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—on 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.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“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—the 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—”

“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—write 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?”