Chapter Two: Fall, Fernanda

When Addison was seventeen her grandmother began to forget her name. First, she was called by her mother's name. Every other day, in some form, she became her mother in an effort to simply keep the peace. And then as Lala's condition worsened, she became her great aunt, a woman she'd never met before. A woman she'd never even heard of before. Addison became the manifestation of her grandmother's mythical childhood, which to her had always felt like a far off and distant world from the one she'd been raised in. An isolated place she'd been denied access to. Her grandmother's history had never extended to her in all of her raising, and then suddenly all she existed for was to support the memory of a place and history she'd never even learned.

It made her angry at first. Who wouldn't have been? She was angry that Lala had left her. That her Lala had become someone else. Angry that, with her grandmother's memory, every moment of her life up until that point would cease to exist without her grandmother there to support it into being. No one on earth would remember her the same. When Lala forgot her last memory of Addison — when she failed to recognize her for the final time — Addison became truly alone in the world. The first year had seen a rapid decrease in cognitive function that no one could ignore. The grey matter in her brain had deteriorated at an astonishing rate that left Addison reeling.

In that year, she accustomed herself to being a different person. In those moments leading up to the final forgetting, the thing that jarred her — that truly made her panic and sweat and grieve — was not being called by her mother's name or her great aunt's name but being called by her own name. In the end, those few and far between moments that brought a brief flicker of recognition were the absolute worst. Nothing was more painful than Lala's recognition. Nothing was more agonizing than the whisper of her own name. Nothing filled her with more elation or despair. In those moments, Addison would cling to her like a small child. But soon — always too soon — her eyes would flicker again and fall into shadow. Then would come the screaming. The crying. A nurse would pry her away from the distressed patient her grandmother had become, and Addison would drift, shaking, into the hallway. And then at some point she would drift home. And she would lash out at an empty house. Crawl into Lala's bed and cry into the pillows. She would slowly come undone.

The next day, Addison would rise again and repeat. Hoping somewhat desperately that it would be the day Lala would not remember her name for the final time.

When she was eighteen, on her first day of college, she'd survived her first year of being almost entirely on her own. And her name did not appear on a single professor's roster. It was a fluke. A computer error. A coincidence. She spent the afternoon in the registrar, trying to prove to the administration that she existed. Eventually, after hours of waiting and paperwork, she succeeded. They apologized for their mistake, of course, but it had been an exhausting experience. One she never wanted to repeat again. At some point, the name Addison had become synonymous with struggle. And it had become less and less common that she heard it uttered by anyone around her. It was the name she kept locked away, close to herself, in the quiet of her own mind.

By the time she landed in the annals of history, Addison's identity had already become a malleable thing. Who she was, and what people called her, became less of a surety and more a matter of convenience. When they called her Malvina, she knew after the first slap to her wrist that Addison would not exist in this world either. To fight for who she was — for the name she was given at birth, and the identity she'd been raised with — would be exhausting and dangerous. If they wanted her to be Malvina, then Malvina she would be.

She'd been home in the twenty first century for six months. It was hard to keep track anymore, but she made sure to do her best despite the way it made her stomach turn some days. The modern world never stopped being loud. It was too bright even in the middle of the night. There was always the slight buzz of energy in the air that made the hair on her arms stand up in anxious anticipation of something, though she didn't know what that something was.

She didn't know how she did it, but she recovered. Or recovered as best as one could when they were on their own. No one came knocking. She had no cell phone for anyone to call. It was lost at that café with her wallet and her car. She could try to get it all back she supposed, but it was an overwhelming concept, and she gave up before even bothering to try. She made do. Either way, she had more in this world than she'd had in the past when she was Malvina.

Leaving the house was hard. It took her too long. Too much energy. She hadn't wanted to, but she knew that she needed to exist in the world outside the walls of her home. Even if the world had become a large and terrifying place. The first day, she had opened the front door, stared out at the path that led to the sidewalk and the empty street for all of five seconds before slamming the door closed again and locking it tight. She kept a clenched fist around the handle long after the door had closed. Heart thundering in her chest. She spent the rest of the day cleaning an already excessively clean house. The next day she stepped outside the door before running back in. Eventually, after a succession of similar occurrences and small pushes against the walls of her invisible bubble, she made her way to a bus stop.

And then, finally, after a few more tries she climbed onto the bus and paid for a ride.

She was still too thin on her first ride to Meadowbrook Home. Her eyes were still too shadowed. Her face sallow. Her skin dry and cracked from dehydration and stress. The bus driver had given her the side eye when she'd clambered nervously into the first vehicle that she'd boarded in almost a year. But she'd paid the fare. And no comment had been made. She sat near the doors and watched anxiously for her stop. The couple across from her moved a few seats away. That was when Addison realized they thought she was a junkie. That— that hadn't felt very good. She stopped looking at people's faces after that. She found that she much preferred to study their shoes.

