Chapter 19: XIX:

Hours later and the two of them had identified which boxes of court rolls and wills to look through. “It’s really rather simple,” she explained, “when they listed a person’s name they wrote an identifier, like an occupation but also if they’re foreign or non-human.”

The wills were better cataloged, so while Estella skimmed through court documents, Oliver could make a list of wills to pull up that might mention something about vampires. He could read French, but he struggled with the handwriting and spelling of words older than the Victorian era. So they divided the work between the two of them: Oliver going through the catalogs and Estella working through the documents.

It was slow going, however; it took several hours just to get to that point and by the time they could work through manuscripts it was well into the night. Estella sat down her notes and archival sources to stretch her arms and shoulders. Across from her, Oliver held his head between his hands, his eyes straining against the handwriting he was trying to make sense of. Next to him on the table sat his own notes and a paleography aid Estella gave him when he didn’t recognize the abbreviations or letters. Who knew a ‘w’ could wreak such havoc on a person’s confidence?

It wasn’t the first time Estella took a look at her new guest. Over the course of the day she had taken in his features: his dark hair, forest green eyes, and wiry frame. He was tall (though not as tall as Jacques) with an aquiline nose and strong jaw. He also smelled like plain soap, which she found pleasant.

But what Estella found most admirable about Oliver was his devotion to his family and his ability to follow a purpose. He did not wander once from the Archives that first day. Not to see the house, not to see the grounds, not to hunt. He has not asked about the house beyond how to get to the Library from the Archives, though she assumed he paid attention when she told him how to get to his room.

Estella supposed she should feel offended by his lack of interest in her home, or her, but really, she was relieved by it. Her very existence as a half vampire, half witch is a source of curiosity for many. Even in the Quarter, the neighbors stared to the point that she often feels like a science experiment being observed.

She liked that Oliver didn’t bat an eye at her.

The clock struck midnight.

Estella sighed and pushed herself away from the table with her hands. “I hate to leave you, but I need to go to bed. I will see you in the morning, Oliver.”

For the first time in hours, he looked at her then blinked slowly as a grimace marred his features. “Right. Good night, Estella.”

Theodora would chide her for allowing him the familiarity of her given name. But really, what was the harm? Until his family arrived, there was no official demand or formality to fret over. Until then, she could think of him as her new friend. Could pretend that she wasn’t home alone because someone was with her.

____

Estella didn’t sleep very much and rarely did she sleep well, which is how she found herself dressed and heading to the Archives before dawn. As she suspected, Oliver was still sitting at the table. Without an audience she noticed that he mouthed the unfamiliar words and a larger reference stack sat next to him.

She cleared her throat and was met by his startled eyes before they slid over to the window, only to narrow when he saw it was still dark outside. Estella caught the question he would not ask in the shape of his mouth, which hung slightly open.

“I’ve only been gone five hours.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up, “That’s more than I get.”

She smiled, so he can be funny. “Have you moved since I left you?”

“Um,” his eyes roved to the window again. “No.”

Estella nodded. She understood his urgency, his purpose but Matthieu always said an overworked mind is a useless mind. “I’m going down to the kitchen for breakfast and coffee. Would you like to accompany me for an hour?”

Oliver hesitated. She smiled in what she hoped was a sweet way, “Please? Just an hour and then we can resume working.” He blinked at her like an owl and stood up slowly.

“I can do an hour.”

This time her smile was genuine, “Bien! Follow me.”

For his part, Oliver wasn’t sure how to describe what happened when she smiled at him other than that he just went stupid. His mind turned into a white screen and suddenly he was standing. Following her now, without the force of her caramel eyes on him, he resented the distraction.

She was the host though, so he kept walking after her.

In the kitchen, Estelle handed Oliver a heavy bottomed tea pot and nodded towards the sink. “Will you fill that up with water and put it on a hot burner?” Wordlessly, he did as she asked as she pulled out butter, eggs, and cheese for an omelet.

“What are you making?”

“I am making us a French omelet. Of course,” she said smiling over her shoulder, “we would simply call it an ‘omelet.’”

“You know that I don’t eat right?”

She laughed lightly but otherwise did not acknowledge his statement. He would learn soon enough. “There are dried leaves to the right of the stove. Red in color. In the drawer there are loose leaf tea steepers. Take the crushed red leaves, fill the steepers, and put them into two tea cups. Then pour hot water over them and let it sit for a few minutes.” It was perhaps too detailed of instructions, but who knows when the last time Oliver paid attention to how tea was made?

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“Two cups?” he asked. “I just said that I don’t eat. What makes you think I drink tea? Don’t you live with vampires?”

Estella reached out across the island separating them and laid her hand on Oliver’s forearm. The familiarity of the action should have given her pause but Estella liked Oliver. In another life, he could be her friend.

