They lapsed into silence for a time after their conversation. Estella began composing the letters in her head, her heart aching at the formal voice she’ll have to adopt for her family. To switch from “tu” to “vous” was a sign of the stranger status she now has with the people who mean the most to her.

Her mind wandered to other things she might tell them, like how the train she now sat in was louder than she realized or how the car they drove to New York terrified her. “I’ve never been on a train without a member of my family. I’ve never been anywhere without my family.”

“You’ve never gone somewhere without your family?” He was suddenly leaning away from her, wariness and uncertainty marring his features. “How old are you?”

“It’s not like that. I am an adult, Oliver.”

“How old?”

She huffed at him, “Twenty one.”

“Then why…”

“My family is…It’s that…” She fought for words, clenching her ugly dress in her hands. “I’m not the first one to disappear. There was someone else before me. I was—and they were—afraid that it would be me next.” She shrugged. “And it was.”

“Someone else disappeared? What is your family? Cursed?”

“Feels like it.”

Maybe it was the desolate sound to her voice but Oliver changed the subject. “Can I ask you something else?” Estella lolled her head to look at him and gestured for him to continue.

He leaned forward on his knees. “When you first met me, you know, before, did I…did I know you? The way you knew me?”

The question knocked the breath out of Estella. Did Oliver recognize her? Had he been looking for her? If he was coming to Saint Tourre, he would’ve expected her. But it didn’t feel right. They spent a month together in close proximity. They shared their interests, favorite music and poems between the restless bouts of work. They shared drinks and tea and laughs and… Oliver cried over the first small meal they shared. He had been so adamant that he couldn’t partake.

“I don’t… I don’t think so.” She licked her lips. “No, I don’t think you did.”

“What does it mean that I didn’t know?”

Excellent question. All possible answers were unsettling. Did he not know her because she hadn’t met him in the past yet? If so, what is he going through right now back home? Or was it that he truly didn’t remember her? Was she ripped from his memory? Buried? What would that mean for him, for her, for her family?

Estella realized that Oliver was staring at her expectantly.

“I don’t know.” She wished she did. Wished she could give them both answers but it isn’t exactly like there were a plethora of treatises on the inter-personal impact of time travel on for her to study.

What frustrated her the most was that she should know. Saint Tourre’s archives and library was the leading research depository on the history of the supernatural community in Europe. Of course, Theodora had instructed her wryly one day, which only reflected the gaps in research and loss of intellectuals over time.

And there was the theft. A few items went missing from the collections during the wars when the family was only sporadically at home and her family has yet to get over it.

She sighed. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”

“Don’t be. It’s still more than we knew before.”

“Well aren’t you on the bright side?”

“Might as well be. Keep on the sunny side and all that.”

She turned away from him but smiled nonetheless.

“Get some rest, Estella.”

You, too, Oliver.”

____

They arrived at La Salle Street Station mid-morning. Estella and Oliver watched the natural landscape transition into the manmade city of Chicago with its fresh faced high rises and neoclassical architecture. It was a village compared to Paris.

Oliver guided her out of the bustling station, her hand once again tucked into his elbow. The action reminded her of her trip to Paris. She was eleven years old. Jacques had kept a hold of her hand in the crook of his arm too and she had clung to him willingly, afraid she’d be ripped away in a mere moment.

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“Don’t be afraid, Este. There is safety in numbers.”

Don’t be afraid, Este, she told herself. She tried to keep the grip on Oliver light but her white knuckles remained the color of bone.

He put his hand over her’s and stroked his thumb across her knuckles. It was painfully sweet and Estella hated the way her heart skipped unnaturally.

“It’s alright, Estella. I know where we go from here.”

No choice but to follow him, she let him lead her through the crowded station to the ticket counter where he once again purchased tickets. This time to 91st Street Station.

“Beverly Station,” he explained. “We have a house in the village of Beverly. It’s where John and Eva brought me after…”

“Ah. After.” After his change.

Oliver fiddled with his hat. “Yes. It’s where I readjusted to society.”

She scrunched up her face. “I’m not certain I ever adjusted.”

Oliver looked at her twisted expression and the tight press of his lips turned into a surprised smile.

