Estella woke up with a start—demons 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—Estelle—called for her attention. She held the book firmly in her grasp—it 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—he 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.

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

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—he 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—hid 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.