Marie

Morning sunlight filtered weakly through the orchard when Marie de Vilar stepped over a fallen branch and sighed. “Nicolas, you big lump,” she muttered to herself. “You promised you’d wake up this time.”

Her basket bumped against her knee as she pushed through tall grass toward the hollow. Mint grew thickest here, and her mother needed plenty for tomorrow’s baking. Marie knelt among the leaves, humming under her breath, twirling a curl of strawberry-blonde hair while she searched for the best stems.

A raven cawed once.

Then the orchard went completely still.

Marie frowned. “Birds don’t just stop like that unless someone’s… here.” She glanced up.

A figure stood at the edge of the trees—motionless, silent, dressed in dark clothing that reminded her of portraits in old churches. Their skin looked pale even in the shade.

Marie stiffened, tightening her grip on the basket. “Um… bonjour?” she said softly, because her mother always insisted it was rude not to greet strangers—even frightening ones.

The figure did not answer.

“Did you… need something?” Her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat. “I—I’m only picking herbs. I’m not trespassing. At least, I don’t think I am.”

They did not move closer, but she felt their presence like cold air pressing against her cheeks.

Marie stood slowly, brushing dirt from her hibiscus-print dress. Her heart beat fast, but she lifted her chin with the quiet determination that always surprised adults.

“If you’re lost, I can point the way back to town,” she offered. “Or—if you’re just watching—well… that’s fine too, I suppose.”

Their gaze flicked to the herbs in her hand.

Marie followed his eyes. “Oh… these? Mint and cinquefoil. They’re good for baking and for fevers.” She hesitated, then added, “Do you want to see?”

She held out a sprig of mint. Her hand shook only a little.

When they stepped forward, their footfall made no sound. None. The leaves didn’t crunch, the twigs didn’t snap. Marie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t step back. She simply swallowed and said, “You’re very quiet, you know.”

Her nervous giggle slipped out before she could stop it.

They stopped an arm’s length away—too close, too still—and their eyes met hers. They were dark, deep, old in a way she didn’t have words for. But she sensed something else too: curiosity, not hunger or malice.

Marie lowered the mint toward them. “Here… if you want it. It smells nice. Mother says it helps the spirit feel lighter.”

For a heartbeat they did nothing.

Then their hand—cold as winter steel—reached out and brushed her fingertips as they took the sprig. Marie’s breath trembled. She fought the instinct to yank her hand back and instead said softly:

“You’re freezing…”

Marie watched them, her fear dulling into something stranger—pity, maybe. Or awe.

“I should finish picking,” she said gently. “If you want to stay… I don’t mind.”

She knelt again and resumed gathering herbs, glancing up every now and then. The figure lingered a few paces away, silent as stone, watching her with an unreadable expression.

Minutes passed.

Marie filled her basket and rose to her feet. “There. That’s all Mother needs.” She hesitated, then gave them a small, brave smile. “I’ll come back tomorrow. If you’re still around… we could—well, I can keep you company. Even if you don’t talk.”

They didn’t nod, didn’t bow, didn’t move at all—but she felt, somehow, that they heard her.

The bell of Saint-Étienne rang through the small town, soft but insistent, as families began filing toward the stone-walled church. Marie de Vilar hurried down the narrow lane beside her home, clutching a faded wool shawl that hid the pale figure walking silently behind her.

They–which she ended up calling them, couldn't tell whether they looked like a he or she–followed her without a sound. Their steps made no crunching noise upon the frost-dusted road. Their dark coat was worn and out of fashion by several decades, and their skin was whiter than candle wax.

Marie kept glancing over her shoulder. “Please,” she whispered, “just... stay close. And don’t let Mama see your eyes.”

The vampire didn’t respond. They only dipped their head slightly in acknowledgment.

She had met them at dawn—well, almost dawn—while gathering herbs with Nicolas. Nicolas had taken the basket and gone ahead, muttering something about beating the buffet lines at church. Marie lingered by the hedgerow, and there, lying still as a statue, had been the stranger. She’d thought him injured. She’d knelt to help.

When their cold hand grabbed hers, she nearly screamed. They hadn’t bared fangs or hissed; they merely stared at her like a frightened animal. Something told her they needed shelter before the sun crested the horizon.

She could not explain why she decided to hide them in the root cellar. She could not explain why she felt sorry for them. But she did.

Now—after they had followed her out uninvited—she had no idea what to do except take them somewhere enclosed. And the church, with its thick stone and small stained-glass windows, was the only place her mother expected her to be this morning.

They reached the church square just as her family approached.

“Marie!” called her mother, Camille, adjusting the lace bonnet under her chin. “Who is..this?”

Marie’s heart leapt into her throat. Think fast. Think fast.

“He’s, um—Mademoiselle… Beauchamp,” she said quickly. “A traveler. She said she hadn’t attended Mass in weeks.” Not a lie, she thought desperately. Just not the whole truth.

Louis de Vilar, tall and stern, gave a curt nod to the stranger. “A good Catholic does not neglect Mass. Welcome.” He extended a hand.

Marie tensed—but the vampire simply bowed instead of taking it, hiding their hands inside the shawl. “Shy fellow,” Louis murmured.

Inside the church, the heavy scent of incense drifted like fog. Candles flickered along the stone walls. The vampire stiffened, as if every flame pricked their skin. Marie quickly tugged them toward a bench near the back, far from the brightest candles.

Her brothers plopped beside her. Robert nudged her shoulder. “That girl's odd,” he whispered. Nicolas snorted. “She looks like she hasn’t slept in ten years.”

Marie giggled nervously—her usual tell—and immediately clamped her hands over her mouth. Her mother shot her a warning look from across the aisle.

The priest began the opening prayer. Everyone bowed their heads.

Except the vampire.

They stayed utterly still, eyes open, staring at nothing. Marie gently nudged them, whispering, “Just lower your head. A little.”

Slowly, mechanically, they inclined their head.

Halfway through the service, a sunbeam broke through a crack in the shutters. It slanted across the pews—right toward them.

Marie’s breath caught. She reached out instinctively and grabbed their sleeve. The vampire moved with impossible speed for such a small gesture, shifting just enough to stay in the shadows. Nicolas blinked beside her.

“What was that?” he whispered.

Marie blurted, “She's very jumpy. Maybe she drank too much coffee.”

“Coffee?” Nicolas raised a brow. “Since when can poor travelers afford—”

“Shh!” Marie hissed.

To her relief, the rest of Mass passed without further catastrophes—except for her father occasionally frowning at their guest’s ghost-pale hands, or her mother murmuring that she needed “a good bowl of soup.”

When the final hymn ended, the vampire stood before the others did, as though anxious to leave the holy place. Marie tugged the shawl tighter around him.

Outside, her father asked politely, “Mademoiselle Beauchamp, where are you staying?”

Marie jumped between them. “She’s staying—uh—not here. Far away. Very far away. She should get going before he misses her… her carriage.”

Her father looked puzzled, but nodded.

Marie exhaled shakily.

Nicolas crossed his arms. “Mimi… you’re acting strange.”

“I’m not,” she lied smoothly. “You’re strange.”