“You are doing very well.”

The train ride to Beverly took no time compared to the 20th Century Limited. Estella was back on stable ground well under the hour, her hand once again resting Oliver’s elbow as he led her out onto the street.

It wasn’t so busy out on the street. A few hired cars loitered around, waiting for paying customers outside the station. Oliver looked between the sleek black death machines and Estella. “How are you feeling?”

Truthfully, she’d forgotten about the pain in her body until he mentioned it. Surprisingly, considering she’d been shot and all. Now though she was aware of a low beat behind her right eye and a pain in her torso so constant she would forget about it again easily. She was also hungry. And desperate for sleep. She hadn’t slept in a proper bed for several days and her back and neck reminded her of that now. Part of that discomfort was probably caused by those menacing machines Oliver was considering putting her in.

“I’m fine.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“I want to see the neighborhood. Besides, I’ve been sitting for hours.” She whined. “How long is the walk anyway? It isn’t like we have luggage to worry about.”

He considered her, head tilted. His eyes flickered between her, the cars, and the ground at their feet. “There are neighbors who will see us, Estella. And they will have questions. We should take a car to prevent spying eyes.”

“Won’t they notice the car?”

“Yes, but they won’t be able to look too closely if we were on foot.”

He had a point. In the death machine she went.

Turns out, going at a reasonable speed made the experience not as frightening. And sitting up was important. But still, the vibrating hurt and she was forced to lean into Oliver to alleviate the paint in her side.

“Could you be more careful around the dips in the road? My—” Quickly, his eyes flickered to her. He seemed to be weighing something. “Wife, she isn’t doing well with all the travel. Unwell, you know.”

“Of course, Sir.” Said the driver.

“Pardone?” Estella cut in.

“Later,” he whispered into her temple. “I promise. Later.”

She lost the desire to argue when the driver hit a bump in the road.

Oliver snapped at the driver and rubbed her back, assuring her that they were almost there. It was impressive he could be so gentle while sending murderous glares to the driver.

“Sorry, Sir.” Estella gritted her teeth. She was, after all, the one he was harming.

Soon, but not soon enough in her opinion, the hired car stopped and Oliver was lifting her out of the backseat.

The house he carried her to stood alone at the end of the lane. It was a four square farmhouse with a large, shaded front porch and two stories. Behind it was a wide, empty space. The house itself marking the very edges of Chicago. It was isolated and yet, when she looked over Oliver’s shoulder, she could see the encroachment of urban expansion.

Oliver was looking too. “Place has grown up a bit. Not so many neighbors last time.”

He sat her down on the porch. Estella watched as he carefully hid the door handle with his frame before breaking the locks.

“Don’t you have a key?”

“I do. But not on me. I didn’t think I’d ever come back.”

Inside the floors were dark and the walls were white washed. There were oddly shaped lumps beneath white sheets, presumably furniture.

Stale air filled her lungs. Sometimes rooms carry the taste of the emotions that were experienced in them. The front room tasted bitter.

“The bedrooms are upstairs.” Up a dark stairwell he led her. The first room he didn’t comment on, the second was a bathroom, and the third was the master bedroom. It was where she would sleep, he told her. The shape of the bed was obvious underneath more white sheets.

Estella looked around the room while Oliver stripped the bed and replaced the sheets from a trunk stashed beneath a window overlooking the vast expanse of emptiness of the flat land that surrounded Chicago.

Like the environment, the house, while preserved, was bare. Besides the furniture, there was no indication of who lived here. No personal items hung on the walls, no trinkets decorated the bureau now uncovered. The only art in the space was the dust dancing in the air.

“There you go,” Oliver declared proudly, wiping down the edge of a framed mirror.

Estella didn’t move as she watched him in the mid-morning sunlight that filtered through the window. He had discarded his jacket downstairs and had rolled up his shirt sleeves during the clean up. She was captivated by the sight of him.

Myth dictates that vampires can’t go into the sun but that is a lie nourished by generations of fear of things that go bump in the night. To enjoy the sun is a fundamental human trait. Why would we lose it when our paths diverged? We all screamed our way into the world the same way.

Besides, even human monsters get to walk freely in that warm light.