The train they were taking to the seaside fishing town was waylaid until the following morning. Estella and Oliver had a few hours until thick night fell atop their shoulders.
Nervous and restless, she tugged Oliver around Paris, pointing out sites she knew and ones she didn’t. People sometimes described a city as timeless, but those people have never seen one in the grip of terror. Perhaps, in a different year, say Paris of 1950, it would feel indistinguishable from the Paris of her day if she were blindfolded. But Paris on the edge of invasion? It was a cold, anxious thing. Its beauty hardened by the taut faces and pensive soldiers littering the streets, the windows, and the roofs. Like an artery you’re trying to stop from bleeding.
They attempted to pass the night in a hostel, but the building was so cramped that the pulsated with the beat of human hearts. Oliver, still so newly abstaining from that tempting feast, couldn’t stand it and Estella couldn’t tolerate a separation from him.
Feelings aside she had dragged him (okay, he insisted) to a foreign county during a precarious moment in history. She was responsible for his safety.
The city was under a curfew, so they couldn’t openly wander the streets or walk along the Seine. That didn’t mean the night was unpleasant. In these days what qualified as high-tech security was a guard with a flashlight. Sticking to shadows and alley, Estella guided Oliver to the heart of Paris. Literally, culturally, and spiritually.
They didn’t even have to scale the Notre-Dame de Paris. Midnight mass was in full force. Estella made a quick blessing; Oliver clumsily mimicked her movements before she led him into a confusing series of side doors and staircases until finally the balmy breeze of the Seine below filled their lungs.
The bell towers of Notre-Dame at night were as much a religious experience as standing in the main hall during service. This is timeless, this sense that the flow of the river below, the outline of the hills of Montmartre, the sense of the city underneath, that anywhere you looked you could imagine a different time and still find familiar contours.
“Oh,” Oliver breathed. “It’s magnificent.”
“Je sais.”
They stood in quiet admiration for a few minutes until he asked softly, “Did you come here often?”
“No. Only once. When I turned thirteen Jacques insisted on sneaking into the cathedral, which was much harder then. He said he did it as a boy and wanted me to have the same experience. I drew the line at stealing any of the wine though.”
The moonlight illuminated his smile. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Oui. I felt daring and brave. Those feelings were so rarely in my life, I relished it.”
“I would say you’re daring and brave every day, Estella.”
She thought about it for a moment, then conceded. “I suppose, given the circumstances, I am a little more than I once was.”
“Were you truly that different before?”
“In this? Certainly. I kept my head down, avoided every shadow and uneasy wind. My family was very worried for me.” She thought he would lament how sad or lonely or any other depressing adjective to describe her life, but he didn’t. He brought her back to the present instead with tilted lips.
“And look at you now. Dragging me through the dark streets of a county at war.” He teased.
He was right, everything she had just described being afraid of she’s done the opposite. It didn’t happen overnight – she was plenty afraid when she met him, but ever since she sent Jacques away, she’s been putting one foot in front of the other on a new path.
Oliver had been with her the entire way.
They close, facing each other as the leaning against an opening in the bell tower, but not toughing. Transfixed, as always, by his gentle reassurance and kind eyes, Estella would normally step away, add more distance when the desire to reach out, to touch, took hold.
“But I am afraid, Oliver.”
“You’ll see your family again.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She breathed deeply before she continued, “I’m afraid of hurting you.”
His eyebrows raised before settling on his brow. “It is my choice to be hurt.”
“I will leave you.” It came out like a cry, a plea.
“Good.” It was too much.
“I love you.”
His face, which had an intense surety about it, suddenly feel. His eyes, his mouth, his chin all went slack before transforming into a smile so bright it was as if the sun rose in the black night.
His hands were upon her face, holding it as his thumbs caressed her cheeks. It was so sweet, so tender, and so terrifying that tears threatened her vision for the third time that day.
“I love you, too. But, of course, you knew that.” She did. He leaned closer to rest his forehead against her own, but he did not dip down. He was letting her lead, as always.
Emboldened by his confession and soothed by his touch, Estella lifted onto the balls of her feet to make that contact she so desperately desired.
Reading her intent, Oliver met her halfway. What started as gentle and cautious quickly turned exploratory and eager. It an unexpected, but wholly pleasant, way for them to pass the night.
Together, they snuck out sleepy and a little disheveled before the bells ran to get what breakfast they could and meet the train that would take them to the coast.
