Work Text:
Spring–Autumn, 1995
[Elena’s Diary, March 11, 1995]
I don’t know why I agreed to take on the Devane House garden. It’s too perfect. Too manicured. Not a weed in sight, not even the good kind that tells you a place has lived a little.
I was told the jasmine on the west wall “lacked symmetry.” Who says that about something alive? Plants aren’t supposed to be symmetrical.
Anyway. The basil’s in. The soil smells wrong, expensive wrong and there was a man watching me from the porch today. Not the owner. Too well-dressed for a gardener, too still to be a guest.
I pretended not to notice. But he didn’t look away.
The day was bright in that unkind New Orleans way, light bouncing off white paint, catching in the curls of heat above the pavement. Elena kept her back bent over the basil rows until she could feel sweat trickle between her shoulder blades. She didn’t like being stared at.
She was trimming a stubborn stem when she caught him in the corner of her vision, tall, dark suit, one hand resting lightly on the porch railing. His hair was the kind that looked like it had been combed only once that morning but somehow stayed in place.
“Miss Gilbert?” His voice was even, almost formal, as if they’d been introduced in another lifetime and he was picking up the conversation now.
She straightened, pushing her hair from her face with the back of her wrist. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
He came down the steps slowly, not a sound from his shoes on the boards. “Elijah Mikaelson. I’m a… friend of the family.” The pause before friend might just be deliberate .
“I don’t usually meet the friends. They don’t usually lurk.”
One corner of his mouth moved, not a smile exactly. “I was admiring your work.”
Her hands were dirty, nails lined with green. She brushed them on her shorts. “Then you must have an unusual definition of work. I just put things in the ground and hope they stay alive.”
“I suspect you’re underselling yourself,” he said, gaze dropping briefly to the basil, then back to her. “Patience is a rarer virtue than most imagine.”
There was something about the way he spoke, that made her want to push back. “Patience isn’t that rare. People wait in line for coffee every day.”
“Not the same kind,” he replied, and for a moment it felt as if they were talking about something other than plants.
[Caroline’s handwriting in the margin, probably added months later]
Translation: I was staring because I wanted to. And I talk like I swallowed a law textbook.
Also, Elena, you were totally blushing here. Don’t pretend you weren’t.
He left after a few more pleasantries, walking back toward the street without looking over his shoulder. But the next day, there he was again, this time leaning on the fence, watching her dig in the west bed.
By the time the masquerade invitation arrived, heavy cream envelope, gold seal, Elena had already guessed he’d be there. She told herself she was going for the art restoration crowd, for the networking, for the champagne she couldn’t afford in her real life. But when she stood in front of the mirror in the dress she’d spent two nights hemming, she caught herself wondering what he’d think.
The second time she saw him, he was leaning against the wrought-iron fence like he’d been there long enough for the sun to move across his shoulders. The air was thick, the kind that clung to skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and something sweeter, the jasmine climbing stubbornly along the fence.
Elena kept her head down at first, letting the scrape of her trowel through soil fill the space between them. She didn’t like the idea of him thinking he could stand there silently and wait her out.
“You’re persistent,” she finally called, brushing grit from her palms onto the back of her shorts.
“You sound surprised.” His voice carried easily across the garden, calm but not lazy.
“I’m… noting the pattern.” She rose to her feet, one hand shielding her eyes from the glare. “Is this the part where you tell me you just happened to be passing by again?”
He tilted his head slightly, as though considering whether to lie. “It would be a convincing alibi, wouldn’t it?”
“Convincing for who?”
“For those inclined to believe it.”
There was a precision to the way he moved as he stepped through the open gate, measured, like each motion had been planned before he made it. Up close, she could see the faint sheen of heat at his temple, the crease in his shirt from where his jacket had been folded over his arm.
“Basil, rosemary, mint,” he said, letting his gaze skim the beds in front of him. “You plan your work.”
“That’s gardening, Mr. Mikaelson. You don’t just throw things in the dirt and hope for the best.”
