The blood we keep.

HEXFANG™
PROLOGUE: THE BLOOD WE KEEP

Format: Ten-segment dramatic screenplay
Setting: Puerto Rico, June 1840–March 1841
Estimated screen length: 18–22 minutes, depending on performance and pacing

Language convention: The Dubois family speaks French privately; Guarionex primarily speaks Spanish. Dialogue is presented in English for adaptation. Their speech should feel formal and intimate without forced archaic wording.

The supernatural practices depicted belong to this fictional family’s magical tradition.

SEGMENT ONE — THE HOUSE ABOVE THE SEA

EXT. DUBOIS ESTATE — DUSK — JUNE 1840

The last sunlight touches the red roofs.

A carriage passes the fountain. Behind the ballroom windows, servants light candles beneath crystal chandeliers.

At the stables, GUARIONEX tightens a buckle on a carriage harness. His hands bear old cuts and the grain of years spent working.

A pearl earring falls into the straw beside him.

He looks up.

ÉLÉONORE stands on the gallery above.

ÉLÉONORE
I wondered whether you would notice.

GUARIONEX
Your father notices when a spoon disappears. I should hate to answer for a pearl.

ÉLÉONORE
Then return it before he counts them.

He retrieves it.

CUT TO:

EXT. SIDE GALLERY — MOMENTS LATER

Guarionex places the earring in her palm.

For a moment, neither withdraws.

ÉLÉONORE
Do you remember when we used to hide here?

GUARIONEX
You hid. I was sent to find you.

ÉLÉONORE
You never told them where I was.

GUARIONEX
You always looked happier before they found you.

Her smile fades.

Through the open doors, MARGUERITE watches servants arrange flowers.

HENRI-AUGUSTE stands beside a well-dressed SUITOR.

ÉLÉONORE
They have decided I shall be happy with him.

Guarionex glances toward the men.

GUARIONEX
Have you decided?

Before she can answer—

MARGUERITE
Éléonore. Our guests are arriving.

Éléonore releases his hand.

Inside, Henri-Auguste notices the exchange.

He says nothing.

The musicians begin.

CUT TO BLACK.

SEGMENT TWO — THE HAND THAT STRUCK HER

INT. BALLROOM — NIGHT

Silk turns beneath candlelight.

The suitor guides Éléonore away from the dancers toward an open window.

SUITOR
Your father assures me you will come to appreciate the arrangement.

ÉLÉONORE
My father has made an assurance he cannot fulfill.

His smile hardens.

SUITOR
You have been permitted too much freedom.

ÉLÉONORE
And you have mistaken an invitation for ownership.

He catches her wrist.

Outside, Guarionex crosses the terrace carrying a folded horse blanket.

He sees Éléonore pull away.

The suitor strikes her.

Guarionex drops the blanket.

The terrace doors crash open.

Before the suitor can turn, Guarionex seizes him by the collar and throat, driving him backward into the edge of a table.

Glasses shatter.

They hit the floor.

Guarionex strikes him once. Twice.

Men rush forward.

A third blow lands before two guests catch his arms.

ÉLÉONORE
Guarionex!

He struggles against them.

For an instant, the candles bend toward him.

Every flame in the room.

Then Éléonore touches his face.

ÉLÉONORE
Look at me.

He does.

His breathing slows.

The suitor lies conscious, bleeding from his mouth.

GUARIONEX
Touch her again, and I will kill you.

Henri-Auguste steps between them.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
Enough.

Marguerite reaches her daughter and sees the mark on her cheek.

MARGUERITE
Who struck whom first?

No one answers.

Éléonore grips Guarionex’s arm.

ÉLÉONORE
We are leaving.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
You will remain here.

She looks directly at her father.

ÉLÉONORE
You should have said that to him.

She leads Guarionex through the terrace doors.

Behind them, the musicians stand motionless.

SEGMENT THREE — WHAT THEY CHOSE

INT. GUARIONEX’S COTTAGE — LATER

A basin of water. A clean cloth.

Éléonore washes blood from his knuckles.

GUARIONEX
You should not have followed me here.

ÉLÉONORE
You should not have continued after he fell.

He lowers his eyes.

GUARIONEX
I know.

She presses the cloth against a split knuckle.

ÉLÉONORE
Were you going to kill him?

A long silence.

GUARIONEX
When I saw what he did, I wanted to.

ÉLÉONORE
That frightens me.

GUARIONEX
It frightened me too.

Outside, distant voices cross the grounds.

GUARIONEX
It was my duty to protect you.

ÉLÉONORE
Do not call it that.

He looks up.

ÉLÉONORE
You owe this house your work. You do not owe it your life.

GUARIONEX
I was not thinking of the house.

She sets down the cloth.

ÉLÉONORE
Neither am I.

She kisses him.

He draws back just enough to see her clearly.

GUARIONEX
Éléonore. After tonight, they may say you did not know your own mind.

ÉLÉONORE
Then hear me while I am saying it.

She takes his hand.

ÉLÉONORE
I know whom I love.

He rests his forehead against hers.

GUARIONEX
And if we cannot return?

ÉLÉONORE
Then we make somewhere else our home.

They kiss again.

The camera moves toward the window.

The lamp burns low.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. ESTATE SERVICE GATE — BEFORE DAWN

Two traveling bundles.

Éléonore looks back once at the house where she grew up.

Guarionex waits beside her.

She takes his hand.

They leave together.

SEGMENT FOUR — ANOTHER HEART

EXT. RURAL COTTAGE — MORNING — JULY 1840

A smaller house, far from the estate.

Guarionex planes a door for a neighbor. Éléonore sits beneath the eaves, mending a shirt.

Ordinary work. An ordinary morning.

Something neither has had before.

INT. COTTAGE — LATER

A MIDWIFE closes her worn leather bag.

MIDWIFE
You should rest when you can. Eat even when you do not feel inclined.

Éléonore looks toward Guarionex.

He stands very still.

ÉLÉONORE
You may breathe.

He laughs once, disbelieving.

GUARIONEX
A child?

The midwife smiles.

MIDWIFE
That is usually what follows.

CUT TO:

EXT. COTTAGE — SUNSET

Éléonore leans against him on the doorstep.

ÉLÉONORE
If it is a girl, Jessica.

GUARIONEX
You have decided already?

ÉLÉONORE
You may choose the next one.

He laughs.

Then his expression changes.

From beneath his shirt, he draws a small cord-bound keepsake.

GUARIONEX
There is something I should have told you.

He closes his hand around it.

A faint amber light appears between his fingers.

Éléonore sits upright.

GUARIONEX
My mother taught me. Her father taught her. We kept it within the family.

ÉLÉONORE
The candles at the ballroom.

He nods.

GUARIONEX
I lost control.

He places his hand gently over hers, against her abdomen.

The light warms.

GUARIONEX
I do not know whether our child will inherit it.

ÉLÉONORE
And if she does?

GUARIONEX
Then we teach her better than I taught myself.

Beyond the cottage, the insects abruptly fall silent.

Guarionex looks toward the trees.

Nothing moves.

SEGMENT FIVE — THE MAN FROM EUROPE

EXT. COASTAL LANDING — NIGHT — AUGUST 1840

A longboat leaves a European merchant vessel.

