Oliver was trying to kill her. Or more specifically, the car was. He just happened to be at the helm of the beastly machine.

For starters, the care felt loose like the chassis would come off the wheels at any moment. And then the thing had the audacity to rattle, as if it was taunting her with its rudimentary design. Okay maybe she was being uncharitable, cars in the twenty-first century were far and away more developed than the nightmare she was currently in, but she had never had such a discombobulating car ride. Jacques’s cars were all smooth and steady. This…glorified carriage would make her lose her meal if she wasn’t already doing deep breathing exercises. Nel. Fuori. Nel. Fuori. Just like nonno taught her.

She had to focus on her breathing because if she didn’t then she would focus on the pain in her torso. Try as they might, there was no comfortable position to lay her down in the rackety car with a gunshot wound to her stomach. The best they could manage was a rolled blanket against Oliver’s thigh for neck support with her knees folded up against the window.

The result was, of course, that her ill-fitting dress kept pooling around her waist no matter how fiercely she tucked it over her knees.

It was a rather compromising position for a lady to be in in 1939.

But still, she was grateful. Oliver was helping her when he could’ve had her committed to an asylum instead.

“Thank you,” she said softly. From her position she couldn’t see much of his face but she thought the starlight caught a look of surprise. “For helping me,” she clarified.

In the dim light she could make out the bobbing of his Adam’s apple before he cast a tender smile down at her. “It’s no problem. After all, we’re friends, right?”

Estella couldn’t imagine why Oliver would want to be her friend, especially with her in such dire straits. All he’s done since they met was take care of her.

But still, she smiled shyly back and agreed with him. “Right.”

____

The ride to New York took longer than Estella would have liked and the arrival was one of the most embarrassing moments of her life.

She argued against changing clothes before but conceded Oliver’s point that it would be easier to get out of her clothing in the privacy of their abandoned house. The simple act was a feat of strength for her, both physically and emotionally as she had to let Oliver help her. Now that they arrived in the city, however, her bandages needed to be changed again and they’d have to do so in public. This wouldn’t be such a problem if it didn’t involve opening the top of her dress and practically baring her to the world.

At least she’d been allowed the decency of keeping her bra on, though Oliver unhelpfully pointed out that her’s was not shaped like any bra he’d seen.

He made quick work of replacing her bandages, careful to not unnecessarily touch her skin, and allowed her the decency of pulling her dress back on herself.

Sitting up was a different story. Each bend, each stretch to her abdomen caused pain to bled out like splattered ink across her middle. She had to lean heavily on Oliver to both get out of the car and to walk down the sidewalk.

“It’s early yet,” he told her, “we might be able to get you a real meal before we catch the train if you’re up for it.”

Estella nodded absently, not entirely listening to him. She was too distracted, too momentarily taken in by the tall buildings that closed in on them on either side. The only city she’d ever really spent time in was Paris, which had the dreams of the Sun King carved into its bones. The dreams of New York felt different. Craning her neck to see the top of the skyscrapers, Estella couldn’t help but feel like the city was begging to be noticed. To be someone.

Oliver guided her to a diner on the corner of 5th Avenue and 16th Street. It smelled like grease and coffee and just a little bit of something sweet.

Her mouth watered, her throat burned.

There was one problem though. ”Do you have money for this? Because I certainly don’t.” She hissed at him.

“Yes,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry about it.” Oliver gave her a small, secretive smile. “Believe it or not, I don’t have a lot of necessities that I need to spend money on.”

He squeezed her hand she had tucked into his elbow. “This is fun.”

Estella grimaced at him. Being lost in time and her aching torso begged to differ.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

For all his nonchalance though, Oliver was incredibly attentive, walking her into the diner and setting her in a chair and taking care of her stolen overcoat.

But no luggage. While he had been certain that New York City was far enough from the rural New Jersey town the stolen car wouldn’t be noticed and the manhunt wouldn’t reach them, he was against carrying potentially traceable items with them onto a train where a conductor could easily order a search.

“How are you feeling?” He asked when the waitress walked away with Estella’s plain order of coffee, fruit, and toast.