You could tell a lot about a person by their shoes. She avoided work boots. Gave pumps and loafers their space. Someone in Reeboks gave her an apple once. Addison accepted it, face burning. She never said no to food. Even if she had a house with a fridge full of the stuff. She didn't like the store though. Too many options. She had her groceries delivered instead. You could have anything delivered, it turned out. The modern world had become a pretty accommodating place when you compared it to some of the other places she'd been. The only thing that couldn't come to her in this world was her grandmother. Well, her grandmother and money, but she turned her mind away from the latter. It would run out eventually, but she couldn't really bring herself to think about it these days.

Life had become...difficult.

She didn't like the nurses that cared for her grandmother anymore. Not like she used to. They whispered. They whispered like the vicious little maids of Castle Sween. And they watched her like the villagers did. She missed Ailios most days. The small, childish part of Addison that still lingered inside of her sometimes thought that even in the modern world Ailios would have known what to do. That if Ailios were here then Addison would know where to go, and how to hold herself, who to speak to, and how to survive.

She exited the bus at the stop near her house. Visiting Lala had been awkward again this time around even though she went there once a week. The nurses watched her more closely than before. Like she couldn't be trusted alone with their patient. They were never mean. Never outwardly judgmental to her face. But she could still see it in their eyes. Still feel it when they breezed past the doorway like they were on their way to somewhere else when she knew they were doing it to keep an eye on her.

But she appreciated it, in her own way. Even in her absence Lala had a team of people by her side. People who would look out for her when Addison could not. She was safe and well cared for, and happy most days as long as she could live comfortably in her own delusions. Addison found solace in that.

Behind closed doors, Addison was a different person altogether. She looked forward to the moments where she could live peacefully closed up behind the walls of her childhood home. Where she could drift effortlessly between Addison and Malvina and someone else entirely, borne of the other two and the experiences that made them who they were. She kept a spotless home. And she was obsessively hygienic with herself. She brushed her hair religiously, unwilling to go back to the tangles and mats that had haunted her in the past. Brushed her teeth three times a day just for the sensation even though it made her gums bleed sometimes. She'd kept track of her bills and kept herself fed. She didn't like the front yard and left it overgrown and wild, but the backyard was carefully maintained. She planted a patch of forget-me-nots that made her smile and learned the names of all the herbs Beatrix had taught her to care for in the beginning of spring.

And she read. Voraciously. Obsessively. She read and she wrote in her journal all the things she remembered and learned, all the questions she had. She tried learning Gaelic for a time, but she wasn't very good and gave up. She tried to pin down where she had been. The time she'd lived in. She didn't know how successful she truly had been in that, using only google and her mediocre grasp of an ancient language, but it kept her mind quiet and engaged. She liked who she was when no one was looking. She liked her world when it was kept carefully preserved behind locked doors and insulated walls. Sure, she was a little lonely. And maybe she was a bit nervous at times. But things were improving. Slowly, but surely, Addison was getting a hold of things again.

With every trip to Meadowbrook. With every plant carefully tended. With every bill paid. And every night that got more restful as time went by, Addison felt herself slowly begin to unfurl from the protective shell she'd folded herself into.

The bus driver had played an easy listening station quietly in the background for the ride to and from Meadowbrook Home today, and she had the words to Let It Be Me by Ray LaMontagne stuck in her head. As she walked back home from the bus stop, she quietly hummed the tune to herself, occasionally singing the words to the chorus as they circled back around in her mind. Music had carried her through a great deal of things lately. It was the only noise she could tolerate at any volume. It made her feel less alone. Like there was someone out there who saw her and understood what it was she'd been through. The sun was out today, as it always was in this part of the world. Fall was here, and she told herself that this year wouldn't be like the last. This fall would be a good one. Full of cider and good food. Holiday movies and visits to Lala on Halloween and Thanksgiving. She would be warm and fed and safe from the elements in the comfort of her own home.

Last year had been a fluke. She nodded to herself and carefully guarded her mind against catastrophic thoughts. Watched a bird land on a telephone wire and smiled softly at the resilient nature of those things that existed in the wild corners of the world. She shook off the buzzing of the telephone lines as she turned onto her street. Shook it off and held tightly to her quiet feeling of contentedness, despite the way the buzzing seemed to get a little louder. Her smile tightened. Lingered a little too long.

The buzzing grew louder still.

Her step faltered and she looked down. The ground was shaking. Addison stopped. Turned on the spot to stare at the empty midday street. An earthquake, surely. But the shaking got stronger, and the buzzing got louder, and Addison felt for a moment as though she might vomit or cry. She turned and walked a little faster. The buzzing became a roar.

