Oliver talked her into enrolling for a few classes at his university. She had never formally attended classes like this, with other students. Not for as long as she could remember, anyway.

  It was claustrophobic sitting in a small room with so many other people. Strangers. Most of whom where men who baldly eyed her legs poking out of her skirts. All three of her classes were like that: filled with men. At least her literature and history courses had a few ladies, but she was the lone wolf in physics.

  The short of it was that Estella agreed with Oliver: school sucked. When she made that observation to him a few weeks into the semester her barked a laugh then turned to her with an ear-splitting grin.

  “I know, right?”

  One day, near the end of her first time, their stodgy ancient literature professor posed a simple question to the class, “What is it that all these heroes do?”

  A few brave (or overly confident) souls suggested that they tried to become stronger, become like the gods, to defend their loved ones, and so on.

  The professor nodded but remained impassive.

  “Mrs. Morris?” Estella jumped. It was the first time the old man had addressed her all semester. He preferred to call on Kitty Leveque if he sought a female’s opinion, which was rare.

  “They all seek to defy Fate.”

  “Fate, Mrs. Morris? Not the gods?”

  Oh, God. She did not value how patient her education was with just her family as her teachers.

  The professor stared intently at her. She could see the disgust twisting his face as she floundered on the spot. His long, thin face became gaunt and sunken in the dim light of the lecture hall. His lips and eyes receded into the shadows, enhancing his skeletal appearance.

  “The gods are Fate,” she blurted. “In mythologies, the gods are representative of nature, man-made disasters, and desires. It stands to reason that they’re also Fate.”

  “And what happened to the heroes who tryp to escape the god’s --- or Fate’s --- designs?”

  This is the worst game she’s ever played. “They often end up in a worse --- or at the very least, painful --- situation.”

  “Mhm. An important lesson, don’t you think?” Goosebumps shivered down her arms. For a moment, the shadows encased the professor like a veil and the sound of complete stillness clouded her hearing.

  When Johnny Marr coughed two seats over, she flinched.

  Estella tried to get a handle on the discussion again. But it was like the class had completely moved on without her. No one brought up heroes or myths. They were, of all things, discussing Cicero’s rhetorical style.

  “Are you well?” Oliver asked when they stepped on to the sidewalk after class ended. “You stopped taking notes.”

  “I couldn’t follow the jump in conversation. Felt disorienting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we went from discussing heroes in myth to Cicero. I thought I did well answering his questions, even if I was nervous. And then we skipped ahead like it was nothing.”

  He gripped her hand, holding her place. “Estella, we were talking about Cicero the entire time. The topic for today is in the syllabus.”

  Cold squeezed her chest. He was right. She remembered now. They’re in the Roman rhetoric module. Not mythology. The long face, the sunken, shriveled features. The quiet in a full classroom…

  “The priestess.”

  “Let’s go home.”

  ____

  Estella stared at the center point of Oliver’s pacing in their sitting room. He was talking, but she couldn’t really be bothered to listen.

  The priestess had never come to her before. It was she who found the husk of the person during moments of vulnerability, usually involving her being unconscious. This time was different. She was awake, she was surrounded by people, and the creature had bent her reality.

  And the guardian had threatened her. The only saving grace was that Oliver was left out of it. They were her and would her husband alone.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The message was clear: come to me or suffer a worse fate.

  But she didn’t want to pay for Estelle’s choices! She wanted out. She wanted her family. She wanted Oliver on the other side of this. She wanted all the damn words she’s read to mean something.

  What does it mean that they were at the mercy of the gods? That only gods and legends live forever? What does that mean she should do? Give up? Stop fighting?

  Even if she wanted to, she had no idea how to alert the wraiths who took her to start with. They’re still presumably lost and she’s still here.

  God, her head hurt. Groaning, she let it fall into her hands.

  Oliver’s footfalls paused, then changed direction. The couch sunk next to her as familiar arms circled her.

  “We will figure something out, Estella. We’ll go back to the books.”

  Nodding numbly, she kept her thoughts to herself that there was nothing left to find in the stories. That she must let her’s play out. He wouldn’t like that, and she didn’t want to admit, not outloud.

  ____

  Someone was knocking on their front door. Bleary eyes, Estella grumbled for Jacques to answer the damned thing. It was an ungodly hour, and someone was making a racket at their home in Paris. In Paris, of all places!

  The noise stopped following the sound of padding feet and the inexplicably American accents speaking American English were the new noise coming up the stairs.

