Estella took three fingers and carefully made a well in the flour on the counter. Next she put her eggs and a drop of olive oil in the crater. Picking up her fork, she began to mix the eggs, tentatively knocking the flour into the wet and a dough formed that she could work with.

As she kneaded, Estella thought about her family. Her fate, created perhaps centuries ago in circumstances far beyond her control by a woman who’s name she shared—and beyond her of the actions of hateful men who forced Estelle’s hand.

Myths and legends drove their actions like they inspired the Stranger to come for her.

Blood of the Gods.

It all led to this moment of her alone in their kitchen, a place they all so often gathered, making her nonno’s pasta for comfort.

What does it mean? Where is it headed? Where was she headed?

She leaned over her dough on the counter and took a deep breath before covering it with a damp towel.

Much like this dough, Estella felt like she had spent most of her life resting—waiting for others to make their moved and try to shape her to their liking.

You are the payment.

Outside the window she could no longer see the ghastly train riding upon the horizon, but she knew that they were there. Deep down, she knew that they had always been there.

“Estella?”

She whirled around, hand to chest, “Oliver! Oh, mon Dieu. Hello.” He was frowning, standing a few feet away.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I asked if you wanted help but you didn’t respond.” He looked down at her messy work station. “What are you making?”

“Pasta,” she poked the ball of dough as she said it. It bounced right back, “Perfect.”

Oliver watched her warily, perhaps he thought she’d gone mad. “You want to help me cook? Do you not want to keep working in the Archives?”

“Mom kicked us all out to take a break. Annette and Hannah should be down soon.”

Well, good. You worked non stop for three days.”

“So can I help you?” Estella was surprised that he sought her out in the kitchen but she was delighted that he wanted to help her. The kitchen, more than any room in the house, felt the loneliest without her family. She handed him a knife and the same vegetables he cut earlier that day, “Chop.”

He followed her directive carefully, watching her collect ingredients and prepare a pan.

Just under her breath, Estella hummed to herself. She looked at Oliver over her shoulder to find him staring at her, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Are you finished?” she asked.

Diced onions scattered across the cutting board as he snapped back to attention. “Um, yes. Here.” He looked awfully flustered as onions dropped off the edge of the board and onto the counter, his cheeks colorings a pale pink.

She could hear footsteps then, coming down the hallways. Estella intercepted them at the doorway to give Oliver time to recover from…whatever had distracted him. Perhaps, she wondered, he was trying to catch the song she had been humming.

“What are we cooking?” Annette asked, swinging her and Hannah’s intertwined hands between them. What was with this family and helping?

If Oliver noticed their slightly disheveled appearance, he did not comment and neither would she. Estella always loved watching the couples walking around Paris when she would occasionally sit outside the courthouse waiting for Jacques.

“A simple pasta. It will be ready in half an hour.”

“Is there anything we can help with?”

Estella assured them that there was not—and that was true, it really was a simple sauce and Oliver had already claimed the one spare job of vegetable chopper—and shooed them out the back door to explore the garden and grounds, “but don’t go past the tree line.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“What’s in the woods?”

She smiled at the petit vampire who was unable to imagine a more fierce predator than herself, “You never know.” Tap-tap-tap, who’s there?

Hannah paled but Annette looked skeptical. “Do not leave the yard after night and you will fine. Enjoy the flowers. They should be very fragrant. Go, it is a pleasant night. You will be safe,” she encouraged.

Estella expected Oliver to follow after them to make sure that they heeded her warning but he remained in place, leaning against the counter.

___

She went to the stove and they shared a companionable silence. Oliver sat down at the small table, and took in his surroundings. An oppressive feeling had been pushing in on him since yesterday. Was it this place, with all its grandeur and history or the young woman standing across from him now? He couldn’t decide, but if he focused on it too long his lungs burned with such an intensity that he couldn’t breathe.

Estella buzzed around the kitchen, tidying up the small messes they had made. She recalled the dishes in the formal dining room and made her way there only to find the room spotless. She checked every nook of the room—under the buffet, on the chairs, behind the plants. Not a sign of mess or that group of five had eaten there only a few hours before.

She ran back to the kitchen, Oliver staring out the window until he caught her breathless state in the reflection.

“Did you all clean up after yourselves?” EStella chest clenched. Was she that bad of a host? Was she letting her family down?

Oliver caught sight of her high colors, his tilting in confusion. “Yes. We wanted to help.”

The young woman stood at the edge of the kitchen wringing her hands, a corner of her half apron balled up within them. Was she doing this all wrong?

“Is there something wrong, Estella?”

There was always something wrong, she wanted to scream. The very edges of her life she could not trust or did not understand. Only the center. Only her family who she could see all their shades and hues.

“Estella?” Apron still balled in his fists, her dark eyes bore into deep green ones searching all the way down.

This is what she saw.

She saw a young man devoted to his family, who brought his mother flowers and craft kits he thought she might life. A good son who chopped wood with his father and sat at the table with him when he created his school lessons. An attentive brother carefully explaining homework to his sister, smiling when his place at her side was taken by her lover.

She saw a young man uncertain of his place. Uncertain that their life was the right life. There was no Annette. His relationship with Eva and John was much less stable.

She saw a young man who left his family.

She saw through the decades of his life, to the core of him.

She saw a young man with a sad heart.

“Estella?” His voice crashed over her like a wave, rolling her over and washing her back upon the shore. He stood cautiously now, one foot towards her. She felt wetness on her cheeks.

She looked at his concerned face.

She saw a good man. She left her traitorous tremor in her lips. He was so sad.

What would her family want her to do? She was overwhelmed. The wrong guest stepping in, the wrong politician hearing about it, could threaten the balance of Saint Tourre. But Oliver was a good man. He did not want to harm Saint Tourre and all it stood for. In him, she saw his family and their small, quiet lives. That is what they are fighting for. Not Saint Tourre.

Estella tried to breathe but still, her chest felt like it was on fire. What would her family think?

“Estella?” Another step.

She wished she could blame her lack of self-composure on Oliver, on his fine eyes or the handsome set of his jaw, but that would be dishonest.

Estella had never been the kind of person to hide herself away from others. Her family actively encouraged her to share her feelings. But they had also never intended for Estella to be put in a position to wield any real influence beyond her name.

What would they tell her now? To walk away? Send the Beckers to the Council? To not give into the strain of uncertainty and collapse into the folds of her shirt on the kitchen floor with a house guest-in-need as witness?

Footsteps. The rustle of his clothing. Oliver was next to her now, crouching. “Estella? What is the matter? I’m sorry we cleaned the dishes?”

The balls of her hands rubbed her eyes. “No. It’s—” She sighed in frustration, “It’s not the dishes.”

Oliver slid down the lower cabinets opposite her, “Then what is it?”

She threw her hands up, “I don’t know what I’m doing, Oliver! And they all know it! Every choice I make could have consequences for Saint Tourre. And any loss of ground here could hurt people. Both those who will need help and those who already received it.”

“And you’re worried that you’ll fail your family. And those who rely on the knowledge they curate at Saint Tourre.” He didn’t say it like a question.

Estella stared at the pleats of her skirt in response.

A warm hand rested on her forearm. “Estella, with us there is nothing deeper. Sometimes doing dishes is just doing dishes.”

She looked up at him again. Whatever had come over her earlier when she looked at him, the power still held some sway because when she stared into his green eyes again she could still see down to the center of him.

He was a good man.

“Thank you, Oliver.”