Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, which she was starting to suspect was a nervous habit. “Okay. Right. Well. I’m going to let you rest. I need to do some stuff to prepare for us to be here for a few days.”

“You’re leaving?” She hadn’t expected that. Estella didn’t know much about setting up a house but she supposed a lot of it has to be done in person in 1939.

Hand dropping to his said, he said, “Yes, but only for an hour or so. I’m going to find someone who can take care of everything for me. And then I will come back. With food.”

Her eyes lit up at the mention of food. “Good food?”

“Good food.” He repeated. Not that Oliver knows what good food is but he did see the meals they tried to offer on the train, so he at least knows what is not.

She couldn’t rest though when he left. Sure, she sat down on the bed and closed her eyes, but this house was too strange with its empty walls and acrid ghosts. The abandoned farmhouse Oliver took her too was more real than this place. Like a home so lived in the bones couldn’t bear the weight of life anymore.

Estella tried to stretch out her senses. Wincing against the pain, she breathed deeply. Nel. Fuori. Nel. Fuori. Slowly, she attempted to search the room with her senses but Estella couldn’t get beyond herself, a fierce headache bloomed behind her closed eyelids. Maybe it’s too soon, she thought, throwing an arm over her face.

Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow.

There was no clock to tell the time but judging by the shadows, Oliver came back when he said he would. She listened to him softly close the front door then traced his soft footfalls into a back room downstairs. With care, he next mounted the stairs and quietly walked down the hall to the door outside her room.

Turning to face the door, Estella watched in amusement the slow, gentle opening of it and the reveal of first black hair, then pale forehead, and finally a deep green eye. When he caught her, Oliver poked his whole head around the door.

“Oh.”

Fighting back a smile, she waved meekly.

“I thought you might be asleep.”

“Not yet.”

“Did you get any rest?”

No. “Some.”

“Do you want some food?”

“Oui,” she said, crawling out of bed.

Fast, so fast she would’ve been embarrassed by her slow reaction if not for the gunshot wound, Oliver was beside her, firmly pushing her back onto the bed. “I’ll bring it to you. This is the cleanest room in the house anyway.”

He returned moments later, a box in hand. After a deep, appreciative sniff Estella recognized the scent of red tomato sauce.

An ache pressed on her chest even as her mouth watered. Sure enough, inside the box sat a pile of homemade pasta piled high with red tomato sauce dotted with basil and oregano. Oliver couldn’t know about her nonno and if he saw the tears in the corner of her eyes he didn’t say anything. Truly, he couldn’t have picked a better meal for her when she needed comfort.

While she ate, he told her his time in the city. “Took longer than I would have liked but I found our property manager in the end. Everything will be set up by tomorrow evening.”

Estella asked if that included warm, running water, which thankfully it did. She could weep.

“A maid service will be by later this afternoon. We’ll have to go out for dinner tonight.”

“Is it really necessary to go through all this trouble, Oliver? We’ll only be here a few days.”

She yelped when he poked her side.

“I don’t know,” he drew out. “Maybe.”

Estella focused on her pasta after that.

Stolen novel; please report.

They didn’t talk much for the rest of the afternoon. After lunch, Estella really did rest in bed and only woke when the maid service arrived to clean the house.

She didn’t rouse herself out of bed until they made their way upstairs when she decided it was best to trade floors with the group of women.

Downstairs, she found Oliver with his head buried in his hands, sitting on a deep blue sofa. He dropped his hands when she descended the last step. “I hoped you would sleep more.”

She gestured to the stairs. “Maybe later.”

He nodded and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Sitting next to him on the couch, Estella twisted her borrowed skirts in her hands. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s nothing, Estella.”

She bent her head over and grimaced at the swing of the skirt around her ankles. Were women supposed to be covered from head to toe in 1939? She hoped not. The voices upstairs became clearer—they had left the room they were cleaning and reentered the hallway. The women were moving further down the hall, talking about the antics of their children and grandchildren. A boy named Joshua had started climbing trees. Another woman lamented the time her daughter broke her leg from falling out of a tree.

“I’m going to have to hunt soon, Estella.”