  And then she remembered that there were no stairs in this house, only a short hallway where her husband stood talking to John, who besides his wife would be the only person knocking at their door. Their home was tucked out of the way, in the woods behind the older couple’s house. They didn’t even have a driveway for Oliver’s motorcar. They left it at the Beckers’.

  Estella twisted around until she could see the clock on the nightstand. In her muddled state, nothing was explaining why John was here at 2:35 in the morning.

  Whatever it was, Oliver seemed excited. She could hear his voice rise an octave followed by quickening steps back towards their bedroom.

  He was unsurprised to find her sitting up and rushed to her side, clasping her hands in his, appearing torn between worried and excited. There was even color in his usually pale cheeks.

  “There are visitors at the main house. A Marguerite and Timoteo de Luca.”

  ____

  The steps taken between Oliver telling her that her grandparents were here and her getting to the main house were a blur. She doesn’t actually recall getting dressed, but somehow loose trousers and a blouse were on her person and, well, she wouldn’t worry about it.

  Her grandparents were here.

  And they were young. The moment she saw them, any excitement was dampened by the clear evidence that while, yes, these people had the same face, eyes, and names of her grandparents, they had none of the softness, none of the love for her that so defined her memories. Their starved, gaunt appearance was like ice to her heart.

  They were not her grandparents yet. That bottoming out feeling, the experience when she saw Jacques in Paris, threatened to overwhelm her again.

  Oliver’s hand rested on her arm.

  “We hear Monsieur de Saint Tourre sent to us,” he spoke in coarse French.

  Looking amused, Timoteo answered in English. “Yes, he said a Madam Mason has been kind enough to write him letters after he helped her leave Europe. As fellow witches, he recommended us to find you for help. His usual channels of assistance have bled dry.”

  Marguerite stood slightly behind her husband, wringing her hands in her skirt. When Oliver spoke in his rough tongue she had nodded joltingly, but when Timoteo switched to English she took on more of a deer like appearance. Estella wondered if she could follow the conversation.

  “We are sorry to disturb you so early. It is only that we have no idea where else to go.”

  Marguerite’s eyes shifted as Timoteo explained their difficult situation. Finally, he gaze settled on Estella and stayed there, head cocked, hands stilled. She did not look away. Estella broke first. It struck her then that her grandparents are not as young as they appear. They each should have forty or fifty years (neither had ever the question of their birthday when she was a child), but only looked thirty.

  Ah, the blessing of witch genetics, even if your family chooses a. mere elongated human life you’ll still age slowly.

  Someone recommended coffee, Eva suggested to let the guests rest. “Any decisions can wait. No one is going to do anything at three in the morning.”

  Estella didn’t speak, even though for all intents they were here to get help from her. Oliver continued directing the conversation, agreeing with Eva’s call for rest.

  ____

  At a more appropriate hour, she and Oliver made their way back to the main house.

  “Are you going to tell them?”

  “No.” She didn’t particularly feel like talking about her grandparents-not grandparents. The ‘guests’ as she’s been trying to think of them since returning home.

  “Have you decided how you’re going to advise them?”

  They spent most of the morning going in circles about this. The truth was that Estella didn’t have much to say to them. Her best option was to send them on Jacob, or Esther and Eloise.

  Sitting across from them at the breakfast table, eating the Eva prepared the three of them, and watching Marguerite’s shifting eyes, Estella finally could put a name to the feeling she’s been struggling with since leaving the two of them earlier.

  She felt detached. This realization was quickly followed be a second emotion: surprise at herself. They raised her. They loved her. She cherished every moment she had with them.

  And they failed her, spectacularly.

  Shouldn’t she have some questions? Be desperate for the connection the way she was with Jacques?

  But instead, all she wants to do is send them on their way.

  At least their guests were accommodating in that regard. Both seemed anxious to be on their way. Marguerite kept glancing out the window as if expecting someone, and Timoteo made himself flinch when he dropped his fork with a metallic tink.

  That was when she experienced the third feeling of the morning. Compassion.

  They had just escaped a continent at war.

  She was hardly a priority for them, probably not even a dream. They wouldn’t have her father for decades.

  No, they didn’t need a confrontation, questions they could not answer. They needed a stable, safe place to live. Behind her grandparents, Oliver lifted a teacup in question.

  After all, couldn’t she sympathize with her grandmother a little bit?

  ____

  In the end, Marguerite and Timoteo stayed long enough for her letter to have a day’s start. They chose to go to Jacob in Georgia where they would find other human-witches.

  Their nerves never settled while they were together. Estella wrote it off as trauma, but there was something about her grandmother’s shifting eyes that unsettled her.