After her kitchen floor sit, the next few days ran smoothly. The Beckers ran Estella off from her maid service, which freed up her time considerably to obsess more about her own family. The Commission too granted their request for a full month’s preparation, citing the total support of the councils and historical precedent she had laid out in her brief.
She paced restlessly in front of Theodora’s desk waiting for the response to come in. There were several false starts as Councilors kept sending her mail, trying to get their claws into her with a good face. Estella was beside herself with joy that she was successful but that was immediately dampened by pressing fear that she would somehow fail the Beckers and her family. This was, she increasingly felt, the last act she may ever do. It had to end on a good note.
Oliver became a common companion as well, often seeking her out when taking a break from the Archives or escorting her out of them when she was there.
Estella kept calling her family but she suspected that no matter how much she called them, they were unreachable. She also doubted that the temple was on any map if it was truly so well hidden. Besides, so long as the Beckers were in asylum at Saint Tourre, she couldn’t leave anyway.
Theodora told her once about a witch who, through the power of meditation, could send messages to those she was connected with. Matthieu liked to begin each magic lesson with meditation—he said it helped to center your focus. She was always found that it made the quiet parts of life too loud. After their first session, in which the birds chirping drover to near insanity, she had shattered the bowl she was putting ingredients into she became so frazzled by the noise.
The lesson pivoted to one about how to put broken objects back together, which after a few deep breathing exercises she was calm enough to do moderately well. Some of the pieces weren’t in the right places but the bowl was usable again.
She’s gotten very good at it.
But she did get a hold of meditation eventually with Jacques’s helpful suggestions to count slowly with each breath, like her nonno taught her to do.
It was early in the morning, right after she had her cup of warmed blood and tea when she felt brave enough to travel the well worn path to their practice building. It was really an old wattle and daub hut that a witch used to the live in but she died quite some time before Estella’s arrival to France.
Bidding farewell to the Beckers for the day, she followed the path to the hut, morning sunlight filtered through the tree coverage and glistened off the dew on the wildflowers lining the dirt trail. The pack on her back was so heavy that it bent her over slightly. May have over packed for her trial meditation, she thought, but with magic it is better to over prepare than not.
The forest felt tense, anticipatory as she approached the study room where she and Matthieu worked. The air felt static and clung to her skin.
Perhaps the woods wanted to know what was wrong? where is Matthieu? why is she alone?
Estelle never came out here alone. It is not surprising that the forest knows something is wrong.
The hut was as they left it. Books and notes laid out on the table, Matthieu’s practice poultice making, charms to ward off harm and illness were strewn about. Scraps of paper littered the floor and there were pencils, chalk, and charcoal in various spots from their exercises. All of this was meant to be returned to the next day, when it had, in fact, been many weeks now since she last stepped foot into the room.
She cleared a spot for herself on the floor and took out the books from her backpack that she had been studying. Most of the necessary objects were already in the hut: candles, incense, and the like. The candles provided more light and served as an alert when magic worked or didn’t, in case she couldn’t feel it. Some magic was like that, too subtle for even the user to notice. The incense did nothing but clog her nose, though Matthieu swore it helped with concentration.
Drawing a circle, she sat in it and began to even out her breathing. For once, the forest was silent. She breathed deeping. In for ten. Out for ten.
In for ten.
Out for ten.
In for ten.
Out for ten.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The sweet scent the herbs filled her senses, lulling her into a haze colored by rosemary and thyme.
Through this haze she walked through a field of lavender, thyme, and rosemary bushes as high as her head. It was if the ground was catching up to the vegetation. As she walked, the bushes slowly got shorter and shorter, eventually staying at below her knees. As the herbs shortened, tall ferns took their place and in their turn, trees took over the ferns until she was in a forest so thick Estella couldn’t find the path back.
She would think she saw it, but just as she turned the path would move, always sliding just out of sight. What’s more, the view in front of her was the same no matter where she looked—the trees were always the same, trunks so tall she couldn’t see the top.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
So Estella walked, a hard knot settling in her stomach. If she wasn’t allowed to go any other direction then there was no way to get lost—but at whose command was she going?
For ages it seemed she walked yet there was no indication that time was passing. The same filtered sun light slipped through the treetops. Once she stopped and tied a hair tie around a low hanging branch.
She came upon it again a few moments later.
The trees were repeating.
At the sight of her hair tie, Estella’s breathing quickened. Wherever her meditation took her, it wasn’t to her family.
But maybe she could wrestle control back.