A faint smile, almost private. “Some would argue that’s a fair description of my own profession.”
She leaned her weight on the handle of her spade. “And what profession is that?”
“I solve problems.”
“That’s not a profession. That’s a vague statement people make when they don’t want to tell you what they actually do.”
“Perhaps. But ambiguity has its uses.” His eyes caught on the jasmine trellis near the wall, his fingers brushing over one leaf with something like care. “You must find it the same in your work, a little mystery in the process, so no one can replicate it exactly.”
She studied him, the way he didn’t fidget, didn’t glance away, and felt an irritating pulse of interest she tried to cover with a dry tone. “Or maybe I just think most people wouldn’t understand the answer.”
“Or perhaps you don’t trust easily.”
She arched a brow. “You get all that from a few basil plants?”
“I’ve been told I’m good at reading… patterns.”
The word landed heavier than it should have. She tipped her head. “Patterns in what?”
“In people. In… systems.”
Her mouth curved, skeptical. “Sounds like you’re talking about computers more than humans Mr. Mikealson.”
For the first time, something shifted in his expression, not enough to call it a smile, but enough to suggest he’d heard the right note in her guess. “And if I were?”
“I’d say you don’t look like the type to spend your days in front of a screen.”
“That’s because you’re thinking of the wrong kind of screen.” He slipped a small silver lighter from his pocket, turning it over in his palm, letting the sunlight catch on the metal. Then it vanished back into his jacket. “Some of us… work behind the curtain, Miss Gilbert. You see the show, but never the stagehands.”
She gave a short laugh. “That’s either poetic or pretentious. Haven’t decided yet.”
He didn’t take offense. “Decide after the ball.”
Her fingers tightened around the spade’s worn handle. “What ball?”
“The Devane masquerade. I imagine you’ll be attending, given your… involvement in their restoration project.”
She kept her face neutral. “And you?”
“I never miss a performance worth seeing.”
The heat pressed closer around them. A bead of sweat slid along her hairline. Somewhere beyond the garden wall, a streetcar bell clanged, its sound fading into the hum of cicadas.
He gave a brief, almost formal nod, then turned back toward the street. No backward glance, no parting quip, just the measured pace of someone who had already decided when he would see her again.
[Elena’s Diary, March 13, 1995]
He talks like everything’s coded. Like there’s a second conversation happening under the one I’m in.
I don’t trust him.
I also think about what he’ll wear to the ball.
I’m not proud of that.
[Caroline’s handwriting in the margin]
You absolutely trust him enough to keep talking to him. And yes, you’re already picturing him in a suit.
[Elena’s Diary, March 16, 1995]
Spent the morning retying the jasmine vines along the west wall.
Every time I reach for the twine, I remember the way he touched one of the leaves.
Which is ridiculous. I’ve seen a hundred people in this garden. But I can’t think of another face I could sketch from memory after only two conversations.
I’m not sure if that’s because of him, or because of me.
Three days later, she caught sight of him again, not in the garden, but at the small produce market two blocks from her house. He was standing near the back, sleeves rolled, scanning a display of citrus as if making some impossible calculation over which to choose.
She almost didn’t approach. It wasn’t like they were friends, and she had no intention of making him think she was seeking him out. But the place was narrow, and ignoring him would have been obvious.
“Careful,” she said, stopping near the lemons. “Too much hesitation and someone’s going to take the best ones.”
His eyes lifted, and the recognition was immediate. “Then I suppose I should defer to your expertise.”
“I don’t know about expertise, but I can spot the ones without bruises.” She picked one up, weighing it in her palm. “So, Mr. Mikaelson, do you cook, or is this some kind of decorative purchase?”
“I’m told I’m competent in a kitchen,” he said, a faint trace of humor in his voice. “But mostly I prefer ingredients that can be… repurposed.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“Only to someone inclined to suspicion.” He let his gaze rest on her a fraction longer than necessary before selecting two oranges and dropping them into his basket.
