so. Her perspective of vampirism was skewed quite a bit by her family who were all content (or happy, in Jacques¡¯ case) with their lives. But then again, she wasn¡¯t around to see their growing pains.


    ¡°Myths aside, people tried to ¡®cure¡¯ vampirism. It used to be generally accepted that witches and vampires were kissing cousins, so to speak. The integration of the communities was much more common pre-Persecutions.¡±


    ¡°¡¯Tried¡¯ as in failed?¡±


    ¡°Yes, because of the type of magic involved in the transformation.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°Magic is¡­magic is its own thing. I have it but I do not own it if that makes sense.¡±


    ¡°Not particularly.¡±


    ¡°They used to say it was a gift from the gods, a token of their appreciation for our service. But gods are fickle creatures and can take it back.¡±


    ¡°So, you¡¯re more like a host for the supernatural gift.¡±


    ¡°Kind of, yes, according to the old theory.¡±


    ¡°And what does that have to do with types of magic?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s regular, every day, domestic magic which is what you¡¯ve seen here. That¡¯s what almost every witch practices. It doesn¡¯t require much from the user. But there¡¯s other, more sophisticated magic, like summons or transportation that¡¯s much harder; however, after a rest you¡¯ll recover.¡±


    ¡°Like fighting off wraiths and falling through time?¡±


    ¡°that¡¯s even more difficult and too draining. I¡¯m not sure I would have recovered without Esther and Eloise. Or someone who knew enough about healing to help me, but that¡¯s the point, Oliver. It took too much.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re saying my change took too much from me to be reversed.¡±


    ¡°Exactly. The cost was too steep.¡±


    He dropped his head, hiding his eyes from her.


    ¡°I¡¯d say most of us would agree with that statement.¡±


    She bit her lip, a new, uncomfortable thought riding to the surface. ¡°Since I can¡¯t help you,


    Oliver, will you leave?¡±


    Her turned his hand over in hers, palm to palm. ¡°Never. I¡¯m with you to the end, Estella.¡±


    They sat in silence after that, holding hands.

 XLVIII:

    Autumn bled into Winter for the little quartet in the Pacific Northwest. More books flowed in and out of the house then the years combined living there, Esther said. At Christmas they had a simple feast and Oliver had even been allowed to keep some animal blood in the ice box so he could join them for the meal. Estella warmed a cup for herself with mulling spices to celebrate with him.


    For Christmas, he wrote the Beckers a letter.


    In those cold days, Estella was starting to feel the pressure. She should be further along by now in her research, should have more of a clue of what to do. Instead, it was like she was going in circles, swirling the drain until the past finally swallowed her up.


    It was made worse by the continued silence from France. She knew seeing her family unlikely, but truly, would a letter be that difficult, Jacques? It was selfish, self-centered thought but one that pressed painfully on her heart. She missed her family, sue her.


    At night, thoughts of home crept in more violently, stealing her sleep. When she dreamed, she dreamed of France, of Saint-Tourre. She wasn¡¯t certain she didn¡¯t prefer the nightmares more.


    Winter began to give way to Spring, and she still didn¡¯t feel any closer. Productive, yes, but closer to home? Not so much. Time slipped through her fingers like strands of hair.


    It was Esther who broke it to her that it might take years. ¡°What do you expect, girl? You are no god. Only a witch vulnerable to their whims as much as any human. Learn about the universe all you want, but it was a deal with the devil that old Estelle made.¡±


    ¡°What do I do then?¡± She asked, practically yelling, her arms falling from her forehead to the table.


    The old woman shrugged, ¡°Find the devil.¡±


    That was the day she began to think more seriously about France. Oliver wouldn¡¯t like it, she was positive Esther and Eloise wouldn¡¯t either. No matter her words, Esther probably didn¡¯t intend for her to confront a god. Or her family for that matter.


    Still, the old woman had a point: go to the devil, indeed.


