“Can I help?” he called when he was close enough, and the man spun around.

“You can stay where you are,” the man suggested sharply, and Elijah saw that, while his face was lined and tired-looking, his blue eyes were sharp and focused with intelligence. The house behind him was modest but in good shape, and he had kept his land clear of the forest that encroached on three sides. This was not a man who would drift into his old age in a featherbed, surrounded by fat great-grandchildren.

Elijah dismounted to put them on somewhat more even footing, and held up his empty hands meaningfully. “I am sorry to startle you,” he said softly. “I have been searching for a place near here to settle with my family and saw you working so late, that’s all. It seemed as though you could use an extra pair of hands.”

“An extra everything is more like it,” the man admitted, sizing up Elijah’s broad shoulders. “I should have made moving these into the cellar a condition of the trade in the first place, but I thought it would be just as easy to throw on a rain cover if I needed it.” He smirked wryly. “I was mistaken.”

“I can move them for you, if that would be better,” Elijah offered—in for a penny, in for a pound. It couldn’t hurt to have a friend among the homesteaders out here, and the man’s uncomplaining attitude toward a task that was most certainly beyond him was charming.

“It’s a two-man job.” The man looked at the barrels. Elijah realized that he meant he wasn’t one of those men, as he wouldn’t be able to lift his side of a barrel. It didn’t matter, since Elijah was much stronger than an ordinary man, but he hurt for the old man’s wounded pride all the same.

He walked to the barrels, tipping the nearest one into his hands and lifting it easily. “It is,” he agreed. “So please show me the way and open the cellar door for me. I’d rather not hold this any longer than I need to.”

The man looked incredulous, then delighted. There was a noticeable spring in his step as he crossed his little patch of land, making for the stump of what had once been an impressively massive oak tree. He pulled at an iron ring in the ground beside it, and a section of turf swung upward, revealing a gaping hole below. The cellar had been hollowed out beneath the spreading roots of the tree, and Elijah felt carefully with each foot for the next uneven dirt stair while balancing the large barrel against his chest. The next four trips went just as smoothly, and then the man closed the trapdoor behind them and wiped his hands on his trousers.

“The name’s Hugo Rey,” he grunted, his voice thick with emotion, holding out his right hand. Elijah tried to remember the last time a human had offered to shake his hand and couldn’t.

He accepted the gesture warmly, and gave his name—his real name, to his own surprise—in return. “Can I do anything else for you while I’m here?” he asked courteously, rather hoping that Hugo would take him up on the offer.

“You can join me inside for a drink, son,” the old man told him firmly. “That was hard work you’ve just saved me, and the least I can do is provide hospitality in return. You must be thirsty after all that lifting.”

Normally, the inadvertent invitation to feed would have whetted Elijah’s appetite, but the thought of hurting Hugo didn’t even cross his mind. “It would be my pleasure,” he agreed sincerely, and together they made for the house in the center of the field.

It had grown dark and rain was nearly at the doorstep. Hugo set about lighting candles and clearing odds and ends from the rough-hewn kitchen table. Bits of hardware along with paper covered in lists of figures and painstakingly precise drawings were swept away before Elijah could put his finger on what they were, and he refocused his attention on the stocky earthenware cups that Hugo set out in their place.

They were filled with a rough but serviceable liquor—a few steps down from rye, but a few crucial notches up from moonshine. Elijah sipped cautiously, while Hugo drained half his mug in a single swallow. In the candlelight, he looked even older than Elijah had assumed at first. It was astonishing that he still lived out here, all alone, keeping his house and land in decent order and even attempting manual labor at his advanced age.

“That stuff keeps you young,” Hugo said, lifting his half-empty mug by way of explanation. It was as if he had followed the line of Elijah’s thoughts perfectly, as if Elijah didn’t need to speak to be understood.

Had it ever been so easy with his own father? This man was centuries younger than Mikael, but much older than Mikael had been when Elijah was still his cherished human son. And yet there was something about him that reminded Elijah of a father, of the way a father should behave toward a child who had grown up and chosen a path for himself in the world. Moving the barrels had not been a tremendous challenge for an Original vampire, but nonetheless, Hugo didn’t seem merely grateful: Elijah had the sense that the old man was proud of him.

“Have you lived out here long?” he asked politely, sipping again at his liquor.

“Twenty years at least,” Hugo replied vaguely. “The city’s closer to my doorstep now than it was.” He sounded as if he disapproved of that development.

“I’m a rather private person, myself,” Elijah offered. “I’ve been looking for land out here, actually. My sister and my brother like the nightlife in town, but I think we’d all be more comfortable with a quieter place to come home to.”

Hugo’s smile was distant. “I always thought I would have children,” he said suddenly, and Elijah blinked in surprise. “My life was never the type that gives much room for a family,” the man went on, “but I think there’s a part of you that never stops planning for the future as if there is one.”

Elijah wondered how Mikael would have responded to that. His own children obviously had no place in the future he wanted to build. Did Mikael have some other sort of legacy in mind, or did immortals eventually cease to think about such things? Elijah always thought of the future, although perhaps not in the way Hugo meant. When Elijah looked to the future, he was always still in it. “Family is a blessing,” he mused noncommittally, “but blessings can come in many forms.”

Hugo nodded and refilled his cup. He held out the bottle meaningfully, offering more to his guest. Elijah, whose cup was still nearly full, took the bottle from him politely and poured in just a few drops more. It was always proper to accept hospitality, in his experience, or at least to make a reasonable show of it.

“I suspect I’ve been blessed enough,” Hugo answered thoughtfully, swirling the liquid in his mug and staring into it for a moment before taking another long drink. “I’ve used my talents in my work, made and kept a good reputation my whole life, and owned this square of land outright since probably before you were born.”

Elijah was not inclined to correct him on that last point; instead he simply nodded. It was clear to him that the wheels of the old man’s mind were turning, and he suspected that, if he waited, Hugo would say more. A silent moment proved him right.

“A man should have a home he can call his own.” His voice was low and forceful, almost a growl. “It’s not natural to be adrift, family or no.”

Unnatural once again. Abomination.

“I’ll drink to that,” Elijah replied, and matched action to words. “And to that note, do you know if any of your neighbors are thinking of selling? We have had some trouble with going through official channels in this matter, so we would be open to offering a nice price for someone willing to sign over the deed quickly, with no formalities.”

Hugo’s lined face crinkled into a knowing smile. “Not so popular with the higher-ups, are you, my boy? Local politics have no winners, at least not for long. Why do you think I’m all the way out here? I don’t have to deal with anyone who doesn’t value my time and work, and I prefer it that way.”