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 — 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 sorcières?” 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 — 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 — he needed —
A hand.
Estella was reaching out, holding his forearm, offering what support her small frame could provide. She must have crossed the kitchen. “Matthieu? Êtes-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.”