She let out a cry of alarm and broke into a run. Hit the front door with the full force of her body. Trembling hands frantically tried to fit the key into the lock. The hair on her arms stood on end. The sound grew louder. Closer still. It couldn't take her again. It couldn't take her if she was home. She was safe at home. It couldn't take her here. Not here. Never here. But there was nothing left. Nothing left but this sound. This terrible sound.

The lock turned. The door opened. Addison's feet hit the hardwood. Didn't stop moving though the world rocked violently. She slammed the front door. Staggered. Turned the lock. Then the tug. The inexplicable tug, deep down in her belly.

She pressed through it.

Gritted her teeth against the sensation.

It was happening again. It was happening again, and she didn't want to go. But she couldn't fight it much longer. She could feel the spool spinning wildly, out in the direction of the unknown and mysterious before. Desperate, she reached for something. Anything to take with her. Anything to keep her alive. Anything to — she didn't want to go. She didn't want—

Her arms were full of apples. She held them tightly to her chest. Cradled them to her as though they were the most precious things in the whole world. The whole world that had become a great and terrible roar. Addison met it head on with a vicious cry of her own. Her body seized up. She froze where she stood. And though her feet, she knew, were still planted firmly on the ground, it was as though her entire body had been suspended in the air above her, lifted by an old invisible thread. It spooled out of her belly. Her limbs fell into weightlessness. Her abdomen, taut from the pull of the invisible spool, distended as something on the other end gave a wild tug.

Then her eyes rolled back.

Addison knew no more.

She floated in darkness. Felt it expand and contract around her. It was an interminable thing, the darkness. It made her skin clam up. Caused her heart to tremble. Wherever she was, stretched across space and time, she once again had the distinct feeling she wasn't meant to be pulled this way. That she wasn't meant to be here. Her skin rolled over itself as though in anticipation of some great and terrible fear, but despite the urge to feel afraid, the darkness served as a sort of analgesic. A sort of numbing paralytic. It had frozen her like wild but captured prey.

And then the world rushed up to meet her, and she met it with equal force, face first on the ground in a jumble of limbs and blood and hair. Pain blossomed. The apples flew in every direction and rolled away. And the world was quiet once more.

On the far western edge of the Pyrenees, nestled among the foothills of the peak of Mount Ibañeta, the small village of Roncesvalles has stood for many centuries as the resting place for pilgrims and travelers looking to find their way. It is there that humans and creatures from all walks of life often sought refuge after many long hard days of travel along the Way of St. James, a long and arduous path that bridged the gap between France and Navarre. There, an old manor house could be found tucked quietly into a backdrop of old oak trees and firs. A steadfast overseer of the peaks and hills and valleys that remained unchanged despite the passage of time.

La Ithuriana was a humble home of twelve bed chambers, one drawing room, three studies, one library, a vast network of kitchens and servants' quarters, one distillery, and a large dining hall fit to entertain upwards of 50 guests in one evening. It also sported two hidden passageways, a wine cellar, an icehouse, and a small undercroft rarely used by those who stewarded the land, as well as the still functional remnants of an ancient Roman bathhouse that the lord of the manor had benevolently reserved for use by his many servants and hired hands.

It was there, in the main study, that Hugh de Clermont sat cloistered off from the rest of his bustling household. At a bespoke walnut desk, a favored piece of his from the age of Charlemagne, he poured over the ever-present number of missives, royal dispatches, papal decrees and land leases that burdened him in an ordinary day. His most trusted manservant, a tall fair-haired man with a fighter's build and a scholar's hands, who answered to the name Jean Luc, stood over his shoulder, passing him the required documents as he slowly worked his way through them. Adding each completed missive to a carefully stacked overflow, Hugh's mind had relaxed into the rhythm of his lifelong burden. A chess match of political, diplomatic, religious and financial means. A balancing act, the likes of which there was no other. With each careful stroke of ink on the page, he carefully maintained the scales he'd been raised all his life to foster and mend.

The day was rapidly cooling as the weather accustomed itself to the coming of autumn, but the sun was bright. It streamed through the windows of his study and cast the walls of his home in a delightful array of light and shadow.

It was a good day, he thought. His nose itched with the scent of precipitation on the air. Soon the sun would fade from the sky, and the autumn months would bring with them a blanket of snow. And when the snow came, he would welcome the change like a long-awaited friend.

Until then, the crisp air of the changing seasons was accompanied by the brightness of the afternoon sun. It cast a pleasant glow. The world had taken on a gossamer hue that spoke of peace and warm tidings.

Taxes had been collected. The tenants and peasants had an abundance to spare for their winter stores. The harvest had treated them well. They'd plenty of sheep and cattle to keep hunger at bay. And his work in the capital for the summer season had brought the family into the security of his majesty's good favor for the foreseeable future.