“Oliver, I heard you for the first time.” She fought a teasing smile, “but have you considered that I live with three full-bodied vampires?” No response but he stared at her intently. “And as such a child, raised among them and with one foot in vampirism myself, did it occur to you that I know what I am doing when I offer you food and a drink?”

“No, it hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Then will you please trust me and prepare the tea?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Oliver. I’ve heard of vampires like you. Those with no or little experience with magic—but have not met one.” She frowned at that thought but continued on, “I should have explained…”

Estella paused her speech long enough to pour the whisked eggs into the pan. “Sooner. Most ingredients in our kitchen are nourished or cultivated with the blood we harvest from our butchered livestock. This changes the flavor of the ingredients from unappealing to appetizing to vampires.”

She smiled up at his pinched face, “and it’s perfectly edible to humans. Sometimes it’s a lot of work, like if we want flour, but most of the time it’s as simple as using blood from the animals we butcher for market in the soil. The soil then provides the grass that the cows eat that make the milk we use for butter. ”

“Gardening with blood? That’s it?”

She bobbed her head back and forth, “Well, Matthieu would have a more involved answer for you but for me, that’s it.” She grinned at his curiosity, “That enough for you right now?”

“Hardly but I suppose I can wait for Monsieur Saint-Tourre to return if you're so against talks of farming.”

A pit formed in her stomach at the reference to her grandfather's (and her grandmother’s and father’s) absence but Estella didn’t let the smile slip from her face.

“I appreciate your mercy, monsieur.” She turned her attention then to folding the luscious omelet and did not return it back to the young man until the delicacy was divided between two plates and they were seated at the small table together.

Oliver was too engrossed in consuming a meal that wasn’t blood for the first time in his eternal life to pursue conversation.

Estella looked down at her cup when she noticed tears in his eyes.

A hand covered her’s, “Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me. What this will mean to my family.”

She cleared her throat, “My pleasure, Oliver.”

They spent the next few moments in silence; Oliver still emotionally recovering from the taste of food he never thought he’d enjoy again and Estella thinking about how home is the smell of a good meal.

“So, you’re American?” She asked in English.

He responded in kind, “Yes. And you speak English very well. I could almost believe you’re American too.”

She gave him a toothy grin, “But I am. Born in Georgia and raised there until I was twelve.”

“How did you end up in France?”

He was leaning towards her across the table, plate and cup pushed to the side as he rested his chin in his hands. The action struck Estella, his casual claim of the space. It was fascinating to her, how comfortable he looked at their table. And endearing even. Were all Americans like this?

She realized he was waiting for something. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked how you came to France.”

Right. She leaned towards him in return and lifted one eyebrow, “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

A deep laugh bubbled up from his chest and one hand fell down to lightly slap the table.

“Alright. Tit for tat then. Born and raised in New Haven, Conneticutt.”

Estella grinned at him, happy he was playing along. Born and raised. He was speaking of his human life.

“Oh? Are you a Harvard man, Oliver?”

“No,” he chuckled, “Despite my father’s best efforts, I never did go to Harvard.”

“Ah,” she had more to say in response to that information but there was something in the way he said it that told her not to pursue it. Instead she answered his question, “My grandparents died and Jacques became my guardian. He brought me to France where Matthieu and Theodora took to me immediately.”

“No parents?”

“Not unless Jacques counts.”

“I’m sorry.” She shrugged. There was no need to tell him the details. The sympathy was an expected response, regardless.

“How old are you?” They were leaning dangerously into too personal territory and while she wanted to learn more about Oliver, she didn’t want to become emotional at her kitchen table.

Age was a safer territory than family.

“I am twenty-four years old but I have been on this earth for one hundred and seventeen years.”

“Oh! You’re a baby.”

“Excuse me?” He leaned away from her, both hands laid out on the table.

She waved her hand dismissively, “Don’t take it personally. The next youngest person to me in the house is Jacques and he’s been around for two hundred years.”

He drew back across the table, “And how old are you?”

“Twenty and that’s how long I’ve been alive too.”

“And you called me young.”

“I can’t help my age.” Her eyes caught the clock, “Your promised hour is up. Do you want to go back to work?”

His eyes glossed over to the clock on the wall. Time was up but Oliver found that he wasn’t satisfied. Estella was interesting and oddly familiar. Her presence comforted him like a warm blanket, wrapping him in the warmth of her stare.

“Yes, I suppose so. Will you continue on the older documents?”

“I’m afraid not. There’s other work that must be done before your family’s arrival.”

“Oh, I see.” He didn’t want to depart from her yet. Something has shifted in the course of an hour. Maybe it was the companionship they found in the moment and nothing more. “We better get to it then.”

They departed then. Oliver to the Archives and Estella to her grandparents' office. While he continued his task of searching for supporting evidence in the historical record, she had to construct a formal letter of asylum to submit to the Commission.