Among its passengers sits a pale man in a dark traveling coat.

No luggage.

No companion.

CUT TO:

EXT. RURAL ROAD — LATER

The stranger walks alone.

He pauses.

Somewhere beyond the trees, a man laughs. A woman answers.

The stranger turns toward the sound.

INT. COTTAGE — NIGHT

Éléonore folds a small piece of linen.

Guarionex looks at it.

GUARIONEX
That cannot possibly fit a person.

ÉLÉONORE
A very small person.

A knock.

Guarionex rises.

EXT. COTTAGE DOOR — CONTINUOUS

The stranger waits beyond the threshold.

STRANGER
Forgive the hour. I have lost my way.

GUARIONEX
The road reaches the village if you follow it south.

STRANGER
Might I trouble you for water?

Guarionex studies him.

The air around the doorway has gone cold.

GUARIONEX
Wait here.

He turns toward the water jar.

The stranger moves.

A hand closes around Guarionex’s throat and drives him into the wall.

Éléonore cries out.

Guarionex thrusts his palm against the stranger’s chest.

Amber light erupts.

The attacker flies backward through the doorway.

Outside, he lands on his feet.

Slowly, he looks down at the smoking mark on his coat.

STRANGER
That was unexpected.

Guarionex catches Éléonore’s wrist.

GUARIONEX
Take the path behind the house. Do not stop.

ÉLÉONORE
Come with me.

GUARIONEX
I am coming.

He says it too quickly.

She hears the lie.

SEGMENT SIX — THE LAST PROTECTION

EXT. COTTAGE — CONTINUOUS

The stranger crosses the yard.

Guarionex drags his bleeding palm across the threshold.

A line of amber fire rises.

The stranger strikes it.

The entire cottage shudders.

Inside, Éléonore stumbles.

Guarionex turns to her, presses the cord-bound keepsake into her hand, and closes her fingers around it.

GUARIONEX
Keep this against you.

ÉLÉONORE
What are you doing?

He lays his palm over her abdomen.

His whispered words are almost lost beneath the groaning walls.

The light passes from his hand into her.

GUARIONEX
What lives within you stays beyond his reach.

The barrier cracks.

Éléonore catches his face.

ÉLÉONORE
Do not ask me to leave you.

GUARIONEX
Then let me ask you to take our child.

A second impact tears the door from its hinges.

Guarionex pushes her toward the rear exit.

GUARIONEX
Run!

She runs.

He turns as the stranger enters.

Guarionex sweeps both hands upward.

The floor splits. Roots break through the boards and bind the attacker’s legs.

For one breath, the stranger is trapped.

Guarionex drives a broken timber into his chest.

Silence.

The stranger looks at the wood.

Then at him.

STRANGER
You have courage.

He pulls the timber free.

The wound closes.

STRANGER
You needed more.

Guarionex gathers another blaze of light.

The vampire reaches him before it forms.

They strike the wall hard enough to break it.

Outside, Éléonore hears the crash.

She nearly turns.

Then Guarionex’s voice carries through the dark.

GUARIONEX
Keep going!

The amber light flashes once through the cottage windows.

Then vanishes.

SEGMENT SEVEN — DO YOU KNOW WHAT I AM?

EXT. WOODED PATH — NIGHT

Éléonore runs barefoot now.

One shoe lies somewhere behind her.

She reaches a stone culvert and crouches beside it, holding a hand over her mouth.

Footsteps approach.

Not hurried.

The stranger emerges between the trees.

His coat is torn.

His face is unmarked.

ÉLÉONORE
Where is he?

The stranger stops.

ÉLÉONORE
Answer me.

STRANGER
He cannot follow you.

She shakes her head.

STRANGER
Do you know what I am?

ÉLÉONORE
No.

He steps closer.

STRANGER
He knew enough to be afraid.

ÉLÉONORE
He stood against you.

A pause.

STRANGER
Yes. He did.

Éléonore finds a sharp stone beneath her hand.

ÉLÉONORE
Take my jewelry. There is money at the house—

STRANGER
I did not come for money.

His lips part.

She sees the teeth.

Her breath catches.

ÉLÉONORE
What are you?

STRANGER
Older than the names you would give me.

She strikes his face with the stone.

He catches her wrist.

The stone falls.

STRANGER
You should have saved your strength.

He pulls her toward him.

CUT TO the keepsake slipping from her collar.

His mouth touches her throat.

Her struggle falters.

Then—

A second heartbeat.

Small. Rapid.

The vampire goes still.

Beneath Éléonore’s skin, amber light answers him.

He tears himself away, staring at her abdomen.

STRANGER
A child.

Éléonore grips his sleeve.

ÉLÉONORE
Please.

His hand hovers near her.

The light flares. He recoils.

He looks back toward the distant cottage.

STRANGER
So that is where he put it.

Éléonore sinks against the stones.

The vampire watches her breathing grow shallow.

Then he steps away.

ÉLÉONORE
Help me.

He disappears between the trees.

She is alone.

SEGMENT EIGHT — BEFORE THE MORNING

EXT. STONE CULVERT — LATER

Éléonore crawls toward the path.

Her hand leaves a dark mark on the stone.

She pulls the keepsake against her abdomen.

ÉLÉONORE
Stay.

She tries to draw another breath.

Cannot.

Her body grows still.

The night continues around her.

Then the marks at her throat darken.

The curse left by the Original’s bite spreads beneath her skin.

Her wounds close.

Her chest remains motionless.

Suddenly, her eyes open.

Every sound arrives at once.

Wings.

Water beneath the stones.

A rat in the roots.

And within her—

A heartbeat.

She presses both hands to her abdomen.

ÉLÉONORE
Jessica?

A horse approaches along the road.

Éléonore turns.

The animal’s pulse overwhelms every other sound.

CUT TO:

EXT. DUBOIS ESTATE — BEFORE DAWN

Henri-Auguste’s search carriage enters the grounds at speed.

He sits inside opposite his daughter.

His traveling coat is wrapped around her.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
Where is Guarionex?

Éléonore cannot answer.

Her eyes follow the pulse in his throat.

She turns her face toward the window.

ÉLÉONORE
Do not come closer.

INT. ESTATE ENTRANCE HALL — MOMENTS LATER

Marguerite hurries down the stairs.

She reaches for Éléonore.

Éléonore recoils.

MARGUERITE
What has happened to you?

HENRI-AUGUSTE
Send for a physician.

ÉLÉONORE
No.

MARGUERITE
You can scarcely stand.

A servant opens the eastern shutters.

The first sunlight touches Éléonore’s hand.

She cries out.

Her skin burns.

Henri-Auguste slams the shutters closed.

No one moves.

Éléonore looks from one parent to the other.

ÉLÉONORE
I think I died.

SEGMENT NINE — THE BLOOD WE KEEP

INT. SHUTTERED BEDCHAMBER — NIGHT

Marguerite stands beside the bed.

Henri-Auguste remains near the locked door.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
You left this house without a word. We searched for weeks.

ÉLÉONORE
I know.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
And now a man is dead, you are—

He cannot finish.

ÉLÉONORE
Say it.

His anger falters.

MARGUERITE
There will be time for blame when we understand what must be done.