    She would have to figure out how to reach Saint-Tourre and back across the Atlantic with no money, but as far as she was concerned, that was problem for future Estella. She¡¯s stowed away once, surely, she could do it again. As the Americans say: she¡¯ll cross that bridge when she comes to it.


    When she first brought the idea to her friends there were mixed reactions. Esther and Eloise were cautious but not alarmed. The war hadn¡¯t reached France yet and buffer countries between it and Poland remained untouched. Oliver was more alarmed. He remembered her description of how catastrophic this war would become. The only leeway she left herself was in the sequence of events. He didn¡¯t know France would be invaded in one month.


    She intended to go by herself, so she didn¡¯t tell him at first. But the man was insistent that she wasn¡¯t alone, that he¡¯d promised to follow her to the end, and truthfully her heart was too soft for him at this point to put up too much of a fight.


    In the end, she needed Oliver¡¯s help. Travel logistics in 1940 weren¡¯t as simple as she was used to. It wasn¡¯t a matter of pulling up a website that offered flight and lodging options side-by-side. The tickets for the train and the tickets for the ship that would take them to their port of entry in southern France were from different places.


    And then---dear god---the documentation. Not the American passport, that wasn¡¯t required yet, but entry visas into Europe. Estella felt especially affronted by this---she was French! But Oliver pointed out that didn¡¯t matter if she didn¡¯t legally exist.


    Estella argued for forgeries, a simply magic trick she could do with Esther and Eloise¡¯s help, but that was a no-go. She¡¯d have to build them from legitimate documents, which their older friends didn¡¯t have.


    ¡°If we¡¯re entering a tense geo-political situation, forgeries might not be the best, Estella. Authorities will be looking for foreign agents. We don¡¯t want to stand out.¡±


    ¡°And how long would it take to get legitimate documents, Oliver? Weeks? Months? There¡¯s no time if we to slip in and out before the invasion.¡±


    Eloise suggested waiting for the war to end, but Estella threw her such a vicious glare the idea was immediately dropped and not picked up again.


    ¡°Jacob might have something.¡±


    All three pairs of eyes set on Esther and the old, recalcitrant woman shrugged. ¡°Worth asking before bull-heading your way into a dangerous situation. Forgeries aren¡¯t a problem, but you do need a legitimate document, or it will look fake.¡±


    That settled the situation temporarily but Estella didn¡¯t feel settled. She urged to do something, to stop whiling quietly away time with books that had long served their prupose.


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    The human world and human thought could only carry her so far. And the witches who were writing--- and she was certain some of them were witches --- were limited by human conceptions of time in space. Even in the few letters she exchanged with scholars, they could not see past the human world view they lived, if they had any thoughts about time a all. Many simply told her to give up, she was playing with god to ask such questions.


    No one wanted to push the limited of their understanding and when they pressed her on why it mattered (¡°After all, it isn¡¯t as if you will travel through time!¡± One wrote) Estella begged off the conversation.


    So, she was impatient to be off.


    Jacob¡¯s response cam swiftly, as far as letters went (the man refused to get a phone, apparently) and he had official documentation they could use that he sent with his correspondence. Estella could¡¯ve kissed the man if he¡¯d been at hand for her to do so.


    She got to work immediately. The best forgeries use material as similar as possible to the original. This meant the next morning she and Oliver set out on foot to run south to Salem, Oregon¡¯s capital. As always, running was not her favorite mode of transportation. By the time they reached the city her feet ached, she was overheated, and her dress was torn.


    Oliver, unfairly, looked impeccable but he hailed a cab as soon as he could so she supposed she could forgive him for his audacity.


    It was a simple enough task. With help from the driver --- who while distracted Estella fixed her dress --- they found a stationary store and were back in the woods in no time. Oliver went slower this time through the tree, watching out for wayward sticks and other vegetation that might endanger her.


    She wanted to be annoyed with the slower progress, but his behavior was so charming, the way he would stop and clear the path, let her pass, then run ahead again.