There was a beat of silence, broken only by the creak of the wooden floorboards beneath someone else’s steps. She found herself glancing at his basket, bread, a bottle of olive oil, the oranges, and a packet of something unmarked in brown paper.
He noticed. “Not all purchases need to be labeled.”
“Again with the mystery,” she said, shaking her head.
“Again with the curiosity,” he countered. Then, casually: “Have you decided on a mask for the ball?”
Her lips parted, caught off guard. “Not yet.”
“Choose one that doesn’t hide too much.” The line was delivered evenly, but she felt her heart beat erratically anyway.
[Elena’s Diary, March 19, 1995]
There’s a fine line between someone being intriguing and being dangerous.
I don’t know which side of it he’s on.
Caroline says that’s half the fun.
[Caroline’s handwriting in the margin]
It’s all the fun. Don’t ruin it with overthinking.
The days after that were marked by absence, no sightings at the garden, no “coincidences” in the neighborhood. She almost convinced herself the ball would come and go without him appearing.
Until the note arrived.
It was slipped under her front door sometime in the late afternoon, folded into thirds, her name written in a hand too neat to be casual. Inside:
I’ll see you at the Devane estate.
Some performances are better when shared.
Do save me a dance Miss Gilbert.
-E. M.
She stared at it longer than she should have, then set it on the kitchen table where it remained, accusing her every time she passed.
Elena’s Diary, April 1, 1995]
The invitation said “Medieval Masquerade.”
Which is a ridiculous combination of words when you’re standing in a thrift shop in the Quarter, trying to decide if a velvet dress from the ‘70s counts as medieval enough.
Caroline insisted on gold trim. I let her. Maybe I wanted to be noticed. Maybe I wanted him to notice.
The Devane estate was an old sugar mill, gutted and rebuilt for events exactly like this, crumbling brick walls arching into shadows, bare bulbs strung overhead like fallen constellations. At the entrance, a pair of wrought-iron gates stood open, guarded by two men in tunics and chainmail that looked only half like costumes.
Inside, the air was warm with the smell of candle wax and polished wood. A string quartet tucked into the corner played something that might have been medieval once but had been coaxed into jazz.
Elena smoothed the hem of her dark green velvet dress, heavy, almost too warm against her legs, and adjusted the mask she’d spent two days sewing gold trim onto. It fit snugly across her eyes, the ribbon knotting low at the base of her neck. She kept her hands loose at her sides, pretending her heart wasn’t picking up speed at the thought of finding him here.
Caroline swept ahead in a deep burgundy gown with bell sleeves and a feathered mask, pausing only to murmur, “Half the room is staring at you already. Don’t trip.”
The crowd was a kaleidoscope of jewel tones and metallics, women in brocade gowns with trailing skirts, men in doublets and cloaks, a few eccentrics in full armor clanking softly as they passed. Waiters moved between them with silver trays of champagne, their black gloves sharp against the glass stems.
She hadn’t spotted him yet.
Not that she was looking.
Her gaze skimmed over clusters of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter. The music shifted, something slower now, and she let herself drift toward the edge of the room where the light thinned and the hum of voices was softer.
And then-
“Miss Gilbert.”
She turned.
He stood half in shadow, his black mask catching just enough light to outline the sharp angle of his cheekbones. The rest of him was immaculate, dark suit tailored close, white shirt open just enough at the collar to suggest the evening wasn’t entirely about formality. A hint of medieval slipped in through the cut of his jacket, the faint gold embroidery along the edges.
“You clean up well,” she said, because she wasn’t going to admit to the jolt in her chest.
“So do you.” His eyes moved over her dress, lingering on the trim. “Gold suits you.”
“My friends idea.”
“Then they have taste.”
For a moment they simply stood there, the noise of the ball a muted backdrop. She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray, mostly to have something to hold.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she said.
“I thought my note was sufficient warning.”
“You mean the one that read like a riddle?”
He tilted his head, lips curving faintly. “Some performances lose their impact if overexplained.”