Hugh's eye strayed to the unopened letter on the far end of his desk. The sun filtered through the window in just a way that the de Clermont seal glittered up at him in all its wealth and power. The missive was a distraction. The wax seal, a temptation.

An order.

He knew not whether he desired or dreaded whatever it was his father had concealed there. He averted his gaze.

A letter from his son, Eric, sat before him now. And the knot in his chest lightened at the thought of the news it may bring. Hugh leaned back in his seat with a small smile, glad for the diversion. His son was far more of a priority than his father was these days, and a welcome priority at that. Eric was well into his seventies now, and finally old enough to stretch his legs as a member of the de Clermont family in all that it entailed.

No longer under his father's watchful eye, he had spent the last handful of months further up the mountain, along the path that bridged France with Spain. As a young Templar knight, his current station was as far from the battlefield as Philippe and Hugh could agree upon. A surprising feat given the heightened tensions between the two men. At the very least, they could acknowledge a young de Clermont had no business anywhere near the fifth crusade.

At la Colegiata de Santa Maria, a monastery that provided shelter to pilgrims on their journey, the youngest member of the de Clermont family patrolled the pass with a few fellow knights. There, he ensured safe passage for all who traveled across the mountain. Actively performing a sacred duty to both the pope and the king, this also allowed Eric the freedom of traversing between France and Navarre despite the growing tensions between the two kingdoms.

The letter was short and to the point. Hugh had to laugh. He had not sired a young man of letters. And though the boy had a mouth on him that often left Hugh shaking his head in disbelief over the last few decades, Eric was a man of surprisingly few words as well. He was sharp and could be terribly cutting despite the easy way of his nature, but he took care not the expend unnecessary energy waxing poetic. The letter simply told him to expect his son's return before snow blanketed the mountains and closed the pass entirely until the following spring.

He would be home soon.

Hugh felt a great deal of satisfaction in knowing that he would soon see his son. He was begrudgingly like his father in that way. Family was best kept close and under the safety of a sire's roof, after all. Philippe believed such things to be so. And Hugh did as well. He supposed it came from a life long-lived, the desire to hold close those they who were dear to them. Who better to understand this than the first two men of a very old family? It had been centuries before Philippe had added Baldwin into the mix. And nearly as long as that before they'd stumbled on Ysabeau. There was a sort of terror that came from eternal life. And a sort of obsessive taste for the opposite experience of what those first few centuries had been. Hugh could never even know the full extent of such loneliness. For in the end, he had always had Philippe. Well, he had Philippe until now.

Fernando had spent the last week in the south at the behest of a royal summons but had promised a quick return. He was due to arrive home any day now. The anticipation of seeing his mate combined with the joy of reuniting with his son; Hugh had to silently commend himself on a day of pleasant news and pleasant company.

His servants were happy and well cared for. His family was soon to be together again. And the world had yet to fall to pieces in the absence of his father's favor.

If Hugh had been a world-wearier person, he may have found this rare occurrence of peacefulness unsettling. He would have taken it as a sign that something was about to come along and shake that peacefulness into a state of chaos and change.

But that was not Hugh's way.

He did not meet peace with dread. He did not meet lightness with the anticipation of the dark. He simply enjoyed the moment for what it was, in the way that only someone who had lived a very long life could truly do. Trouble would always come for those who walked the many paths of the world. Peace was to be savored like a fine vintage or the company of a most cherished lover.

It was for this reason that he did not startle when a loud crack sounded from the courtyard of his mountain home. The quiet rhythm that the servants and tenants had created as they meandered and bustled about their daily labors came grinding to a halt

Just as quickly as the crack had sounded, silence fell. And Hugh thought rather bemusedly that the crack had come as a sort of final punctuation. He stood from his desk. An ancient voice in the back of his mind whispered to him of harbingers and omens, and he supposed that later he would take heed. For now, though, he simply shared a long look with Jean Luc who had pulled himself up straighter at the sound.

Curious, but not yet bothered, by the source of the disturbance, Hugh carefully made his way to the front entrance of his home. Two footmen pulled themselves to attention and heaved open a pair of great oak doors at the approach of Lord de Clermont and his squire. Hugh nodded his thanks before stepping outside to better assess what it was he wanted to see.

If ever in doubt of the make up of one's creature company, wait for something surprising to happen and observe how the members of your company react. Humans, being the most vulnerable of the mortal beings that walked the earth, were accomplished mimics. They followed the lead of those more powerful beings they sensed in their presence, even if they were none the wiser to the types of creatures who walked among them.