Éléonore looks down.

ÉLÉONORE
There is something else.

She places a hand against her abdomen.

Marguerite sits.

Henri-Auguste turns away.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
His child.

ÉLÉONORE
Our child.

Silence.

MARGUERITE
How far?

ÉLÉONORE
Not yet three months.

Henri-Auguste grips the back of a chair.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
Do you understand what people will—

MARGUERITE
Henri.

He stops.

ÉLÉONORE
He died protecting us.

Her voice breaks.

ÉLÉONORE
You may hate what I have done. You will not speak of him as though he were something shameful.

CUT TO:

EXT. WOODS BEYOND THE ESTATE — NIGHT

Éléonore moves between the trees.

She hears an animal.

The camera remains on her abandoned lantern.

CUT TO:

INT. REAR PASSAGE — LATER

She returns with blood on her cuff.

Marguerite waits with water and clean clothing.

ÉLÉONORE
It was an animal.

Marguerite nods, too quickly.

ÉLÉONORE
You wanted to ask.

MARGUERITE
Yes.

Éléonore begins to cry.

Marguerite holds her.

CUT TO:

EXT. ESTATE GATE — ANOTHER NIGHT

Henri-Auguste finds Éléonore staring at an approaching stable hand.

Her fingers grip the iron bars.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
Éléonore.

She does not turn.

He steps into her line of sight.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
Look at me.

At last, she does.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
Go inside.

She obeys, trembling.

CUT TO:

INT. STUDY — NIGHT

Henri-Auguste seals a letter announcing his daughter’s prolonged illness.

Beside it lies a report confirming Guarionex’s burial.

Marguerite enters.

MARGUERITE
The servants will talk.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
Then we give them something ordinary to say.

He sets the seal down.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
A fever. A broken engagement. A daughter who requires rest.

MARGUERITE
And the child?

He looks toward the shuttered upper floor.

HENRI-AUGUSTE
The child will bear our name.

SEGMENT TEN — JESSICA DUBOIS

INT. ÉLÉONORE’S BEDCHAMBER — NIGHT — MARCH 1841

Rain touches the shutters.

The midwife washes her hands.

She has returned many times through a private entrance. Tonight, her bag lies open beside fresh linen.

Éléonore grips the bedclothes.

The midwife takes her wrist.

No pulse.

For the first time, she allows herself to look frightened.

ÉLÉONORE
You promised.

MIDWIFE
I promised to help you deliver this child.

ÉLÉONORE
And afterward?

The midwife closes the shutters more tightly.

MIDWIFE
Afterward, no one hears it from me.

Beyond the locked door, Marguerite sits with clasped hands.

Henri-Auguste stands beside her.

Neither speaks.

Inside—

Éléonore cries out.

Her fangs show.

The midwife flinches but remains beside her.

MIDWIFE
Look at me. Stay here with me.

Éléonore turns her face away.

ÉLÉONORE
If I lose myself—

MIDWIFE
Then come back. Your child needs you.

Éléonore reaches for the cord around her neck.

Guarionex’s keepsake rests in her palm.

FLASH:

His hand covering hers.

His smile in the cottage doorway.

The light passing from him into her.

BACK TO SCENE.

Éléonore gathers herself.

The rain grows louder.

Then—

A baby cries.

Outside the room, Marguerite rises.

Henri-Auguste closes his eyes.

Inside, the midwife wraps the child.

She checks her breathing.

Her heartbeat.

MIDWIFE
A girl.

Éléonore holds out her arms.

The midwife places Jessica against her.

For an instant, a faint amber glow passes beneath the child’s tiny fingers.

The keepsake goes dark.

Its work is finished.

Éléonore touches Jessica’s cheek.

ÉLÉONORE
Your father would have loved you so much.

A knock.

MARGUERITE, THROUGH THE DOOR
Éléonore?

Éléonore looks at the midwife.

A quiet agreement.

MIDWIFE
Mother and child are here, madame.

Éléonore bends over her daughter.

ÉLÉONORE
Jessica.

The baby’s hand closes around her finger.

ÉLÉONORE
Jessica Dubois.

The camera withdraws.

Past the locked door.

Past Marguerite and Henri-Auguste waiting together.

Through the silent house and out across the dark gardens.

One upstairs window glows behind its shutters.

Within it, a mother whose heart no longer beats holds a child whose heart still does.

FADE TO BLACK.

END OF PROLOGUE.

HEXFANG™
CHAPTER ONE — THE AWAKENING
Puerto Rico, 1871

Jessica first noticed him watching her during the second dance.

By the fourth, she had refused him twice.

He was a guest of their host, a man whose name she had already forgotten. Each refusal brought the same indulgent smile, as though her answer were a small social mistake he expected her to correct.

When the musicians paused, she found her mother beside the open ballroom doors.

“I need some air.”

Éléonore glanced toward the terrace. “Shall I come?”

“You may trust me to survive a garden.”

Her mother smiled, but something troubled remained in her eyes.

“Stay where there is light.”

Outside, lanterns hung beneath the gallery roof. Beyond them, the garden descended toward a carriage road bordered by flowering shrubs.

Jessica walked until the music softened.

She had spent most of the evening being asked when she intended to marry. At thirty, she had apparently become a problem strangers felt entitled to solve.

Behind her, shoes sounded against the path.

“You left before I could persuade you.”

She turned.

The man from the ballroom stood between her and the nearest lantern.

“There was nothing to persuade me about.”

He moved closer.

Jessica stepped aside to pass him.

He caught her wrist.

“Let go.”

“You need not make such a performance of it.”

She pulled against his hand. His grip tightened.

The change in him was slight and unmistakable. The pleasant expression remained, but he no longer bothered to make it convincing.

Jessica raised her free hand.

The small working her governess had taught her required one breath, one clear intention.

Before she could finish either, he shoved her backward into the garden wall.

Pain struck through her shoulder.

“Be quiet.”

She shouted.

He clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her off the path, into the narrow darkness between the wall and the shrubs.

Jessica drove her heel into his foot.

He swore and struck her.

For a moment she could hear nothing but the high ringing inside her head.

Then his weight was against her, pinning her in place. He tried to force her skirts upward.

There was no misunderstanding left.

She twisted her face away from his hand.

“No.”

He pressed harder.

Jessica clawed at his wrist. Tried to draw breath. Tried to remember the words that had always come so easily in a quiet schoolroom.

A thread of gold flickered between her fingers.

It broke when he caught her hand and slammed it against the stone.

“No one can hear you here,” he said.

She could smell wine on his breath.

She could feel his pulse where his neck pressed close to her face.

Jessica turned her head and bit him.

Hard.

He cried out.

Blood filled her mouth.

She expected disgust. She expected him to pull away.

Instead, something inside her answered.

A violent heat passed through her jaw and down her throat. Her teeth sharpened against his skin. Every sound in the garden separated into terrible clarity: insects beneath leaves, a horse stamping by the road, the rush of blood through the man holding her.

His heartbeat overwhelmed the rest.

He tried to wrench himself free.

Jessica’s hands closed on his coat.

For one appalling instant, she did not want to let him go.

Then she understood what she was doing.

She shoved him away.

He stumbled, one hand clamped against his neck. Blood ran between his fingers, but he remained standing.