“Still with the mystery,” she murmured. “I thought tonight might make you… easier to read.”
“On the contrary, I suspect the masks only make the game more interesting.”
Elena let the corner of her mouth lift, but she didn’t look away.
“And what’s the prize for winning your game?”
“That depends,” he said. His voice was low, warm, like it didn’t need to rise over the music to be heard. “On how far the other player is willing to follow me.”
Her pulse ticked faster. “Is that an invitation?”
“An offer.”
She sipped the champagne to keep her hands occupied. “Lead the way.”
He didn’t rush. Elijah wove them through the crowd with the quiet precision of someone who knew exactly where he was going, a brief nod to the quartet, a sidestep past a pair of costumed lawyers arguing over something in half-serious French. At the far edge of the mill, a staircase wound upward into darkness, half-hidden behind a drape of velvet.
The second floor was cooler, the noise of the ball muffled to a low hum below. Candles flickered in sconces along the brick walls, throwing unsteady shadows over arched doorways.
He stopped at a heavy oak door and produced a small key from his jacket pocket. “I keep a few things here,” he said simply, unlocking it.
The room beyond was nothing like the ballroom, no gold banners, no chatter. Just a hushed, curated space. The air smelled faintly of cedar and oil paint. Spotlights in the ceiling illuminated a series of paintings and artifacts: an illuminated manuscript in a glass case, a Flemish portrait with its gilt frame just beginning to crack, a medieval chalice etched with strange figures.
Elena stepped inside, slow, eyes moving from piece to piece. “This isn’t just a collection,” she murmured. “It’s…almost a museum here Elijah.” Elena muttered in aw.
“It’s private,” Elijah said, closing the door behind them.
“How did you get all this?” she asked, turning toward him.
He didn’t hesitate. “Payment.”
“For what?”
A faint smile ghosted over his mouth. “For work that doesn’t fit neatly into a résumé.”
“Like…?” She tilted her head, studying him.
“Information,” he said finally. “The kind people prefer not to be seen with, unless it’s hanging on a wall under the cover of respectability.”
She laughed once, soft, almost disbelieving. “So you’re telling me you trade secrets for art?”
“Sometimes art for access. Sometimes access for leverage. It’s… flexible.”
Her gaze flicked to the manuscript in its glass case, the gold leaf catching the light. “And tonight? What’s the currency?”
His eyes held hers. “Depends on what I can take with me.”
Elena stood with her hand lightly pressed to the glass case, as though she could feel the history trapped inside the manuscript.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said.
Elijah’s voice was calm, but the air between them seemed to thicken. “And what did you expect?”
She half-smiled, eyes flicking over him. “Not someone who trades in secrets. Not someone who knows the exact temperature to keep parchment from curling.”
He took a slow step toward her, his shoes quiet on the worn rug. “And yet, here I am.”
Something in his tone made her pulse jump, like they were still talking about the art, but maybe not entirely.
She turned, leaning back against the case. “You always this careful?”
“Only when the stakes are high.” He was close now, close enough that she caught the faint scent of cedar and something sharper, ozone, maybe, like the hum of live wires.
Her fingers curled loosely around the stem of her champagne flute. “And tonight?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth for a moment before returning to her eyes. “I fear tonight just might be worth the risk Elena.”
The room felt smaller. The muffled music from the ballroom downstairs was just a pulse now, like a distant heartbeat. She noticed the way his tie was slightly loosened, the shadow along his jaw, the way his hand hovered for a second before brushing a stray curl from her cheek.
The touch was light, deliberate. Her skin prickled.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
“I’m memorizing,” he said.
She let the silence stretch. Outside, a car passed somewhere on the street, its headlights glancing through the narrow window.
When he finally touched her waist, it wasn’t sudden.
Her champagne glass tilted dangerously, and he took it from her without breaking eye contact, setting it on a low table beside a bronze reliquary. His knuckles brushed hers as he did, the smallest friction, but it made her heart kick hard.
He leaned in, his words barely audible. “You could still walk away.”
She didn’t move.