The overwhelming feeling of dry cotton took over her mouth. The reaction was one part repulsion because Oliver meant humans, and one part thirst. Squirming against the sudden discomfort, Estella realized that she needed blood too. She was still healing, her body still demanding more nutrients to fortify itself.

She kept her eyes firmly on the ground. She should have realized it when she came down the stairs, the gleam in his eyes should have given his thoughts away. Vampire eyes are naturally bright, like any other predators. The noticeable difference came with their choice of diet. Humans were not the only source of blood available to them. Animals worked just as well, albeit Theodora says they are more gamey than humans. Human feeders cause the eyes to burn with an undercurrent of red. Matthieu liked to joke that it was the fire and brimstone Protestants used to yell about.

Her family preferred animals. If you asked them why, their answers all boiled down to the same point: why would they intentionally hurt someone who wasn’t trying to hurt them?

Of course, if you asked Matthieu he’d say, “are we not all children of God, Este?” Her grandfather was a bit insufferable.

Oliver’s family had the same clear brightness to their eyes when she’d met them. Unlike Oliver now, whose irises shone with a dull red darkening his otherwise green eyes.

It must be hard for him, she thought, to sit with her at the diner, on the train, and to prepare the house. But why? Why go through so much effort to help her at all?

“Is that a problem?” Only when he spoke did Estella force herself to look at him.

“No. I—” The policeman’s terror-filled face fogged her vision. She shuddered involuntarily. He would not forget the horror so quickly.

She’s told that victims of feedings forget if not killed, so long as the bite holds. But what if that wasn’t true? What if they may forget the attack, but suffer the loss, the violation of their person a ghost forever at their back?

Turning her attention back to her ankles she said, “I can live with it.”

“I see.”

Such simple statements. Such loaded guns.

They were quiet well into the evening. The silence between them was uneasy as the sun dipped below the horizon. Estella declined going out to eat. She was tired, she was sick of her ill-fitting clothes, and she hated the air between them that seemed to become as bitter as the house. Oliver offered to bring her food again and he was gone.

Alone in the night, Estella paced the floors. The backrooms of the first level told her no more of the home’s previous inhabitants than the foyer or the master bedroom. At least the sheets were gone to reveal rich wood furniture that shone with fresh polish under the oil lamps.

She sat at the kitchen table to compose her letters but the tight feeling in her chest suffocated any words. She returned to pacing, the ache in her side a constant companion. The longer the pain stayed, the sharper it became, twisting the world around her to match its uncomfortable pressure. The shadows became strange, like faces peering out at her.

They only looked away when the door opened.

His presence chased the voyeuristic shadows away, freeing her from at least that discomfort. In his arms was a now familiar box. “You seemed so happy that it was pasta earlier that I got you it again. I hope you don’t mind.”

She smiled widely as she took the box. “Merci.” Estella was so glad to see him and the food that for a moment the unease between them dissipated.

“You’re welcome?” Following her to the dining table, he sat across from her and watched, head in hand.

Estella hummed while eating the fat, homemade noodles. She’s had pasta since moving to France, of course, but there is something so perfect, so precise about pasta cut by vampires.

“What is it about this meal that makes you happy?”

Chewing carefully, Estella thought through her answer and settled on the simple truth. “The pasta is uneven.”

Oliver’s eyebrows knitted together. She smiled, feeling it stretch across her face. “It’s homemade. Reminds me of my family. And the sauce. It’s a beautiful combination of basil, garlic salt, oil, and sweet crushed tomatoes.” Estella shut her eyes and breathed deeply, flashes of a small Italian man danced across her vision. A twinkle of a melody whispered in her ear. “My nonno—grandfather—he was Italian. He would make us pasta every week.”

“So it’s good?” She opened her eyes to find Oliver still watching her, his palm cupping his cheek.

“Delizioso.” She flicked her wrist to each syllabus.

A soft smile teasing his mouth across from her. He didn’t speak though, so Estella kept eating while her hand kept playing in the air, like her grandfather used to do when listening to music. I am a maestro, bambina, look.

Estella finished her meal, enjoying her own private orchestra.