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—as 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—long a friend of the family, a fixer, a counselor, and a representative for others in the supernatural world—made 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—but 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—”

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.”