Jessica stared at him.

Her mouth hurt.

Her whole body hurt.

And beneath the pain was a hunger she had never known.

“What have you done?” he gasped.

She tried to answer.

A voice cut through the garden.

“Get away from her.”

Éléonore stood at the opening in the shrubs.

The man turned toward her.

“Your daughter—”

Jessica saw her mother’s face change.

The expression vanished first. Then the color seemed to leave her eyes, until something crimson caught the lantern light.

Her lips parted.

Jessica saw the teeth.

“Mother?”

The man lunged toward Éléonore, perhaps to push past her.

She caught him by the throat.

One-handed.

His feet left the ground.

Jessica pressed herself against the wall.

Éléonore pulled him close and sank her fangs into his neck.

He struggled.

Her mother held him without effort.

Jessica could hear his heartbeat faltering. She could hear Éléonore swallowing.

“Stop.”

The word scarcely left her throat.

Éléonore’s eyes were closed.

“Mother. Stop.”

The man’s hands fell.

His heartbeat ceased.

Éléonore released him. His body struck the ground at her feet.

For a moment she looked down at what she had done.

Then she caught the back of his coat and dragged him beyond the garden wall, into the brush beside the carriage road.

She returned alone.

Blood marked her mouth.

Jessica recoiled when she reached for her.

Éléonore stopped immediately.

“Jessica.”

“Do not touch me.”

Her mother lowered her hands.

From the ballroom came a burst of applause.

The next dance was beginning.

Jessica looked toward the sound, unable to understand how anyone could still be dancing.

Éléonore took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her mouth. Her fingers were trembling now.

“He cannot hurt you again.”

“What are you?”

The question struck harder than Jessica expected.

Her mother’s face crumpled, then steadied.

“I will tell you.”

Jessica touched her own mouth.

A sharp tooth caught her fingertip.

She jerked her hand away.

“What am I?”

Éléonore looked at the blood on her lips.

And understood.

“Oh, my darling.”

“Do not call me that. Tell me what is happening.”

Her mother glanced toward the ballroom, the road, the dark garden around them.

“We must get you somewhere safe.”

Jessica gave a small, disbelieving laugh.

“Safe?”

Éléonore accepted it without protest.

“Yes. I know.”

She removed her shawl.

“May I?”

Jessica looked down. The shoulder of her dress had torn against the wall.

After a moment, she nodded.

Éléonore wrapped the shawl around her without drawing her into an embrace.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Jessica took one step.

Her knees gave way.

This time, when her mother caught her, she did not pull away.

Their carriage stood apart from the others, near the far end of the drive.

Éléonore helped Jessica inside and told the coachman to take them home.

Only when the wheels began to move did Jessica speak again.

“You killed him.”

Éléonore sat opposite her.

“Yes.”

“He was alive when I let go.”

“Yes.”

Jessica stared at her mother’s hands. The hands that had brushed her hair, corrected her letters, held her through childhood fevers.

“You could have stopped him.”

“I did stop him.”

“You know what I mean.”

Éléonore looked down.

For several moments, the carriage wheels filled the silence.

“Yes,” she said at last. “I know.”

Jessica drew the shawl tighter.

She wanted her mother beside her.

She wanted her mother as far away as possible.

The two desires hurt almost equally.

“My teeth.”

Éléonore raised her eyes.

“They will withdraw.”

“How do you know?”

“Because mine do.”

Jessica turned toward the window.

The coachman sat beyond it.

She could hear his heart.

She moved away from the glass.

Éléonore noticed.

“Look at me.”

“I can hear him.”

“I know.”

“No. I can hear his blood.”

Her mother leaned forward, keeping her hands in her lap.

“Choose another sound. The wheels. Listen to them.”

Jessica shook her head.

“Try.”

The wheels struck a rut.

Wood creaked.

A harness buckle rattled.

For a moment, the heartbeat receded.

Jessica clung to the sound of the wheels.

“What have you done to me?”

Éléonore closed her eyes.

When she opened them, she was crying.

“I passed something to you before you were born.”

At the estate, Éléonore brought her through the private entrance.

She sent away the servant who came to meet them.

In Jessica’s room, she set water and clean linen on the dressing table, then turned her back while Jessica changed.

Jessica’s hands shook so badly that she could not manage a fastening.

After a long silence, she said, “Help me.”

Éléonore did.

Neither spoke until Jessica was seated beside the bed, wrapped in a clean robe.

Her mother knelt before her.

“What he tried to do was not your fault.”

Jessica stared past her.

“Biting him was not your fault. You were trying to survive.”

“I wanted—”

Her voice failed.

Éléonore waited.

Jessica pressed her hands together.

“For a moment, after I hurt him, I wanted more.”

Her mother’s tears spilled over.

“That was the hunger.”

“It felt like me.”

“I know.”

Jessica finally looked at her.

The answer was worse because she believed it.

“Tell me everything.”

Éléonore sat on the floor beside her chair.

“Your father knew I was carrying you before we lost him.”

“You said he died protecting you.”

“He did.”

“You never said from what.”

“No.”

Outside, a night bird called from the garden.

Éléonore gathered herself.

“A man came to our cottage. He asked for water. Your father knew something was wrong, but the stranger attacked before he could send him away.”

Jessica watched her mother’s face.

“He had magic, as you know. More than I understood then. He fought to give me time to escape.”

Her fingers closed around the edge of Jessica’s chair.

“Before I ran, he placed a protection on you.”

Jessica touched the keepsake at her throat.

“This?”

“It helped carry it.”

“And the man?”

“He was a vampire. One of the first, though I learned that much later. Your father hurt him. He could not defeat him.”

Éléonore paused.

Jessica waited.

“He found me on the road. He fed from me. When he realized I was pregnant, he stopped.”

“Why?”

“I do not know. Your father’s protection resisted him. Perhaps that was enough. He left me there.”

Jessica’s hand tightened around the keepsake.

“And you died.”

Éléonore nodded.

The words had never sounded possible before.

Now Jessica could still see her mother lifting a grown man off his feet.

“The curse was in his bite,” Éléonore said. “It awakened after my death. When I rose, you were still alive.”

Jessica looked down at herself, as though she might see some trace of that night beneath her skin.

“You knew I could become like you.”

“I knew it was possible.”

“All this time.”

“Yes.”

“My lessons?”

“Your father’s inheritance. That magic was yours from the beginning.”

“And this?”

“Mine. Dormant within you.”

“Until tonight.”

Éléonore nodded.

“Until you took human blood.”

Jessica stood abruptly.

Her mother moved aside.

Thirty years rearranged themselves around her.

Closed shutters.

Illnesses that never seemed to worsen.

Journeys scheduled after sunset.

A mother whose face had not changed.

“Grandmother knows.”

“Yes.”

“Grandfather.”

“Yes.”

Jessica turned back.

“Everyone responsible for me knew what was inside me except me.”

Éléonore rose slowly.

“Not everyone. But enough people that you have every right to be angry.”

“Angry?”

Jessica’s voice broke.

“I thought you were going to make it better.”

Her mother reached toward her, then stopped.

“I know.”

“You came into the garden, and I thought—”

Jessica could not finish.