____
The atmosphere felt calmer in the small fishing village Jacques directed them to. Tense? Certainly, but not so frigid, so uncertain of their neighbors.
He had been very clear in his instructions: they were to only make their way to the docks and the Saint Maire at nightfall. Until then, they should keep out of the way as much as possible.
Oliver suggested a temporary retreat to the outside of tow, but Estella convinced him to go with her to an inn where they secured a dark corner made more secluded by a simple work of magic. The air pulled close around them, nestling them like a purring cat in search of a hand.
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There were no pretenses today, not since their night in the clock tower. She and Oliver sat huddled together in the corner, undisturbed until the early evening hours when a new group of patrons strolled in.
It was three men, all dressed similarly in long sleeves and caps. Two of them paid her no mind, like everyone else in the establishment.
One did not. It was quick, but she was certain he looked right at her. She stiffened under Oliver’s arm.
“What is it?”
“The man in the red,” she whispered. “Who came in now with two friends. I think he saw me.”
“Is he a witch?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps it was incidental.” Not likely.
“Should we leave?”
She thought for a moment before shaking her head. “No.” Stepping out would show that she caught him looking and was suspicious. It also gave the man an opening to corner them if they left the public inn. They were in the safest place they could be among unknown supernatural creatures, in the presence of unwitting humans.
If the man had something to say or do, he would have to do it in front of an audience.
But nothing happened. Or Estella should say that nothing obvious happened. Until he left three hours later, she found herself accosted on all metaphysical sides. The man’s magic pushed on her defenses the entire time as he tried to find a way to press into her and Oliver’s space.
It reminded her of the day the German councilor tried to force her way into Saint-Tourre. He was trying to intimidate her, but even that didn’t feel quite like the correct assessment. Obviously, he knew she was a witch because she fended him off. Vampires aware so rarely attuned to magic.
The man eventually left, and night fell. She and Oliver followed the shadows to the docks where they found the Saint Marie. It was a regular fishing vessel, prepared to embark on a night catch by the looks of it.
She asked for the Capitan when a crew member addressed Oliver. Out there among the bobbing boats, she couldn’t catch more than the salt air. But she could hear, and the sound of assertive, self-confident footfalls commandeered her attention. It was the man in the red shirt swiftly approaching them.
Putain.
“Non.”
What? “Mais je---”
“Non.” He said again, striking his fist into his plan.
She tried to hand him Jacques’ note. He would not take it.
Oliver attempted to speak to him in his slow, ugly French. Slowly, he looked at him in disdain.
Estelle did not understand. She would not understand. If she did, she might destroy the damned ship.
“If you cannot negotiate with reason, must make the other person come to your side.” Theodora spoke in her ear.
There was no time to argue, or reason with him. More people were arriving,
She receded, made room for the new arrivals but remained on the outskirts. Far enough to not be a nuisance, close enough to not be forgotten.
The Capitan’s presence was there again, probing, pushing, shoving itself against her consciousness. Again, he was easily deflected. It gave her an idea.
Stretching her senses, she searched the fishing vessel which was to be their channel transport. There was nothing striking about it. Not a speak of magic insight --- and magic always left a trace. Maybe it was so subtle, she couldn’t find it without closer inspection, but this was the only leverage she had.
She stepped forward, beckoning the Capitan’s attention. He wouldn’t hear her. She kept invading his space, starting with slow, cautious steps. When he wouldn’t acknowledge her, she approached more boldly, her footfalls loudly reverberating through the planks. The man finally reacted when she reached the gangplank, appearing quickly to block her path.
Too quickly. “A little reckless, no?” She asked, a warning lacing her tone.
His eyes stayed above her head, where Oliver loomed. “No.”
So, that was what this was all about. She pushed her rising annoyance to the side. Bribe first, argue later.
“Your ship has no protection.” Cut to the chase, get this over with.
He stood straighter, broadening his shoulders, chest puffing out. The man must have taken it as an insult. Good. She meant it as one.
“I am its protection.” It was she less trained by diplomats and lawyers she would have laughed. Or at least rolled her eyes. Instead, she’ll do what he family always told her to: bitch about the stupid things people said later, in private. Maybe she’ll write to Jacques about it.
“Your boat has no wards that I can tell and you’re a middle-aged man easily defeated by a twenty-two-year-old. It’s like flicking ants, with you.” Even now, she felt him pushing against her, attempting to oppress her into submission. So far, she’d merely brushed him off like an obnoxious mosquito. Now, she’ll push back.