    On the way, they passed a small herd of deer. Estella had mostly abstained from blood since arriving at Esther and Eloise¡¯s ¨C both were disturbed by the sight of it and there was no reliable way to keep it stored here. She had noticed the weakening of her body, the sluggishness of her movements.


    The deer were grazing in a clearing not far away from where she¡¯d stopped. That she noticed the musky scent at all was surprising enough, but the other effects enhanced the experience. The tightening of her muscles, the influx of saliva was what truly caught her attention.


    Oliver stopped too, watching her instead of what was certainly her prey now. Could she do it? She¡¯d never been very good at hunting, but it has been so long¡­since before Chicago, when she attacked that policeman. As silently as she could manage, Estella moved to the edge of the forest. They were elegant creatures, still puffed with their winter coats, necks long and broad and not entirely uninviting. Could she really bite through the skin? The muscle? The sinew? Could she even overpower one to devour?


    Apprehensive, she stood abruptly from her crouch and turned to run, but a firm hand kept her in place.


    ¡°Let me go first.¡±


    Cheeks burning, she wouldn¡¯t look at him. This shouldn¡¯t be so hard, so mechanical for her.


    His hand slid from her bicep to grasp her fingers which he squeezed gently. ¡°Let me go first.¡±


    ____


    She didn¡¯t say much to Oliver when they returned to the house. She went right to Esther and Eloise with her supplies, who took them wordlessly.


    Estella had never done a forgery herself but in theory they were incredibly easy to create and would fool the human authorities. Who you have to watch out for were the witches among the humans.


    A good forgery, on that would trick a sharp-eyed witch, had to have magic so subtle they didn¡¯t even know it was there. The magic had to be so delicate even the creator got confused which was the original and which was the fake.


    It was a skill no one in the house had polished and only Estella had the theoretical training to try, but only the older women had the delicate touch required.


    Half of magic was intent. The other half was command: command of the natural world and the knowledge necessary to have such control.


    She breathed deeply, slowly feeling the pull of the air in and out of her nostrils, down and back from her lungs. Her fingertips lightly grazed Jacob¡¯s original documents. The paper was worn, soft like the muslin her grandmother used for embroidery. The ink was grainy under the skin, the microscopic metal fragments moved with her as if she was a magnet.


    Focusing on these characteristics, piece by piece Estella imagined herself weaving a tapestry, carefully constructing each part to make the work.


    Unwillingly, she pulled back at the last minute, just as she felt the heavy weight of her fingers marring the ink.


    Eloise stepped forward and took the documents. ¡°Tell me what you felt, so that I may understand the process.¡±


    She was a better student than Estella, careful and attentive in her application. Esther praised her greatly when she was done, while the younger woman inspected the paper.


    ¡°Bien. It is a marvelous copy. Perhaps a bit thick, but the difference will be negligible to a human.¡± Estella declared.


    Eloise¡¯s eyes shone bright up at her, smiling. For a moment, Estella could see her as a young woman, shining like a star in the middle of the school room. ¡°Let me do it again. I can do better.¡±


    After a few more attempts, she managed to get the duplicates difficult for even Estella to identify. Oliver couldn¡¯t tell at all, and Esther was fooled after the second attempt.


    Quickly, too quickly --- time blurred after that --- Estella and Oliver were saying goodbye to a teary-eyed Esther and Eloise. They left their luggage behind, trading it for much lighter packs loaded to the brim by the two women. It would be forwarded later in the week to John and Eva.


    It felt strange, disjointed to say farewell to them, knowing she would and would not see the women again. Such is the curse of being dislocated in time, perhaps: hellos and goodbyes out of place.


    In New York, she and Oliver once again feigned being wife and husband for their journey on a freight he arranged. The captain wouldn¡¯t take them otherwise. Her tears and put-on thick French accent helped too. The last passenger ship to France had sailed last year before the war picked up. The freight would still take them to Le Havre in Northwest France. And travel once they got there¡­ well, they would see. Saint-Tourre was near the western front, they were leaning on a luck at the moment.