Reflexively, her hand settled on the bandages. When they changed them earlier the wound was almost scabbed over. Another day or two and the scar tissue would set in. God bless vampirism.

“In pain.” She frowned, “and exhausted.”

“Maybe you’ll be able to sleep on the train.”

She doubted that. “How long will the ride to Chicago take?”

Leaning back in his chair Oliver said, “Sixteen hours.” Her face must have twisted into an unpleasant expression because he quickly reassured her, “it used to be twenty hours.” As if that relieved her.

Fortunate indeed. She wanted to know about seating choices but bit her tongue. Oliver had the money so he had the the choice.

It was an awful reversal of roles. She hadn’t realized just how terrible it was being the one in dire straits. New found sympathy for the Beckers bloomed in her chest. How could they tolerate this for as long as they did? She might go mad if she didn’t make her own way somehow.

Oliver’s voice cut through her thoughts. “We’ll go to Chicago. Lie low until you fully recover. Work on what to do in the meantime.”

We? “What do you mean ‘we’? Surely, you’re not planning to be there through all of this? I don’t even know how long it’ll take to get home. It could be years!” Years! She wanted to cry.

He locked eyes with her over the table. “Absolutely, I do.” Shrugging, he draped an arm over the back of his chair. “And if it’ll be years, well, I’ll still be there.”

Estella was positive she was doing an excellent rendition of a fish with the way her mouth kept opening and closing, fighting for words that just wouldn’t come. Eventually she sputtered out in the most heavily accented English she’s produced in years, “But why?” Helping her to recover, she could understand. That’s basic compassion for fellow man. But her problems are deeper than Oliver could possibly understand and certainly more dangerous.

She wouldn’t let him get caught up in the crossfire the first time. She’s not going to welcome him in it now.

He brought his arm back to the table, resuming a more serious position. It was a strange contradiction to the lopsided smile still firmly in place on his face. “This is the most interesting thing to happen to me in three years.”

Interesting? “It’s hardly interesting over here,” she snapped. Who was this man across from her? She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. The Oliver she knew wouldn’t call her current plight interesting. He was compassionate. And kind. And gentle.

The man across from her was an ass. Her torso twinged. Fine, a helpful ass but still an ass.

Regret colored his features. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“My life isn’t entertaining, Oliver.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I was trying to be funny and cavalier. But it isn’t funny and it isn’t entertaining.”

She studied him across the table in silence. Estella noticed that he didn’t say that it wasn’t interesting but he looked so pathetically apologetic that she didn’t point it out. He looked younger, which was ridiculous because he can’t age. Maybe it was the years, the experience—or inexperience, as it was—that made him seem older in France. Not truly older than her, physically they were very close to the same age, but emotionally he just felt ancient. Worn down. And yet lost at the same time.

Here he just looked lost.

“Why are you helping me?” She repeated.

He folded and refolded his hands on the table. “You said we were friends.”

“I said we were friends ‘of a sort.’” She corrected.

One side of his mouth lifted up into a condescending smile. “Close enough.”

An indelicate snort escaped her. “Besides. You don’t know me, Oliver. Whatever relationship we have doesn’t exist for you yet.” Let it go, she wanted to say. But it seemed unnecessary to plead, he should want to let her go. Lord knows she’s going to be trouble whether she wants to be or not.

His hands balled into fists and a determined glint sparked in his eyes. “But it will.” He cocked his head, again feigning nonchalance. “I’m investing in my future.” He said with a smile.

Estella felt like she was suffering whiplash. The Oliver she knew was serious and intense. Borderline morose at times. Is this what he’s like when the world isn’t trying to cave in on him?

And moreover, what is she like when the world isn’t trying to cave in on her?

She looked away from him. She couldn’t help it. His reference to the future reminded her of what she fought the wraiths for: a chance at her own life, free from fear.

And perhaps Oliver is meant to be a part of that life. Only for a time, of course. She’ll say good-bye long before he dragged too deep.

She reached her hand across the table and squeezed his forearm. “I forgive you.”

Emerald eyes twinkling like polished stones he thanked her. “You won’t regret it.” He said.

She wasn’t so sure about that.