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 — 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—”

“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 —”

“Eight or ten more. Eva must have had at least ten or twelve dresses.”

“That’s absurd, Oliver. I’m not —”

“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. “Bâtard.”

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 — 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 — or of it finding her — 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?”