It wasn’t even hard --- there was that little tact to his magic. All force, no bite. She tossed it back at him with the flick of her wrist. He stumbled backwards. She didn’t give him to opportunity to recover before pressing on, stepping towards him.
“This ship has no protection. What? You think your blunt abilities can match what is to come? The hellfire? The desperate souls? Can you even manipulate magic? Wind spells like a tapestry to conceal your voyage?”
“It doesn’t concern you.” He bit out.
“It concerns them,” she said, nodding towards the other passengers. His nostrils flared and fist clenched. For a second, Estella wondered if the man would lay on hand on her. Behind her, Oliver edged closer, his fingers wrapping around her wrist.
The Capitan caught the motion, the touch. His face twisted into barely disguised disgust. “What do you want?” He spat.
“Passage across the channel.”
“And what will you do for this passage?”
Don’t bare your teeth. Don’t bare your teeth. Don’t bare your teeth. “Ensure your boat can handle what is to come.”
That was a tall order. She couldn’t actually do anything against bombs, on coming ships, submarines and what else might endanger a small fishing vessel off the coast of a soon-to-be-run-over France. But she could inscribe magic of concealment and confusion that would turn away curious eyes.
He snorted. “And how do I know you have such capabilities, little girl? Aren’t talking big just to get you and your demon among these vulnerable people?”
Estella bit back a growl. She wanted to let him know Oliver wasn’t the only demon standing on the gangplank. As always, like she was taught, she held back. She was sick of self-restraint.
Oliver, however, had very little training in that area. “You want people to die a different way then? On your puny little boat while their fighting for their lives and you’re making a buck?”
“This is nothing. It is panic. The war will be over before the enemies reach Paris.”
“You think Monsieur de Saint-Tourre sent us here because of panic?” She wanted to scream, pressing in on the man. She wanted to rip his head off. To commandeer the boat. To throw him overboard. “You think Saint-Tourre would stand for such shortsighted actions?”
He backed up, away from them.
“That family has seen more wars than you have years, and you have the audacity to mock their judgement? To abuse the people they are entrusting to your care? Perhaps we are not the demons your passengers should be afraid of.”
The crew were gathering now, watching the scene unfold. Two –the other men at the inn she realized now --- offered to help them off the deck. One made the unwise remark of helping her onto her back. Oliver’s fist met his face so fast even she missed it.
There was a bit of a row after that: some jeering for more, a few demanding their swift exit, many mocking the crewmate for such idiocy when her beau was clearly right there, waiting for an opportunity.
None of that mattered. Only the Capitan’s choice did.
Wisely, he chose peace.
“Leave them be. We’ve got work to do.” Quietly, to her he said, “Stay above deak. Don’t go near the others. When the crew settles down, make yourself useful like you claim to be. If you can.”
After that, they set off. It was a couple of hours before the skeleton crew settled, and she and Oliver could move in on the deck. Oliver’s help wasn’t necessary –- it was a very barebones magic she was doing --- but his presence was like a warm coat, comfortable and reassuring.
The black water was just lightening when she carved her last inscription. She felt the carvings with her fingertips, imagined the meaning in action, the weight of their duty settled on her shoulders. She lifted it with her magic, gave it life beyond her body, pictured the heavy magic resting in the grooves and scratches to lie dormant until needed.
It was done.
Her call to arms was over.
Time slipped away for her. They were on deck. On the short. In a lorrey. On a train.
Oliver fed her lightly from the dining cart, brought her tea and a bit of wine. She revived slowly with his care and wholly cognizant by the time the boarded the ship off the Atlantic coast of England --- and dangerously thirsty. It was manageable, but the scratchy feeling was more than she was used to.
Back on English speaking soil, Oliver took charge of directions and led her to a small cabin, barely the size of her bathroom at home.
“I’m surprised you could get a private room.”
“The war is still fresh. Soon there might be more evacuees, but right now there’s enough legroom for some privacy. I don’t know about you, but I needed the space.”
Estella nodded. He’d had difficulty in Paris with the hostel. That close quarters on a ship might lead to temptation wasn’t surprising.
She slipped her arms around his neck. In answer, his hands trailed up her sides until they lightly rested on her biceps. “I could use some space too.”
Smiling sideways, he tilted his head down in reply.