    Pretending to be spouses was more natural this time but that didn¡¯t mean she was prepared to share the tiny room they paid for, but it was too late. They were well on their way and there weren¡¯t many accommodations to choose from on commercial ship regardless. They would share --- that was that.

 XLIX:

    It was a tense few days as they approached France. Oliver had spent the last several months learning French from her to some success. At Le Havre, the French officials didn¡¯t give give them any trouble --- Estella had ordered Oliver to talk as little as possible because his accent was so poor any native speaker would recognize him as foreign if he spoke. The male authorities clearly found her over talkative for all her answering over him, but it was better than them interrogating them on why they¡¯d enter a continent on the verge of all-out war. To justify their arrival in France at such a pivotal moment, she and Oliver created a story about some fake parents they were to get out of the country.


    ¡°You know Saint-Tourre is near the western front, no?¡±


    As if she didn¡¯t know geography. Estella barred her teeth. ¡°Yes, but my elderly parents you see¡­¡±


    The official stepped away from her, suddenly holding their stamped documents at arm¡¯s length. Good.


    Passage into western France thankfully hadn¡¯t completely shut down. They got to Paris with little issue for their line change. The train station was achingly familiar, the neo-classical architecture was like a siren song, luring her to the arches and eaves. Beyond the windows, she could see the line of buildings with their grey stone and wrought iron decorated with blooming flowers that belied the dark nightmare knocking on their door.


    She knew exactly how to get to the witch¡¯s quarter from here, right to Jacques¡¯ door. Maybe leave a note. Peek through the windows. What did the ground floor look like now? Did he have a secretary? She imagined him alone in the front room, occupying a lonely desk.


    If she could see him, for only a moment¡­


    The raw wound in her chest ached like a cavernous hole. She thought about her family every day, were in her every choice. Oh, but to see Jacques again! That wry, teasing smile. The fluid was he moved, like water over a riverbed, or like a cat slinking in underbrush. The familiar comfort of his presence.


    A warm hard on her elbow drew her thought back to the present moment, to the train station. Oliver was watching her with an indecipherable expression. It was soft and welcoming.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go see him,¡± he said quietly.


    It was pure indulgence, a kindness that she didn¡¯t deserve. She sank her teeth into his sweetness.


    This was time traveling through an urban area, Oliver follower her around like a lost puppy. It was empowering to be on home turf. Paris was a thriving, expanding city long before the Sun King, but its old street plans lay largely undisturbed. So, when Estella told the driver to drop them off at the Rue Mouffetard he knew what she meant.


    At the edge of the fifth arrondissement, Estella gripped Oliver¡¯s hand. The passage into the witches¡¯ quarter was seamless to her, but to a newcomer the trip though the magic film that hide its existence could be disorienting. Occasionally, a human will find their way to the quarter, looking lost and confused. Someone always takes them to the nearest case where they are given a finger of cognac and a swift ride to Notre Dame.


    Stepping on to the street was like coming home. The same cafes, the same market, the same offices and homes with their stoops and floral arrangements decorated the quarter. And why wouldn¡¯t they? The people living here could live centuries.


    She stood on the stoop to her second home, peering through the windows like a potential client uncertain if they had the right address. His office in the quarter was unmarked. Why would he need a sign? Everyone knew who he was and anyone who didn¡¯t could easily find someone who did. Besides, clients rarely came here. He had an office in the city but had all his messages redirected here.


    Through mustard yellow curtains, she could just make out the shape of the man she called a brother but was the closest to a father she¡¯d ever had. It was a scene painfully familiar and yet not at all. The room was wrong, it was clean, and he worked alone. He was bent over a desk, sifting through stacks of paper. Cases? Letters? Pleas? Was her letter there, lost in the desperate cries for help?


    Oliver¡¯s arms were suddenly supporting her as she struggled to control her breathing. Her chest was cracking at the fissures. She missed him so much. If she could just¡­ maybe¡­ Oliver¡¯s hands covered her¡¯s, which was raised to knock on the door. When had she moved? When had her knees buckled?


