Estella didn’t come down until morning, when she found a woman standing in the kitchen making breakfast. The older woman spotted her standing dumbly in the doorway, “Good morning, you must be Mrs. Morris. My, what a pretty little thing you are! Mr. Morris is out. He said to make you breakfast. Pancakes and eggs alright, sweetheart?” She spoke in a rush, her words tumbling out one after another.
Estella blinked blanky at her until her brain caught up with the speed of the woman’s speech. She choked out a “yes” eventually, strangling over the single syllable as her mind whirred over her new name.
She had forgotten that particular detail in their story.
“You can have a seat in the dining room, dear. I will have your breakfast for you soon.”
Five minutes later, a plate of food plus a coffee and juice was set before her in the bare formal dining room that she and Oliver had fought in the night before. The strange woman took the opportunity to introduce herself, her hands folded neatly over her yellow half apron. Her name was Mrs. Klein and apparently the temporary housekeep during their time in Chicago. Oliver has secured her for a month even though they might only be there for a single week. “And he paid in advance too! Bless him.” She would be at the house from seven to four and would prepare all their meals in the house. Estella offered her a seat at the table but she refused, insisting that it wasn’t proper and scurried off to the back of the house towards the kitchen.
Alone again, Estella ate with vicious civility, taking slow, somber bites of her meal. With each swallow her anger grew. They didn’t resolve their argument from last night and now he’s left her in this bereft house with its ghosts. Where is he?
When it was all said and done and the dishes were cleared away by the friendly and professional Mrs. Klein, Estella’s anger had boiled down to a grating annoyance.
She was annoyed, and yes, still angry, that Oliver had left her alone in a city where she is entirely dependent on him. She may have lived a cowed life in France, but it was hardly her family’s fault. She pushed herself away from the table roughly.
She had no money, no clothes, and no knowledge about her surroundings. Estella could do very little about the first one, maybe something about the second, and the third matter could be handled with a good walk.
Upstairs she found tucked into a trunk the closet a small collection of dresses. They were clearly Eva’s: a little too long, a little too roomy in the wrong places. But then again, she was already wearing one ill-fitting dress, what was another one?
A knock on the door forced her to lay aside the soft yellow fabric.
At her beckoning, Mrs. Klein’s graying head poked around the door. “Missus, would you like a bath? I’ve got water heating downstairs.”
This would delay her plans, but the idea of a wash was so appealing she didn’t care. Perhaps a bath would make her better.
And the bath was refreshing. With all the grime, dirt, and blood rinsed from her body, Estella could see herself clearly for the first time in days. The gunshot wound had already healed over, a shiny bright pink scar had taken the scabbing’s place. If she didn’t think about it then she could almost forget that it was there—except for the smooth starburst that had taken its place.
The yellow dress was blessedly simple in design. It hung straight on her frame, the hem skimming the ground as she moved. Taking a scarf from the trunk, she tied it around her waist, pulling the fabric so that it draped over her makeshift belt.
Pushing her way through the front door out into the street, she tried not to think about the last time she had been on a city street when she and Marianne had been confronted by the apparition. What would have happened if she had been taken then? But Chicago of 1939 was no Paris of her day. On the outskirts like this, there was only one real direction for her to go. On one side lay barren land, on the other was the start of civilization. In 100 years, no doubt, the urban sprawl would colonize the landscape, perhaps even taking the simple she had just exited with it in favor of office buildings and too expensive apartments. She turned towards the buildings. Estella wasn’t sure, but she personally believed that she wasn’t built for the wilderness.
The Beverly neighborhood was quaint. Oliver’s family home was at the end of a sparsely populated street that reminded Estella more of a village than a city. After a few blocks, however, the residentials turned into commercial sectors. She learned that if she passed the train station she’d come upon the post office but if she went left there was the Italian restaurant across from an Irish pub. Around the block were seamstresses and tailors. How much would it cost to turn her borrowed clothes into better fitting attire? And more modern. Looking around at the few other women on the street, she realized that the clothing she wore was out of fashion. Surely, Eva wouldn’t mind losing the dress since she left it behind.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Around yet another corner, she stopped to admire some flowers outside of a florist. A few of them were just beginning to wilt in the summer heat. Casing the street, there was no one was about on this corner in the late morning on a weekday. Almost shivering with anticipation, Estella held up her hand, gently caressing the weakened petals. The rejuvenation of plants was child’s play. It was one of the first things Matthew taught her because it required such a delicate touch.