When you wield magic, Estella, you are borrowing power from forces impossible to understand, Matthieu had warned her.
Estella concentrated hard on her family. On Jacques. On Matthieu. On Theodora.
She focused on the way that they smelled, the way that they sounded when they walked down the echoing hallways of Saint Tourre, the way it felt to be in their presence.
Warm. Comforting. Home.
The woods shifted, grew darker even as more paths opened up before her. Three spur trails branching off to the side, away from the main path.
She chose the middle path.
Holding her family forefront in her head and heart, the landscape began to open up with wildflowers blooming where tree coverage had been. Still, the forest remained a looming sight, fighting for its space over the foot path, over her mind.
Then she heard it, felt it in her bones, the echoes in her nightmares—the sound of beating hooves.
The first time Estella heard the noise was the day of her attack outside her grandparents’ home.
It often accompanied her nightmares ever since, acting as full background noise to her life.
Except this wasn’t background noise.
Pumping her arms to go faster, Estella began calling out for her family, her voice straining from exertion and fright. “Jacques!”
“Jacques!” The forest echoed back.
“Matthieu!”
“Matthieu!”
“Theodora!”
“Theodora!”
Her voice was drowned out by pounding hooves upon her, so close EStella could hear the clinking of the saddles and reins.
The forest opened up to a wildflower clearing, at the other end she could see the shapes of her family,their shapes bent and intent as they listened to someone Estella could not see.
On a fallen tree trunk to the right of where she entered the clearing sat the gaunt priestess from the night of her grandparents’ death. Her empty eyes looked upon her, if she could Estella thought she might be smiling, “It’s alright, child of the gods.”
At her speaking, the hazy form of Jacques turned towards them, his eyes landing on nothing.
Matthieu and Theodora looked too but again, could not see the youngest member of their family.
Estella called their names again, crying out for them to hear her as the drumming of hooves overcame her.
Rough hands grabbed her out of the way of the riders, “It is alright, child of the gods.”
___
Estella gasped for breath as she came out of her meditative state, tears streaming down her face.
Body doubled over, she curled on the floor and repeated to herself that her family is safe. That they aren’t in danger. That they made it to the hidden temple. That they are safe.
She tried to ignore the thought that she wasn’t though.
After a good fifteen minutes on the floor spent between wallowing, reassuring herself, and deep breathing, Estella realized she was alone in the woods, away from the comfort and perhaps the protection of the main house. Quickly, she threw her things back into her bag and fled out the door towards her hom. Back down the well trod path she ran, fear pushing her on. It looked wilder now, the vegetation twisting and writhing across the trail towards her.
At home she snuck in through an old servants’ entrance, afraid to find a member of the Becker family in the kitchen. Using the disused passageways, she made her way to the library and threw her bag onto the table beside the window where she always sat. Her loose school notes flew to the floor.
She kicked her chair in fear and frustration—to hard. The force of the blow splintered the leg.
The sight of that cracked wood stabbed deep at Estella who let out a feral cry and covered her face in agony.
Whatever time she had left, Estella was entirely in control of it.
The wraiths were circling to claim her family’s debt, to claim her. She was positive that is what her vision meant: her family was safe but her time was over.
But she doesn’t know what the tapping at the border of Saint Tourre was. Had the Stranger also come to claim her?
And the priestess, where does she fit in all of this? What does she know about time?
A decade. A decade they have looked for answers. The debt. The blood. Her.
And in the end, she has nothing to show for it except a self-enclosed life, very few friends, and her family who adore her.
Her family who isn't here.
Time was fast approaching and she will have to meet it alone.
“Estella?” She closed her eyes. Oliver. He always found her.
Comforting hands rested on her shoulders, close to the curve of her neck. If she leaned slightly, the concerned gesture would turn into a caress. She imagined those hands cupping her face, wiping away her tears, and her leaning into him, accepting his comfort, his friendship.
She imagined telling him everything; him fighting the world to save her— and he would. He may have regrets about his actions in the past, but Oliver was steadfast and loyal. He loved deep.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. She wanted the kind of comfort, that kind of love but she couldn’t do it.
Didn’t have time for it.
Gently, she placed her hands over his and removed their calming presence. Oliver let his hands fall to his hips, half fisted like he felt the danger at her back and was ready to fight in a moment.
“I miss my family.” It was the truth, at least. Her words came out choked and bereft. It was all she could share though, the rest she would burden alone.
“Still no word then?”
“Non.”