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    ¡°If you truly believe that¡¯s a good idea, I will let go. If not, then we should leave, Estella.¡±


    Knowing not to know, but unwilling to leave with no contact, she laid her palm flat against the door and took slow, even breaths. Nel. Fuori. Nel. Fuori.


    She would mean nothing to Jacques except as another lost soul in a sea of lost souls. The Jacques who took care of her when her grandparents died wasn¡¯t here. He didn¡¯t know her from a little girl. Didn¡¯t comfort her, didn¡¯t raise her, didn¡¯t encourage her to tag along with him to Paris because she wouldn¡¯t leave Saint-Tourre any other way.


    He wouldn¡¯t understand why she mirrored him.


    The man in the mirror was not her Jacques¡¯ yet.


    Like Oliver, she and Jacques were out of step. She wasn¡¯t his family, not here, not now.


    Palm to wood, she told herself all these things. That the only tie to any of them she had now was Saint-Tourre and her memories.


    Behind her Oliver stood, offering, as always, his steady support. She leaned back, only slightly, only until she felt his clothing lightly graze her.


    How did one live a life that is out of sync, out of step with everyone around them?


    She gazed at Oliver, still stood one step below her on the stoop and thought of her grandmother. How did Marguerite cope with this kind of pain? This very particular type of discomfort? For the first time, she questioned the loving marriage she had lived with. Oliver had shown over the last several months how to live in this time. The temptation to follow him into the future was so strong. If he hadn¡¯t supported her going home, would she still choose the harder path? The one that leaves him alone?


    Is that what her grandmother did? Follow Timoteo¡¯s footfalls because she lost her in the past?


    Oliver¡¯s hands moved from lightly caressing her arms down to her waist, where he squeezed gently.


    ¡°What do you want to do, Estella?¡±


    Eyes shining, she danced around him to the sidewalk. He followed her back to the train station, past the shops, the stores, and the people who she will know one day.


    The regional line to Saint-Tourre was vacant, the train felt almost as if it existed for them alone. She would have been afraid of other worldly visitors if it wasn¡¯t for Oliver¡¯s constant presence.


    Her home was a small village in western France, about halfway between Paris and Belgium, though located favorably towards what would soon become the capital. The train there took less than an hour to stop at the desolate station. Matthieu claimed to be the reason for the station¡¯s existence --- he hated cars and bemoaned the decline in horse travel, much to Theodora¡¯s amusement.


    It was a simple station befitting the rustic setting it served. In the next eighty-odd years the population would remain stable, so there was no need to grow the station. Only the necessary technological updates, which as far as Estella could tell amounted to new train cars.


    From here, they would cut through the fields and the forest. In a village so small, their presence would surely be noticed if they too the main thoroughfares and during a time of war, so close to the border, that might not be for the best.


    For anyone else, getting into Saint-Tourre without permission would be impossible. Layers of magical protection with blood magic underlying it all firmly cut off the world from breaking in. While it may have been Theodora¡¯s brainchild, it was Matthieu¡¯s blood that bound the border security. Only blood of his blood could simply walk onto the property. It wasn¡¯t his fault he was wrong about that last point.


    It was strange, she thought, to break-not-break-into her home. She wasn¡¯t welcome here by any of the home¡¯s inhabitants, but she¡¯d always considered the house its own creature with its drafts and structural groans, like a dog stretching in the sun.


    Holding Oliver¡¯s hand, she guided him through the forest.


    ¡°Trust me and stay one step behind me. The trees will trick you here. If I lose you, you will be on the other of the province before you realize it.¡± She spoke in English to him but being back in France reverted her accent. Her words came out thick, like honey.


    ¡°Following your footsteps, Estella.¡±


    Following her. That is what he always did, wasn¡¯t it?


    She pushed that line of thought aside. Approaching Saint-Tourre from the forest was new to her and she didn¡¯t want to miss any magical nonsense. Just because the borders should open for her didn¡¯t mean there wasn¡¯t anything else ¨C or anyone ¨C waiting to spring.