Manjasang, however, were hopelessly curious; almost unforgivably suspicious; and near impossible to startle. If somehow one managed to startle a vampire, the curiosity and suspicion that inevitably followed would often create a void. And in many cases, that void was filled with an almost preternatural silence. The kind of silence that called even the birds to cease their song. And the wind to cease its blowing. It was the void that humans felt on the backs of their necks when they were being observed by a natural predator. It was the precursor to a hunt, but even more so it was an all-encompassing threat assessment honed by centuries of survival. Silence such as this silence was an eternal question tossed up in the air. For to startle a vampire was to make it wonder how long of an eternity it had left to spare.

His manjasang servants and tenants were startled now. And the long stretch of silence created by their suspicion and the fearful mimicry of their human neighbors piqued Hugh's hopeless curiosity. He strode through the great doors, driven to the point of distraction, by the odd noise and the silence that followed.

The scene in the courtyard below was a telling one. Everyone had frozen. Rugs and furs were still raised in the air where the maids were meant to beat them. The carpenter still held his saw, stuck halfway through a plank of wood. The stableboys loosely held onto the leads of a pair of work horses. And countless others had stopped where they stood and turned to the center of the vast network of cobblestones where a young woman appeared to have fallen face first on the ground.

Hugh's step did not falter, though his gave a brief pause. He took the steps quickly down toward the girl and waved his hand for Jean Luc to ask the necessary questions of the men who seemed to have forgotten all sense of decorum.

"What happened here?" Jean Luc asked the nearest workman.

How had no one helped her off the ground? Hugh bit down his annoyance at the rude display of some of his best men.

"She just appeared, sir," the human said in a voice that betrayed his disbelief. "Fell from the sky just moments ago."

Jean Luc made a noise of disbelief and turned to the stablemaster across the way, a fellow manjasang. He sent the vampire an imploring look, but the gesture he received in return was not one of shared exasperation. The stablemaster corroborated the workman's account with a single twitch of his eyes. And Jean Luc watched him in silent astonishment when the ancient man crossed himself silently and uttered a quick prayer. The stablemaster's daughter, Jacqueline, who worked for the household as a maid, quietly asked her father if the girl was a witch. For, surely, if she fell from the sky, she must have flown here at some great distance.

But Hugh turned to Jean Luc and shook his head. The strange young woman did not have the stinging scent of witchcraft about her person. She was warmblooded, and young. Injured and foreign smelling to be sure, but the fallen young lady was undeniably human. He noted her odd manor of dress and filed it away for later. Detected the metallic scent of her blood and determined that her fall must have done more damage than he could see.

A groan. She trembled. Swiped her hands along the rough cobbled ground. Her arms shook as she pushed herself up onto her knees. Hugh stopped just a few steps away and allowed her a moment to collect herself, not wanting to startle the girl after such a terrible fall.

Her lips were moving, and quietly, too quietly for human ears she began muttering in an ugly, angry language that reminded him of a great many places and none at the same time. And yet, as she continued muttering to herself, he thought that maybe the sound of her language was familiar after all. He did not know it, but he thought perhaps he had heard it once before. He wracked his brain and tried his best to appear welcoming when her searching eyes finally landed on him. Tried to appear welcoming but felt his heart jerk in wild surprise.

Her eyes.

He knew her eyes.

As though they were made entirely of melted bronze.

And her hair.

He knew her hair.

Thick and wavy, like the tides of a night dark sea. Her skin, kissed by the sun even under cover of the most oppressive of winter clouds. He knew that face. Her face. He knew where he'd heard her odd manner of speaking. He knew why her voice sent his mind spinning in untamed curiosity.

This was Malvina.

This was Eric's long dead bride.

He knelt down before the young woman his son had married fifty years ago. The young human girl he had seen through Sorley's eyes when he'd turned him into his son. The one who had been brutalized and murdered by the rogue knights of Castle Sween.

Neither witch nor manjasang, Malvina kneeled before him. She was neither brutalized nor was she dead, and she had not aged a day.

"Impossible," he breathed. And then he extended his hand.

He did not reek of alcohol as old man MacPhearson once had. And he didn't seem very resigned either. Not like Ailios was when she'd been saddled with another mouth to feed. No, this man seemed— he seemed intrigued. Seemed like he was thinking very deeply about something. Something to do with her. Addison supposed she couldn't blame him. She had just dropped out of nowhere into the middle of his courtyard.

She'd scared his servants and sent an absurd number of apples rolling everywhere. She'd gotten blood on one of the flagstones, the one her face had smacked against when she fell. Addison couldn't blame him really for studying her as he did. It made her nervous though. Most men made her nervous these days.

But his eyes were warm, and his face was easy. Whatever curiosity this man possessed had not given way to suspicion. None at least that she could see.

After what felt like an eternity, though it was hard to tell what with the way she was muttering and breathing wrong and trying to catch her bearings, he kneeled down to her level and extended his hand.

She stared at it, wondering if the gesture was some sort of trick, but then he said her name.

Not Addison.

The other one.

"Malvina."