Éléonore stood utterly still.

“I should have told you,” she said. “I thought if the curse never awakened, you might have a life untouched by it.”

“You let me walk into the world without knowing myself.”

“Yes.”

No excuse followed.

Jessica sat on the edge of the bed.

The hunger stirred again.

She could hear the servants below. Her grandparents in another wing. The coachman leading the horses away.

So many living hearts.

She covered her ears.

It made no difference.

Éléonore crossed the room and closed the door.

“Will it stop?” Jessica asked.

“It will become something you can govern.”

“That is not the same.”

“No.”

Her mother sat beside her, leaving a little space between them.

Jessica stared at that space.

Then, slowly, she took Éléonore’s hand.

“I am still angry with you.”

“I know.”

“I do not want you to leave.”

Éléonore held her hand carefully.

“I will stay.”

Beyond the windows, the garden darkened toward morning.

Jessica listened to the wheels of a distant cart on the road.

She counted each turn until she could hear it more clearly than the hearts inside the house.

Beside her, her mother waited.

HEXFANG™
CHAPTER ONE — THE FIRST MORNING

The first light reached the shutters while Jessica was still holding her mother’s hand.

A narrow seam of gold appeared between the wooden slats.

She watched it advance across the floor.

Yesterday, she would not have noticed.

“Will it hurt?”

Éléonore followed her gaze.

“Yes.”

Jessica drew her bare feet beneath the hem of her robe.

Her mother rose, crossed the room, and secured the inner curtains. When she turned back, Jessica was looking at the place where the light had been.

“Forever?”

Éléonore hesitated.

“I have never found a way to make it harmless.”

Jessica nodded once.

She was beginning to understand that her mother would give her no comforting lies this morning.

The truth was proving difficult enough.

A knock came at the door.

“Éléonore?”

Marguerite’s voice.

Jessica looked up.

Her mother waited for permission.

After a moment, Jessica released her hand.

“Let her in.”

Marguerite entered carrying a small lamp, though daylight filled the corridor behind her. She closed the door before setting it down.

Age had reduced the certainty of her movements. Her back remained straight, but one hand rested against the doorframe while she gathered her balance. Her silver hair was pinned with the same care Jessica remembered from childhood.

She looked first at Éléonore.

Then at Jessica.

Then at the torn dress lying beside the dressing table.

“What happened?”

Jessica watched her grandmother understand that something terrible had occurred before anyone explained it.

“A man followed me into the garden.”

Marguerite’s expression tightened.

“He tried to force me.”

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

“Did he—”

“No.”

Jessica answered before the question could become more difficult.

Marguerite closed her eyes.

“He did not.”

Her grandmother approached, but stopped a little way from the bed.

“May I sit?”

Jessica moved her feet.

Marguerite lowered herself carefully onto the mattress.

“I bit him,” Jessica said.

Éléonore stood beside the dressing table.

Marguerite looked at her.

Her daughter nodded.

The old woman’s shoulders lowered.

“Oh, Jessica.”

“You knew.”

Marguerite did not pretend to misunderstand.

“Yes.”

Jessica looked from one woman to the other.

“How long were you going to wait?”

Neither answered.

“Until I looked older than my mother? Until someone asked why she never came into the garden in daylight?”

Marguerite folded her hands in her lap.

“We had no certainty that it would happen.”

“You had enough certainty to keep it from me.”

“Yes.”

Jessica’s gaze dropped to those hands.

The thin fingers, the rings grown loose. She knew every gesture they made. Those hands had corrected her posture, fastened necklaces at her throat, rested on her forehead when she was ill.

She could hear blood moving through them.

Her mouth began to ache.

Jessica turned away sharply.

Marguerite noticed.

Éléonore was beside her at once.

“Mother. Give her a little room.”

Jessica shook her head.

“I am trying.”

“I know.”

The smell of her grandmother’s skin seemed suddenly overwhelming: lavender water, old silk, the warmth beneath both.

Jessica gripped the bedclothes.

Marguerite rose.

There was no offense in her face now. Only fear, and the effort to prevent Jessica from seeing it.

“I shall have the passage cleared.”

At the door, she paused.

“What you did to survive him carries no shame in this house.”

Jessica looked up.

Her grandmother’s eyes had filled.

“I wish you had trusted me with the truth.”

Marguerite held her gaze.

“So do I.”

She left them.

Jessica waited until the sound of her steps had faded.

“I wanted to bite her.”

Éléonore sat beside her.

“You heard her heart.”

“That is not what I said.”

“No.”

Her mother took a breath she did not need.

“It is not.”

Before noon, Éléonore brought a covered cup.

Jessica knew what it contained before the lid was lifted.

She backed away from the table.

“No.”

“It came from an animal.”

“That does not make it wine.”

“I know.”

Éléonore placed the cup down and stepped aside.

Jessica stared at it.

The room seemed to contract around the smell.

“What happens if I refuse?”

“You will become weaker. The hunger will become stronger.”

“And then?”

Her mother’s silence answered.

Jessica looked toward the door.

Beyond it, someone carried a tray along the passage.

She heard the small hitch in the servant’s breathing beneath its weight.

“Leave me.”

Éléonore’s face tightened.

“I will be outside.”

When the door closed, Jessica remained standing.

The cup waited.

She thought of the man in the garden. The instant when his fear had become something she could taste.

She thought of her grandmother drawing away from the bed.

At last, she took the cup.

The first swallow quieted the room.

The second brought such relief that she began to cry.

When Éléonore returned, the cup was empty.

Jessica sat beside the window, facing the closed curtains.

“Did you hate it?” she asked.

“The first time?”

Jessica nodded.

“Yes.”

“Does that change?”

Éléonore considered before answering.

“Some things become easier. You must decide which things you will refuse to make easy.”

Jessica turned toward her.

Her mother looked exhausted.

Until that morning, Jessica had never understood how someone whose face scarcely changed could appear so worn.

“The man in the garden,” Jessica said. “Was he the first person you killed?”

“No.”

The answer settled between them.

“Will you tell me?”

“When you want to hear it.”

Jessica looked back at the curtains.

“Not today.”

“All right.”

After a while, Jessica held out her hand.

Éléonore took it.

Her governess arrived three evenings later.

Madame Fournier had ceased to be Jessica’s governess in any ordinary sense years before. She still visited the estate twice a week, bringing books, arguments, and exercises Jessica occasionally suspected she invented merely to keep her occupied.

She entered without her usual traveling bag.

Instead, she carried a shallow brass bowl.

Jessica stood beside the desk.

“How much did you know?”

Fournier set down the bowl.

Her dark hair had gone almost entirely gray. Her eyes remained sharp behind narrow spectacles.

“I knew your mother was a vampire. I knew you had inherited something from her. I did not know whether it would awaken.”

“And you agreed not to tell me.”

“Yes.”

“You taught me that ignorance was dangerous.”

“I did.”

Jessica waited.

Fournier removed her gloves.

“I failed to apply the lesson.”

The directness of it left Jessica with nowhere to place the next angry sentence she had prepared.

Fournier looked at the door.

“If you wish me to go, I will.”

Jessica glanced at the bowl.

“What is that for?”

“Your hand shook when I came in.”

Jessica looked down.