    Ascending the last hill to reach the plateau the house sat on was riddled with natural obstacles. The forest was completely wild here, with thick undergrowth wrapping and tangling their feet. Low hanging branches caught them off guard, snagging their clothing and packs.


    It was obvious when they crossed the border. For Estella, it was as if the forest had suddenly tamed, receded into a view rather than an environment was moving through.


    Oliver, though, was not having the same experience. The trees and ferns and other underbrush came alive, reaching for him as if to drag him away; but any time the feral vegetation came near, it would immediately retreat. It was Estella, he knew, so he stepped quicker into her footfalls, more like a shadow than a companion.


    He would not be separated from her again, not until it was time.


    When they finally broke through the tree line, they were on the south lawn. Estella¡¯s eagerness and joy at that point was unparalleled. Grinning madly, she jerked Oliver forward as her careful run turned into a frantic sprint across the grounds to the kitchen side door.

 L:

    The kitchen was exactly the same. She half expected to find Matthieu at the oven--- but of course, he was not there. As that disappointment set in, she started to notice other things, other signs that this kitchen was not her kitchen. The appearance might be the same, but the room was bereft of smells, the air stale. It was had not been used cooked in for some time.


    Her hand twitched to explore the cabinets and ice box --- the only obvious difference --- but she resisted the temptation. There was no point. There would be nothing in them. She could hear Matthieu in the back of her mind asking one of his many rhetorical questions during their lessons, ¡°What do vampires have to do with food during such a time of need?¡±


    Nothing. Theodora said once that starvation was the worst was to watch someone die.


    She moved through the kitchen, trying not to see the ghosts of her future as she went.


    Oliver moved with her; their hands still intertwined. Together they took the backstairs like she always did ¨C or like she will do. Being at Saint-Tourre distorted her sense of self. Was she trapped in her own footsteps? Doomed to retread the same path over and over again?


    On the walls of the stairwell were the same painting she will grow up with, thought the photos are not the same. There are only a handful of black and white pictures: one of the three of them. It was blurry, but Jacques¡¯ head was thrown back in laughter, her grandparents grinning for the camera. The rest were landscapes.


    The main hall in the family quarters was the same. Running away from the memories, she pulled Oliver after her, resisting the urge to peek into her family¡¯s rooms, to snatch away from personal connection. It was bad enough that she was here to steal books.


    They went to the Archive first, where the older material was kept. She didn¡¯t expect to find much, if anything, there. Most of the records were legal or administrative. There were the stray letters or diaries, but families preferred to on to those. Besides, neither became common practice until the seventeenth century. Those witches could very well still be alive if the numerous wars hadn¡¯t gotten to them. A brief skim of the treatises and Estella confirmed what she already knew: there was nothing in the Archive for her, not even a story.


    However, they time was not wasted. Oliver was intensely curious about the Archive, how it functioned, and the documents it housed.


    He was especially impressed that she could read them. Fighting back a fierce sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu, she tried to explain that most of the records in Europe for a long time were recorded in a broad standard tradition set by the Roman church, but he was so caught off guard that she knew Latin that she ended up spending an hour detailing her homeschooling.


    ¡°No wonder you¡¯re so much smarted than I am.¡±


    ¡°Oliver¡­¡± She wanted to chide him, but he was grinning at her with a dramatic hand pressed to his brow, looking at the world like a Victorian lady about to faint.


    ¡°I never stood a chance before such brilliance.¡±


    Estella rolled her eyes as she walked past him to go to the Library. During their hour of chatting, Estella momentarily was relieved from the pressing depression of being home-not-home. But in the Library, the absence was impossible to ignore.


    As ever, her great grandmother Estella stared down at her from her place above the mantel. Estella always felt that the eyes followed her wherever she moved.


    ¡°You made a horrible mess of things,¡± she scolded the offensive painting. ¡°You didn¡¯t even get to suffer the consequences for it.¡± It felt mocking to see her standing there, surrounded by her children. Of what a privilege! To have your family whole and healthy. She never had that for a moment.