Stubbornly, the flowers refused to yield to her magic. Estella concentrated harder on the shape of the petal, on the dehydrated edges. She imagined them filling up, reviving to their former glory of brilliant blue and white.
Nothing happened. Breathing heavily, it took all her willpower to not give in to the natural urge to hold on tightly to fragile petunia as she blocked out everything else around her. It was just her and the microscopic structure of the petal. No pull came from the air as she pictured the water molecules moving like dust in the sunlight to the plant itself.
Simply nothing happened.
She tried a different display. Same results.
A third display, this time of roses. Nothing.
Suddenly, a cracky voice behind her asked if she was alright, if she needed something from the florist. Looking behind her, a small elderly gentleman in a tan suit was watching her. She ran. It was a ridiculous reaction, surely the man will think her mad but Estella couldn’t be bothered to care.
Not when such a vital part of her identity was crumbling.
Sprinting down the street, further away from the main business thorough far in the neighborhood, she found a miniscule industrial strip. Spotting a dumpster that had been thrown open and looted, Estella threw herself into an alley. She crouched opposite of the refuse, leaning her back against the brick wall and tried to lift the pieces into the air like she had done countless times with books and notes and pens at home. Like her nonno used to do.
The litter remained in its place on the ground.
She dove at the trash, grabbing handfuls of it. Throwing it into the air, she attempted to catch it with her magic, as if it would naturally react to garbage landing on her face and shoulders. It didn’t.
An animalistic scream ripped through her chest, echoing down the alley. Only when several construction workers came to investigate did she realize it was her.
She felt ripped open, exposed. Chest heaving, Estella barreled past the strange men, back towards the florist, towards the seamstresses and tailors, towards the restaurants and post office, towards her temporary neighbors until finally the last place left the run towards was the Becker’s house.
She couldn’t stop though. Her feet wouldn’t let her. Maybe if she ran far enough, if she pushed her body past its vampiric limits then her magic would be forced to trigger, be forced to show itself.
Shouts sounded behind her and then footsteps thudded closer, followed by strong arms around her waist.
“Estella! Estella! Wait! What is it?”
That same awful, wild noise forced its way out of her chest again. And this time, because she knew it was her, another more ferocious cry came after the first.
She kicked and bit at him, but as soon as he dropped her he’d cut her off from the untamed land.
If she dove one way, he mirrored her. If she feinted a move, he called it. Quickly fed up with this, she ran right at him, her only thought that maybe she could knock him down.
Oliver easily overpowered her, pinning her arms to her side.
The benefit to all this fuss was that it gave her brain enough time to backtrack, to come up with a different idea, a more simple idea.
Kneeing Oliver in the groin, she spun around and raced back towards the house. She threw open the front door with too much force, cracking the wall behind her as she made a mad dash for the letter kit Oliver bought her.
Hastily, she wrote a missive to Jacques at his Paris office but with a flawless address in a shaky hand.
With Oliver upon her again, and Mrs. Klein watching through the curtains, Estella danced around him back to the curb where she placed her letter inside the mailbox. All mailboxes were magical. It was their nature to be a portal. She didn’t even really have to do anything. Just put it in, really, and it should work.
The letter was still there.
Shutting it frantically, she put her two hands on top of the sun heated metal and willed with all her might that the letter would send. She dragged up the deepest parts of herself in the magical force she was trying to create.
It was like wringing water from an already wrung out towel. There was no pull, no change in the air that her magic had manifested itself. Or that she had any at all.
There sat her letter.
The feral cry that had been bubbling in her broke free again. She collapsed to her knees and pounded the earth beneath her hands.
Strong arms wrapped around her. They held her shoulders until she bruised her hands against the ground. They hey turned her into a broad chest that she also beat with her fists despite the coos of reassurance murmured in her ear. They held her as her rage gave way to loss and the tears finally flowed.
They carried her inside to the couch. A blanket was fetched and a cup of tea was pressed into her hands.
Estella was vaguely aware of these things and of someone’s weight dipping the couch cushions beside her.
At some point, food was also presented to her and she supposed she ate—they took the plate away.
Someone asked her if she wanted to be taken to bed. She must have nodded because those same arms were now carrying her, now opening her door, now putting her under the covers, now turning out the light.
She didn’t think it would ever come on again.