Her fingers were trembling.

“Everything is louder.”

“Then we shall begin with something quiet.”

Fournier poured water into the bowl.

“Move it.”

Jessica raised her hand.

A thread of amber light appeared above the surface.

The water leaped.

The bowl struck the ceiling.

Jessica ducked as it came down.

Fournier caught it against her shoulder with a word and a small, practiced gesture.

Water soaked the carpet.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Fournier looked at the ceiling.

“Well,” she said. “We shall begin with less water.”

Jessica laughed.

It escaped so suddenly that she covered her mouth.

Then she began to cry.

Fournier put down the bowl.

This time, when she opened her arms, Jessica crossed the room.

The lessons changed.

Jessica learned to distinguish the noise of hunger from the pull of her magic. They often arrived together now. Fear could sharpen both; anger could turn a simple working into something that broke glass.

Fournier made her practice with closed shutters and an empty room.

A candle flame.

A drop of water.

A thread drawn through the eye of a needle without touching either.

When Jessica grew frustrated, Fournier stopped the lesson.

“Power does not excuse carelessness.”

“I am trying.”

“Then rest, and try again.”

Sometimes Éléonore watched from the doorway.

Sometimes Jessica asked her to leave.

Her mother obeyed both requests.

At night, they walked together on the estate grounds.

Éléonore taught her to stop when a living heartbeat began to absorb all her attention. To turn away before wanting became movement. To recognize the first narrowing of thought.

Jessica hated those lessons more than the others.

She needed them more, too.

One evening, beneath the rear gallery, she asked, “Did my father have difficulty learning?”

Éléonore looked across the lawn.

“He once told me that a door he meant to mend remained stuck for three days after he lost his temper with it.”

Jessica smiled faintly.

“Did he fix it?”

“He apologized to it first.”

“Mother.”

“That is what he told me.”

For the first time since the party, the silence between them felt familiar.

Henri-Auguste asked Jessica to visit his study the following week.

He had been told she was ill. Then he had been told more.

When she entered, he was seated beside an unlit fireplace with a blanket over his knees.

His cane rested against the chair.

“Come here.”

Jessica stopped before him.

His gaze moved over her face.

She wondered what he was searching for.

A change.

A resemblance.

Evidence of what the household had finally been forced to acknowledge.

“Your grandmother tells me you are eating poorly.”

Jessica stared at him.

Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

“Yes. That was badly put.”

She sat.

For a while, he said nothing.

“You have questions,” he said at last.

“Everyone seems to have known what questions I should ask except me.”

He accepted that.

“Your mother was frightened.”

“So was I.”

“Yes.”

He rubbed one thumb over the head of his cane.

“I mistook silence for protection often enough in my life. It usually protected me from a conversation I did not wish to have.”

Jessica studied him.

He looked smaller in the chair than he did in his portrait.

“Did you hate my father?”

Henri-Auguste lowered his eyes.

It took him a long time to answer.

“I hated losing authority over my daughter.”

“That is not the same question.”

“No.”

He looked up.

“He was a good man. I knew that when it cost me nothing to know it.”

Jessica’s throat tightened.

“Did you ever tell Mother?”

“Not well.”

She waited.

“Not nearly well enough.”

Outside, a carriage crossed the courtyard.

Henri-Auguste listened until it passed.

“When he was a boy, he repaired a broken hinge on this door. No one had asked him. He was tired of hearing it scrape.”

Jessica glanced behind her.

“That hinge?”

“It has been replaced since. I am not suggesting the boy performed a miracle.”

She laughed softly.

He smiled.

“I remember things like that now. The things one scarcely troubles to notice when there seems to be time.”

Jessica reached for his hand.

Its warmth hurt.

She held it anyway.

Henri-Auguste died the following year.

His decline had been slow enough to allow hope on some days and remove it on others.

Jessica read to him when he could no longer comfortably hold a book. Éléonore sat with him after sunset. Marguerite remained near enough to correct the household whenever illness threatened to disturb his preferences.

Near the end, he woke one night to find his daughter beside him.

“Éléonore.”

“I am here.”

He looked toward the window.

“Open the curtains.”

Her hand tightened around his.

“It is still dark.”

“Then there is no difficulty.”

She opened them.

The moon lay over the lawn.

Henri-Auguste watched it for a little while.

Then he looked back at his daughter’s unchanged face.

“I should have let you tell me you were happy.”

Éléonore bowed her head.

When she could speak, she said, “I was.”

He nodded.

She held his hand until morning.

After the funeral, Marguerite continued to set a second cup beside her own.

No one removed it until she left the room.

For two years, she managed her grief as she managed the estate: through attention to small things.

Flowers were replaced before they wilted.

Letters were answered.

Jessica’s portrait was moved because the afternoon sun had begun to fade its colors.

But some evenings, Marguerite sat beneath Henri-Auguste’s painting and forgot the book in her lap.

Jessica would join her.

They spoke of ordinary things.

A storm-damaged tree.

An argument with a supplier.

A foolish guest remembered from long ago.

Once, Marguerite looked at her and said, “You will remember us for a very long time.”

Jessica could not answer.

Her grandmother laid a hand over hers.

“Try to remember more than our worst decisions.”

“I will remember all of you.”

Marguerite’s eyes shone.

“That is fair.”

She died in her sleep in 1874.

The maid found her at dawn.

Éléonore stood outside the bedchamber while the shutters were closed.

Jessica waited beside her.

When they entered, Marguerite appeared merely tired.

Her hand lay open on the coverlet.

For the first time in Jessica’s life, the room around her grandmother was completely silent.

The papers were read.

The estate was Éléonore’s.

Land, accounts, furniture, obligations. A house full of things whose owners no longer answered when called.

For several months, they remained.

Jessica continued her lessons.

Éléonore managed the household.

Portraits were covered, then uncovered because neither woman could bear the sight of them hidden.

But beyond the gates, people were beginning to notice what familiarity had once excused.

A former servant returned with a grown daughter and stared too long at Éléonore.

A guest remarked that Jessica possessed her mother’s extraordinary youth.

A dressmaker asked, lightly, whether there were a family remedy she might be persuaded to share.

That night, Éléonore brought shipping schedules into the study.

Jessica knew before she spoke.

“When?”

“After the new year.”

“Where?”

“Florida first.”

Jessica looked around the room.

Her grandfather’s cane still stood beside his chair.

“We have only just lost them.”

“I know.”

“And now we leave them.”

Éléonore sat opposite her.

“We leave the house.”

Jessica touched a shallow scratch in the desk.

She had made it as a child.

For thirty-three years, the estate had contained every version of her life.

The girl who believed her mother was simply beautiful.

The woman who discovered why.

She did not yet know who she might become elsewhere.

“Will we come back?”

Éléonore looked toward the portraits beyond the open door.

“Yes.”

Jessica wanted to believe the certainty in her voice.

She reached for the shipping schedules.

“Then tell me about Florida.”

Outside, the fountain continued running in the dark.

END OF CHAPTER ONE.

HEXFANG™
CHAPTER TWO — THE YEARS BETWEEN

They left Puerto Rico in January 1875.

Jessica watched the estate disappear behind the trees from the carriage window. She had expected some final sight of the roof, some glimpse she could preserve exactly.