    ¡°Is that her? Your name¡¯s sake?¡±


    Estella didn¡¯t answer, nor did she linger before the portrait any longer. She marched to the stacks like a general going to battle and the catalog was her weapon. It was, like much of this visit, as if she was following in her own footsteps.


    She had perused the catalog mainly out of habit. Even as she read the subject headings and skimmed the titles, the back of her mind played the steps she would take.


    She had, after all, done this exact search less than a year ago. She¡¯d take the same course of actions in eighty-odd years.


    For a moment, the room spun, as if Saint-Tourre itself had trouble differentiating between the threads of time that were knotted around her.


    ¡°Are you ready?¡±


    Or maybe it was just her. Oliver didn¡¯t appear affected at all.


    The stacks were more disorienting than the Archive. She spent more time here working and reading than any other room in the house. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could just see her family. There was Matthieu at their worktable near the windows. Here was Theodora weaving between the books, adding to their collections, looking for one to read, or perhaps working on Estella¡¯s book list for the next school term. In the quiet, Jacques¡¯s newspapers rustled, drawing her attention to the velvet sofa in the front of the room.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    The books were there --- all of them that she had so desperately searched for a lifetime ago. A laugh bubbled hysterically out of her.


    She passed them to Oliver, unable to inspect more than the spine. What did it matter if she didn¡¯t flip through the pages? Clearly, she would keep them.


    Books stored away in their bags, Estella led Oliver out of the Library intending to retrace their steps.


    ¡°What can you tell me about this painting?¡±


    Caught off guard, Estella turned around to find Oliver ten feet behind her, pointing at a simple landscape. To her, it had always been there with its pastoral slopes and picturesque urban outline in the distance. It was so familiar to her that she barely thought of it as more than background.


    ¡°It¡¯s a recreation of the cityscape of Constantinople, before it was Istanbul.¡±


    His left check raised slightly as he considered her words. ¡°Why is it here?¡±


    ¡°Theodora is Greek. She was born to a wealthy family in Constantinople during the Roman Empire.¡±


    ¡°How did she end up here?¡±


    ¡°That is literally a long story,¡± she laughed. ¡°but the gist of it is that she came from a time when the veil between humans the supernatural wasn¡¯t so thick, and to that end, when witches and vampires co-existed more often. Saint-Tourre was essentially a testament to that old life.¡±


    ¡°And your grandmother for attempting to maintain it. But why France? Why this spot?¡±


    ¡°Ah. That is because of Matthieu. Or more specifically, his wife.¡± She didn¡¯t want to say her name, afraid it would invoke another bump road in the road of her life, like a curse her great-grandmother followed her around, in escapable. But Oliver was waiting, expectant for an explanation. His eyes had widened now, eager to listen to her. ¡°The house was built on what used to be her family¡¯s land. It is where they lived, and where they died.¡±


    Her frowned at her, the corners of his mouth pinching together. Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed her forearm, dragging her deeper into the house. ¡°No more about death. Tell me about the living, about your life here in this giant home.¡±


    Oliver stopped at every door, every piece of d¨¦cor, wanting to know about it: who it was or what it was or where it was from.


    ¡°What is this horrendous thing?¡± He came to an abrupt halt before a particularly unpleasant piece of art on the ground floor.


    ¡°A tapestry.¡± She said, unhelpfully.


    ¡°Yes, but of what? It looks like a blood bath.¡±


    It was actually a depiction of Persephone leaving Hades for the overworld, but the artist had what she and Jacques theorized an abundance of red thread. The result was less a goddess entering a period of rebirth and more a woman consumed by flames. Matthieu hated it, but it was certainly off-putting, so Theodora put it in a public part of the house.


    Oliver nodded severely after she explained. ¡°A vampire must always be slightly menacing. It is in our contract.¡±


    She giggled. ¡°Once, I was with Jacques down here and he spilled some red wine --- the man talks with his whole body --- on it. We fled the scene quickly. He didn¡¯t even clean it up! No one noticed.¡±


    They laughed harder. For every subsequent piece of art Oliver specifically inquired if she and Jacques had assisted in its ruin too.