She drew back. Shocked. Confused. She'd never seen this man before in her life, but his extended hand followed her retreat. And before she knew how or why, she was being lifted gently from the cold hard ground. A cloth, fine and soft, had appeared from thin air and suddenly her nose was covered. The steady flow of blood staunched by a deft hand.

It happened in a blur. Dazed from her fall. Uncertain as to where she was or when she was or, for that matter, who she was with, Addison watched the world move around her in a chaotic blur. Servants bustled and moved around them in a well-practiced flow, and a strong but gentle hand rested assuredly on her back, guiding her up a set of meandering steps, through a pair of great oak doors. She passed under an archway and then was quickly bustled into the drawing room of a great manor house the likes of which she'd never seen before.

It was nothing like the Castle Sween. It did not cast a looming shadow. Instead, it rested in the dappled sunlight that broke through a canopy of ancient trees, mosaics of light and dark danced on the path as it welcomed all who came and went from the great house nestled in the hillside there. It was warm and rich and inviting, and the people all around her seemed well at ease rather than tense and waiting for the strike of threats real and imagined. All this despite the fact that she'd appeared from thin air in front of them. Then she was seated on a settee, wrapped in a large quilt, being offered her choice of wine or tea.

She didn't know what to think.

Had tried to stand as soon as she was seated.

This was obviously a powerful man. Quite possibly a knight, like Sorley had been, if not the lord of the house. If he knew her as Malvina, he should have known that she was not meant to be lounging on an expensive piece of furniture, wrapped up in high quality linens, like some well-bred noble lady.

By Addison's calculations, her position in the feudal world as Malvina had ranked her value somewhere in the range of a goat. And a foreign goat at that. One who couldn't speak the language or do anything more useful than empty a chamber pot and burn a perfectly good fur pelt.

But a maid tittered and gently urged her to sit down in yet another foreign tongue she knew not what to make of. And the man with the warm eyes, nodded for her to do so with a barely-there quirk of his lips.

He seemed to understand her dilemma. Or maybe this was imagined on her part. His understanding. His compassion. He waved his hand and another servant appeared with a tray of food.

A blonde man, tall, with a neatly trimmed beard and a well-groomed look about him, appeared by the important man's side. He stood just a step behind him, in his hands was a basket full of the apples she'd dropped in the courtyard. He'd collected them for her. The second man bowed in her direction. She blinked. Unable to process the sight.

Men did not bow to Malvina.

Not unless they were Sorley.

And Sorley didn't seem to be here. Wherever here was. That old wound opened up wide in her chest again, and she brought a nervous hand up to rub at the place where she felt it gaping.

Sorley.

She'd give anything in the world to have him by her side now. He would know what to do. If he were here, then everything would be okay. Of that she was certain. She missed him fiercely in a way she hadn't thought possible only moments before.

Back in her home century, the world had become muted and eternally grey. Like a shroud had draped itself over her and all the things that once brought her joy. And since she could not feel joy, Addison supposed she could not feel sorrow either. Not really. Not in the way she sometimes wished she could. She had not missed Sorley in the twenty first century. She didn't know how.

But here in the warm glow of a yellow sun, with the leaves falling from the giant trees outside the open window and a fire crackling in an ancient hearth, Addison felt that wound wide and festering and gaping as it was and missed the gentle giant like a missing limb.

He wasn't here. And her track record in his absence was not one she wished to dwell on. Try as she might, Addison could not cast the thought of him from her mind. He was everything she wanted and needed in this world. He was her only good thing. Her chest throbbed for wont of missing him. And that old traitorous spool in her belly gave another anxious tug.

The important man waved all the servants away but one. The second man stood faithfully just two steps behind him. Eyes curious but carefully guarded, he relaxed into his stance. Addison recognized this look. It was the look of someone who was waiting to be told what to do. But unlike the maids of Castle Sween — unlike Addison herself — he did not appear to have the same air of resignation about him with regard to waiting for coming orders. This servant seemed different from the ones she knew before.

The important man took a seat on the stool across from her. He ducked his head so that they were eye level despite his tall frame. He reminded Addison vaguely of a professor, the important man. His eyes were an average kind of brown, his skin was white but tanned. Like he did not shy away from a day of labor here and there, though she knew his hands probably suffered more papercuts than calluses judging by the serene slope of his prominent face. If she wasn't so scared of who this man was and what that meant for her, and the sudden turn her life had taken once again, Addison could have convinced herself she was about to settle in for a classics lecture, or perhaps anthropology. She could see him, easily, waxing poetic about Sophocles or the carbon dating of a rare piece of Aramaic pottery. She could have convinced herself, without the fear and uncertainty, that this is exactly what was about to happen, but as it was, she was bracing herself instead for something far worse. For some sort of hellish medieval interrogation about who she was, where she hailed from and what she was doing here. And Addison for the life of her had no idea what to say or the language in which she was expected to say it.