A bend in the road took it from her without ceremony.

Beside her, Éléonore held a traveling case on her lap.

“What did you bring?”

“Letters.”

“All of them?”

“Enough.”

Jessica looked at the case.

Her mother had packed no jewelry inside it. Those things traveled elsewhere, carefully inventoried and insured.

The case contained what could not be replaced.

At the harbor, the air smelled of salt, wet rope, and cargo left too long in the heat. Their passage had been arranged with a private cabin. The steward was told that Madame Dubois suffered from a condition aggravated by sunlight.

He accepted the explanation with the practical indifference of a man accustomed to wealthy passengers and their requirements.

By dawn, the shutters were secured.

By evening, Puerto Rico was gone.

Jessica stood on deck beneath unfamiliar stars that were, of course, the same stars.

Éléonore joined her.

For a while they listened to the water striking the hull.

“Do you regret coming?”

Jessica kept her eyes on the darkness.

“We have not arrived anywhere yet.”

Her mother nodded.

“That is fair.”

Florida was their first lesson in leaving no impression that could not be explained.

They rented rooms.

They received few visitors.

Éléonore became a widow traveling with an unmarried daughter. The story was sufficiently ordinary that most people supplied the missing details themselves.

Jessica learned how much could be concealed by allowing someone to believe they understood you.

Her mother’s late hours were attributed to poor sleep. Jessica’s were attributed to devotion.

Their curtains remained closed.

When they moved north, they left behind courteous acquaintances, paid accounts, and a landlady who remembered that Madame Dubois had been generous with the servants.

It was an easier departure than the first.

Jessica disliked that.

New York overwhelmed her.

The city seemed unable to stop making noise. Wheels, voices, footsteps, arguments carried through open windows. Hearts crowded the streets so densely that, on her first evening, she had to retreat into their rooms and sit with her hands pressed flat against a table.

Éléonore closed the door.

“Choose one sound.”

“There are too many.”

“One.”

Jessica fixed on a loose shutter across the street.

It struck its frame.

Paused.

Struck again.

She followed it until the city became bearable.

Later, she stood at their window watching people hurry beneath the lamps.

No one looked up.

No one knew who she was.

For the first time, anonymity felt like something she might enjoy.

They did not remain in one neighborhood.

A decade was sometimes enough. Sometimes less.

Éléonore kept careful records of what they had told people. Jessica found this absurd until she nearly introduced her mother under a name they had abandoned four years earlier.

After that, she read the records.

They took smaller apartments when scrutiny became troublesome and larger ones when privacy required space.

They left the city occasionally.

They returned when enough familiar faces had moved away.

In public, they sometimes became sisters.

Jessica disliked that arrangement at first.

“You are enjoying this.”

Éléonore adjusted an earring before the mirror.

“I am making the best of an inconvenience.”

“You corrected my posture at dinner.”

“You were slouching.”

“Sisters do not generally do that.”

“Then we shall be unusually attentive sisters.”

Jessica threw a cushion at her.

Her mother caught it without turning.

Madame Fournier’s letters followed them for several years.

She wrote of books Jessica ought to read, errors she suspected Jessica was making, and the estate’s affairs as reported by its steward.

Her last letter contained no lesson.

The handwriting was less steady.

You have always mistaken instruction for certainty. I gave you what I knew. Where that ends, you must learn.

Jessica read it twice before she understood why it frightened her.

The news of Fournier’s death arrived several weeks later.

Jessica kept the letter open on her desk.

That evening, she placed a brass bowl before her and poured in a little water.

She raised her hand.

The surface lifted without breaking.

For a moment, the water held the shape of a clear, trembling sphere.

Then she lowered it gently into the bowl.

Éléonore watched from the doorway.

Jessica did not turn.

“She would have found something wrong with it.”

“Yes,” her mother said.

After a while, they both smiled.

The years offered Jessica a thousand ways to become careless.

A stranger smiled at her across a restaurant.

A musician stayed after a gathering to ask whether she might come again.

A woman she liked began leaving a chair for her at the window.

Affection arrived in ordinary forms, which made it difficult to defend against.

Jessica accepted some invitations.

Refused others.

Once, she allowed herself to remain long enough that departure hurt someone besides herself.

Afterward, she made fewer promises.

Éléonore did not interfere.

That restraint, too, was something they had learned at a cost.

They argued over feeding, over travel, over whether a friendship had become dangerous. They sometimes spent months in separate cities.

They always knew how to find each other.

A letter.

A telephone number.

Eventually, a message delivered almost as quickly as a thought.

The world became faster around them.

Jessica found that extraordinary.

Her mother found portions of it exhausting.

Their money required tending.

Éléonore had grown up in a house where wealth appeared at the table as finished comfort. Now she learned the work that kept it from disappearing.

Jessica proved good at recognizing when a confident man was selling something he did not understand.

Between them, they preserved enough.

The estate remained theirs through careful arrangements and successive representatives. Repairs were authorized from a distance. Staff dwindled as rooms ceased to be used.

Letters described damp walls, damaged shutters, and a roof that would need attention before another season of storms.

Éléonore approved the work.

Sometimes it was done well.

Sometimes the distance between payment and result proved longer than the sea.

They spoke of returning.

There was always a reason to wait.

When they finally returned in 1990, Jessica recognized the bend in the road before she recognized the gate.

The ironwork had rusted.

The fountain was dry.

A tree she remembered as scarcely taller than the gallery now shaded half the courtyard.

Éléonore remained in the car after the engine stopped.

Jessica waited.

At last, her mother said, “I thought I had prepared myself.”

Inside, the house smelled of closed rooms.

Sheets covered furniture.

Their footsteps sounded wrong.

They spent four years attempting to make the estate a home again.

Some evenings, they succeeded.

They ate nothing at the old dining table, but sat there with books and argued as though someone might still enter and ask them to lower their voices.

Jessica repaired small things with her hands when magic would have been quicker.

Éléonore restored the portrait gallery.

Then the house began to feel less like a place where they lived than a place where they rehearsed remembering.

They left for California in 1994.

Los Angeles gave them a different kind of concealment.

People arrived with new names and explanations for themselves every day. Beauty was admired, questioned, altered, and purchased so constantly that an unchanged face attracted less attention than it once had.

They still moved.

They still took care.

Jessica learned that cameras remembered more reliably than people.

She became selective about photographs.

Éléonore became selective about everything.

For more than thirty years, California was where they returned between journeys.

The estate waited.

A caretaker retired.

His replacement stayed less than a year.

Another storm opened the roof over a disused wing. Water entered rooms whose doors remained locked. Plants rooted in cracks. Invoices arrived with photographs neither woman could bear to examine closely.

Eventually, Jessica stopped forwarding them.

One night in 2026, Éléonore found the unopened file.

She sat beside Jessica with the photographs spread between them.

The ballroom windows were clouded with dirt.

A portion of the upper gallery had been closed off.

Bougainvillea concealed the rear steps.

For a long time, her mother said nothing.

Then she touched a photograph of the front doors.

“I would like to see it again.”

Jessica looked at her.

“This time, we go.”

Puerto Rico received them with heat still rising from the pavement after sunset.

Jessica lowered the car window.