    Eventually, they made it to the music room, which her grandparents treated as an unofficially archive and justification to keep any kind of instrument that delighted them.


    ¡°Do any of you play an instrument?¡±


    ¡°Mostly Jacques. And even then, only for a purpose.¡±


    ¡°Such as¡­¡±


    ¡°To terrorize Theodora. Once a year he picks an instrument to learn just enough to harass her. When I was twelve, he learned how to play the French horn and narrated her movements all day.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t he a lawyer?¡±


    ¡°A funny lawyer.¡±


    Oliver grinned. ¡°He sounds like it.¡±


    She liked talking about her family with him, liked letting him into her personal life this way. It made them feel closer, somehow. Perhaps that¡¯s why she shared another story. ¡°One year, she anticipated him and avoided him all month. I¡¯ve never received so many emails before or since. So, the next year, he bought me a concertina to do a surprise attack. It¡¯s the only instrument I know how to play.¡±


    Oliver laughed heartedly at her story, and she found herself infected by the sound of it. Felt the warmth and joy and the humor flow into her lie a stream washing away debris. Now laughing with him, they say together on a piano bench, enjoying the moment.


    ¡°Your life sounded happy, even if I don¡¯t know what an email is,¡± he commented a short while later.


    The description stalled her. It didn¡¯t sound quite right. ¡°I had a good life.¡±


    ¡°But not happy?¡±


    The two of them shared so much, she forgot that he didn¡¯t see her before she was on the other side of it. That privilege belonged to his future when they bonded over their melancholy.


    ¡°I never doubted that I was loved and loved in return. Or at the very least that I was cared for. I¡¯ve been very fortunate, but I was also always afraid. Afraid of the creatures that wanted me. Going out in public was near constant anxiety. And I was afraid of what the bite would do to me --- trust me, the side effects of the bite weren¡¯t pretty when they started. The process was drawn out over years for me.¡±


    She thought about that night in Chicago, all those months ago. ¡®I¡¯ve actually never felt freer than being out of time.¡±


    ¡°And despite all of that, you love and miss your family.¡± He said softly. She wondered, would he appear sad if she looked at him? She kept her eyes on the black and white keys.


    ¡°Desperately.¡±


    He stood, offering his hand to her as he spoke, ¡°Then Miss de Luca de Saint-Tourre, we better start studying again.¡±


    Her chest squeezed at the sight of him. She took his offered hand and entwined their fingers.


    They retraced their steps, following the main hallways back to the family quarters. She didn¡¯t have to lean them this way, but her earlier feelings of unease had ceased. The rooms that this morning had made her feel unmoored now anchored her, remined her of the firm ground she was raised on.


    Oliver did that. With his questions and his forcing her to play tour guide, to speak about her family.


    She hadn¡¯t meant for this to happen. To be here in 1939. To find Oliver and he find her. For him to come with her on this journey. For her to fall in love with him. Oh, fine. If she was honest with herself, she knew it was happening during their month together at Saint-Tourre. He was interesting and kind and attentive, and he loved his family. And lost, so lost like her.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    She was staring at him, the corners of her mouth turned slightly down. They had an unspoken agreement. Or maybe not an agreement, but certainly an understanding that their¡­ relationship? Involvement? Connection? Wouldn¡¯t be looked in the face. Oliver can flirt, and they can share minor touches, like holding hands, but this wasn¡¯t a relationship they could develop. There was nothing for them at the end of the road, except for a dead end.


    And yet, she ached. Right next to the hole in her chest where her family was, a new pain had taken shape, this time caused by her own hand.


    ¡°Estella?¡± He was concerned now, stepping close to inspect her.


    I love you. ¡°Thank you.¡± She said simply.


    He seemed to understand. One side of his mouth tipped up. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you mean.¡±