Her look was similar enough the those of mixed heritage with the moors in the Andalusian kingdom to the south. Not perfectly. She was not of Moorish descent. In fact, he found her features to be rather perplexing. Hugh studied her closely and felt a jolt of amusement to find the girl was doing the exact same thing to him.

Either way, the name Malvina would not do.

She'd already fallen from some great height into the middle of his courtyard. Vampires were suspicious but they understood the order of things and were easy to control. He'd have no trouble from his kind regarding the likes of her. But the humans. Well... Iberians were notoriously suspicious. It was an admirable quality. One of the more amusing qualities that his mate, Fernando, possessed in spades.

But he had a secret to keep now. A secret he needed his household to keep. And that secret was the resurrection of Malvina. A dead serf girl from fifty years past. He was not sure what her presence here meant for his family. He was not sure that his instincts regarding her innocence were true. For the first time in a very long time, Hugh could not listen to his gut and his mind with any ounce of certainty. She was a question he didn't know how to answer. Frankly, he didn't know if he wanted answers.

But he had lived long enough to know how to move through uncertainty without letting it rise up to overcome him. So, he studied the girl and he let her study him, and he drew on all his son's memories of the mysterious Malvina. And let his mind simply begin.

It began with a name. The way her eyes narrowed reminded him of his mate. The way she pursed her lips and sneered at the sight of his dagger which lay crusted in old blood on the table in disrepair, also reminded him of his mate.

Quite possibly, this had very little to do with the girl, for he did miss Fernando terribly and he could use the other man's steadfast nature which had proven over the centuries to be one that was impervious to distraction. Given the present circumstance, Hugh supposed that at least one of them should have a singular train of thought rather than a large network of thousands of half-formed ones. Be that as it may, he thought it best if they call her Fernanda.

He knew not how she would feel about such a renaming. It was not a particularly strong de Clermont trait, to consider the feelings of others when making decisions for the greater good. It was much easier to simply decide. To pave the way for the decision and allow the cards to fall into place as they were meant to. And should there be upset or dissatisfaction, the de Clermont way was simply to file the information away for later when it was time again to make a decision. Then, back at the drawing board, old mistakes would be remedied the best that they could.

As it was, the young new Fernanda had found herself in a predicament. And that predicament implicated his family. And when presented with a predicament, Hugh had always taken the approach to solve it in as fair and just a manner as he could afford. Everyone could win if everyone lost a little bit too.

She would lose a name. But she would gain social standing. He knew not if she had a family— he should probably ask her about that, now that it occurred to him— but it mattered little at the moment for she would be far safer in Fernando's care.

He didn't think Fernando wanted children. In fact, he knew that his mate had always considered himself more of a solitary figure. Content to be a stepfather of sorts to whomever Hugh brought into the fold. Fernando loved Eric like a son, but he had not been particularly warm during the boy's raising, preferring instead to show his care later once the young addition to their scion had fully fledged and become less of an unpredictable liability.

Now, though, Hugh was happy to say his son and his mate got along swimmingly.

But back to Fernanda—

Well... he supposed he should start by informing her of her new name.

He pointed at her, and Addison felt herself bite back a childish groan. Here we go again.

"Fernanda," he said with his hand pointed straight at her.

Addison bit down on the inside of her cheek, gave an imperceptible sigh, and shook her head.

"No. You know my name. You called me Malvina," she said.

He tilted his head. Eyes still light and studious and academic to the point of sin. He shook his head at her and pointed again.

"Fernanda," he said. And then before she could respond, he gestured to himself. "Hugh de Clermont."

That was new.

Addison felt herself perk up a bit.

That was a full name.

He gave her a full name. Hugh de Clermont. She filed it away in her mind and hoped somehow that she could get her hands on some paper and a pen. She would write it down if she got home this time. She would look him up. Maybe he was someone important in history too.

He repeated the action and the exchange of names and Addison — in her fascination — waved him off. She was used to it by now. And she'd always hated the name Malvina. At least Fernanda had an ounce of familiarity to it. At least Fernanda was Latin based. It was hopefully a name from an old language she could work with.

"Fine," she said and waved her hand at him to get him to stop saying her new name over and over again. She jerked her thumb back at herself and repeated for him to hear. "Fernanda. I'm Fernanda. You're right. You know best." And then she pointed at him. "Hugh de Clermont."

As far as medieval interrogations go, she supposed this wasn't one of them after all. The man in front of her was an odd one. One she didn't know what to make of. But she was now more than she had been as plain old Addison or useless Malvina. She could feel it in the air around this odd house in the middle of history in a country she didn't know the name of.