For a moment, she was thirty-three again, leaving rather than arriving.

Then a motorcycle passed, music sounded from another car, and the illusion broke.

The gate had to be pushed open by hand.

Grass brushed the underside of the car.

The estate emerged slowly in the headlights.

Its familiar proportions survived beneath neglect. The roof remained, though portions sagged. Several shutters hung crookedly. The fountain held rainwater and fallen leaves.

Éléonore got out before Jessica had switched off the engine.

She walked to the steps.

One of the stone urns had broken.

Her mother laid a hand on its remaining edge.

Jessica took the bags from the car.

“Let us see what is still dry.”

The central rooms had been inspected before their arrival. A contractor had restored power to a small section and marked unsafe areas.

Beyond those rooms, the house waited in darkness.

They made beds in the old guest wing.

They closed the shutters.

Neither slept much.

Mateo arrived three evenings later with a toolbox and an apology.

“The supplier sent the wrong fittings.”

Jessica stood in the doorway holding a flashlight.

“For which problem?”

He looked past her at the house.

“That depends how long you have.”

She laughed.

He smiled, relieved.

Mateo Varela was thirty-six, broad through the shoulders from work, with a small scar near his chin and an expression that suggested he had learned not to trust an easy repair.

The contractor had sent him to inspect the pump and finish work on the temporary water supply.

He glanced at the darkening sky.

“I can come earlier tomorrow if this is inconvenient.”

“Evenings are better.”

“For me too, usually.”

He set down the toolbox.

Jessica led him through the passage.

He stopped beneath a patch of damaged plaster.

“That needs looking at.”

“So I have been told.”

“By someone who actually looked, or someone who wanted to charge you for looking?”

“I am beginning to appreciate the distinction.”

At the pump room, he crouched beside the pipework.

Jessica held the light.

“Here?”

“A little lower.”

She adjusted it.

He looked up.

“Perfect.”

The word should not have pleased her as much as it did.

He returned twice that week.

On the second visit, he brought coffee.

Jessica looked at the paper cup.

“I did not know how you take it.”

“That was thoughtful.”

She set it beside her and listened while he explained what had failed beneath the fountain.

He spoke without trying to impress her.

When he did not know something, he said so.

Jessica found herself asking questions after she understood the answer.

As he packed his tools, he glanced toward the front courtyard.

“My grandmother used to talk about this place.”

“What did she say?”

“That rich people were as capable of letting a roof leak as anyone else.”

Jessica laughed.

“She was right.”

He closed the toolbox.

“Are you restoring all of it?”

“I do not know yet.”

“Staying long?”

Jessica looked toward the gallery, where Éléonore stood just beyond the light.

“A little while.”

Mateo nodded.

Then, with a small hesitation, he asked, “Would you like to see something that does not need repairing?”

Jessica looked back at him.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner. Somewhere else.”

She met him after sunset.

She had fed before leaving, more carefully than usual.

That fact stayed with her while he pulled out a chair.

She ordered something small and moved it around the plate while they talked. When he noticed, she said she had eaten late.

It was the first lie she told him deliberately.

Not the last.

He asked about California.

She asked about his work.

He had spent time away and returned when his mother became ill. She was better now, he said, which meant she had resumed informing him that he worked too much.

“Does she approve of your advice?”

“Only when someone else gives it.”

Jessica smiled.

“My mother is similar.”

“Then we already have something in common.”

Later, they walked where the street opened toward the water.

Mateo did not try to take her hand immediately.

When he finally touched her fingers, he gave her time to choose.

She chose.

Éléonore was reading when Jessica returned.

“How was the pump?”

Jessica stopped in the doorway.

Her mother turned a page.

“You know perfectly well he finished the pump.”

“Then I hope dinner was pleasant.”

“It was.”

Éléonore looked up.

For a moment, Jessica saw worry assembling behind her expression.

“Please do not.”

“I have said nothing.”

“You are preparing.”

Her mother closed the book.

“I was going to ask whether you were happy.”

Jessica’s answer came quietly.

“For a few hours.”

Éléonore nodded.

“Then I am glad.”

Mateo invited her to the beach on a Sunday.

Jessica read the message twice.

Then she typed an apology.

Too much to deal with at the house. Could we meet later?

He agreed.

Another time, he offered to collect her for breakfast after an early job.

She said she had not slept.

That was true often enough to feel like permission.

Their meetings settled into evenings.

He began to call her nocturnal.

She told him she did her best thinking after dark.

It made him smile.

She wished it did not feel so easy.

Their first kiss happened beside his car.

He had driven her back to the estate after a long evening that neither seemed willing to end.

The house stood beyond the gate, its lit windows few and distant.

“I would ask you in,” Jessica said, “but there are hazards.”

“The ceiling?”

“Among others.”

He smiled.

Then his expression softened.

“Can I kiss you?”

She looked at him.

“Yes.”

He touched her face gently.

Jessica closed her eyes.

His pulse quickened beneath her hand.

For one instant, hunger stirred.

She drew back.

Mateo stepped away immediately.

“Too much?”

“No.”

She caught his hand before he could mistake her fear for refusal.

“No. Just give me a moment.”

He waited.

That nearly undid her.

Jessica steadied herself.

Then she kissed him again.

Weeks passed through the estate in the form of small repairs.

Water returned to the fountain, though one tier remained dry.

A door opened without scraping.

The rear terrace was cleared enough for two chairs.

Mateo sometimes stayed after his work was finished.

Éléonore joined them once.

She asked him about his family, his trade, his plans.

Jessica recognized the questions from another century and nearly laughed.

But her mother listened to the answers.

After he left, she said, “He is kind.”

“Yes.”

“That makes this more difficult.”

Jessica looked across the lawn.

“I know.”

The night Jessica stayed at Mateo’s apartment, she left before dawn.

He woke when she sat up.

“Already?”

“There is something at the house I have to attend to.”

He reached for her hand.

“Stay a little longer.”

She wanted to.

The desire was so simple that it hurt.

Instead, she bent and kissed him.

“I will see you tonight.”

He released her.

She dressed quietly.

Outside, the sky remained dark.

Jessica sat in her car until she could trust her hands.

Then she drove toward the estate.

Before reaching it, she turned onto a narrow road beyond the settled streets.

She knew where wild pigs crossed the brush.

She had learned the route during her first week back.

The animal heard her too late.

Afterward, she remained crouched beneath the trees, waiting for the hunger to quiet.

There was no grace in what sustained her.

Only necessity, and the choices she made within it.

She cleaned her hands with water from the car.

By the time she entered the estate, no blood marked her clothes.

Éléonore stood beneath the rear gallery.

Jessica stopped at the steps.

Neither woman asked a question.

Her mother moved aside to let her pass.

Upstairs, Jessica washed again.

She looked at her reflection until the face in the mirror seemed familiar.

Her phone lit on the dressing table.

Mateo.

You left your earring. I am choosing to believe this means you are coming back.

Jessica touched her bare ear.

Then she smiled.

Keep it safe.

His reply arrived almost immediately.

Always.

She placed the phone beside the bed.

Outside, the fountain ran beneath the paling sky.

For that morning, she allowed herself to believe there would be another ordinary evening.

END OF CHAPTER TWO.