There would be time for panic and worry later, she supposed. She thought she was going to panic before, when he'd sat her down. Before he'd begun to talk. But then he had spoken her new name, and it felt like some of her fear just died away. She supposed there would be a dawning moment of horror, when the shock wore off and the reality of her situation fully settled in. She fully anticipated an abundance of sleepless nights and indigestible food. But for now — though she did not know her role in this strange new world — Addison had a feeling that things for Fernanda would be very different than they had been for Malvina. She had a feeling this wouldn't be like it was before.

He turned to Jean Luc as a maid led the girl from the drawing room to a suitable bed chamber for the evening. His squire stared back at him, face both patient and grave. The seriousness of the situation was not lost on him, and he waited for the moment Hugh would further elaborate on the details of the strange girl's presence here and her significance to the family.

Hugh shook his head and poured himself a glass of port, offering another to his servant who arched an eyebrow and waved a hand in decline. He supposed that was fair enough. He took a sip. Mind turning in constant consideration.

"Give the humans extra meat with their supper this evening," he said after a time. "And honey cakes too. Double the cook's compensation for the evening to smooth over any inconvenience caused by the last-minute change to his meal plans." He turned to his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment, lighting a candle so that he could melt the wax for his seal. "Impress upon our fellow creatures the importance of their discretion. Quell any talk of witchcraft. There is none here to find. If the humans begin to ask the wrong questions, provide the manjasang with the proper talking points to feed an organic response. Subtlety is key in these matters. The humans must begin to believe they saw something other than what it is they have seen."

"Very well, my lord," Jean Luc bowed and turned to do as his master bade him. By the next morning, the shock of the girl's unconventional arrival will have worn off and their best bet at heading off the panic was an excess of warm food and drink, and the skillful lies of creatures who'd spent centuries operating in the shadows of the world. Hugh's concern was mild, just enough to stave off the curse of hubris. He took the top off his favored inkwell and dropped heavily down at his desk.

He considered his thoughts for a moment. Tried to find a way to begin. It had been a long time since he'd called on his family for aid. And he was not eager to break the current streak. But — he shook his head and let out a small sigh — needs must.

Brother,

In absence of all reason, I am confronted with a situation beyond the realm of my own capable belief and understanding. A figure from Eric's past — a young woman thought long deceased — has appeared to us once again. Though I sense the undeniable signature of magic at work in the air around my home, she is undoubtedly a non-magical being. In my hour of need, there is no other I could think to call on to assess the soundness of my mind and senses. I do not believe there to be darker forces at work here, but that alone gives me pause. It begs the question. I implore you to come at once and speak to no one of your travels. We are in residence at La Ithuriana for the time being and have no plans to leave before spring. Once again, dear brother, I must impress upon you the importance of your discretion. Our father cannot know of this until sense has been made and reason restored. If word were to reach him before answers can be better established, I fear that my son — your nephew — may suffer a tragedy beyond the likes of which he could ever recover. The girl is significant. If her character is true, she is most assuredly the victim of the most nefarious malediction. If she is false, and I in all my centuries of knowledge cannot sense her deception for what it is, then the entirety of our bloodline is most certainly in danger. I await your word with grave anticipation. With respect to the delicate circumstances of our parting, they weigh on me deeply every day. The predicament I present you with is a delicate one, and I do not take my request lightly, but I find myself compelled once again to beg. Please, Godfrey, come at once.

With my most humble regards,

Hugh

By the time the wax melted, and he pressed into it his long used de Clermont seal, Jean Luc had returned. The man in question waited patiently by his side for his next instruction.

"I need you to take this to your most discreet messenger. Have him ride for Marseilles."

"Lord Godfrey?" Jean Luc asked in clarification. Hugh hummed his confirmation before he began to pen his next correspondence. This message was significantly shorter and far less formal. It required only one line.

Ride through the night, my love. You're needed at home.

He passed this message along to Jean Luc as well. "Your fastest rider, on the south road toward Pamplona. He'll find Fernando along the way. Both messengers must leave at once."

Once again Jean Luc bowed and set about his task. Hugh took a moment to stare blankly into the open flame that blazed in the hearth at the other end of his study. Something itched in the back of his mind. Something distant yet familiar. He'd seen the girl before. Fernanda. He'd seen her, of course, in Eric's memories the day they met on the field of battle. Surely that must be where he knew her from, and yet, there was something more.

Darkness.

She was shrouded in darkness though she had a lightness to her being. She was harmless and yet something about her set his teeth on edge and sent his mind reeling.

Fernanda was just a girl. She was, potentially, a very important girl to his small family. He would do right by her as long as she was who she presented herself to be.

But Hugh was also the sieur of an outcast scion. The father of a son who one day would bear the burdens set upon him by an invisible hand that moved the world. There was no room for error in his carefully constructed universe. No room for mystery.

And yet here she was.