A.N.: An update! Shocking, I know. The pitfalls of a full-time job and writer's block. So, the next few chapters will be Originals-sparse as Anise reintegrates into her life.

Eternity in an Hour

04

Coming Out of the Coffin

Those who didn't know to look for it would never find the historic Lavalière home. Quirky magic protected its location, nestled inconspicuously in the heart of land the family had owned for centuries. Small fields flourished with late-summer crops, one of the oldest cotton mills in the South draw income as a working museum, and the bayou teemed with life, a raised walkway winding its way through the picturesque Louisiana landscape shrouded by trees, Spanish moss and flowers growing rampant like a thick, fragrant carpet in spring and summer, a tranquil breeze always chasing away the breathless humidity.

For the first time in nearly a year her footsteps created sound as she padded barefoot along the raised walkway, through the bayou, where the trees sighed and swayed and the light glinted through Spanish moss and early-morning mists swirling, disturbed by her movement. Her heart squeezed as she wandered through the grasses speckled with late-summer wildflowers, listening to the tick of the cicadas and the birds singing the dawn chorus, her pace picking up as she neared the main property.

From the bayou walkway she came first upon the meadows where she had played as a little girl; the tall swaying grasses ticking with life and speckled with bright wildflowers gave way to orchards of gnarled apple trees, fickle cherry, oranges, plums and figs entwined with roses and clematis, their flock of chickens cleaning the bee-yard. Granny's least-liked chore was tending the chickens, and the wicker basket was always left at the wattle pear-arch to the kitchen-gardens. Anise picked up the basket, gathered the apron with pockets stashed with feed, and scattered it to the girls before she went about gathering the fresh eggs. Leaving the girls in the orchard to continue their work, she padded through the sprawling kitchen-garden, the wattle beds overflowing, as she stooped to pick fresh spinach and raspberries for breakfast, everything still kissed with mist. It was strange and glorious to feel the water slick and cold against her skin, the heaviness of gravity pulling her body, the way her long hair tickled her bare arms, even the itchiness of dried blood on her skin, the kiss of the early sun on her bare shoulders.

Through the kitchen-gardens and out the other side, she glanced across a familiar path to the crumbling weather-worn redbrick walls, Granny's English walled-garden full of roses and every exquisite flower that could be dreamed of, but turned and followed the path to the house, under the arbours - the first, heavy with strawberries and squashes and frilly white clematis the size of dinner-plates, the other, heavy with lemons, passion-fruits, peas and gorgeous yellow roses. The ground was almost overgrown with yarrow, dill, fennel, marigolds, nasturtiums, parsley and lemon-balm - Mother Nature's attractants and deterrents to protect and deflect from their chosen crops the bugs that would destroy them. Granny was well-seasoned in companion crops. Many a young herbalist came to her from any of the Nine Covens for her advice.

The gardens had always been Anise's favourite part of the house - her inheritance; it was the place she was proud of, was covetous toward. She knew how lucky she was to enjoy it. The sound of the flower-gardens humming with bees, butterflies waltzing about in the air in the day, fireflies glittering in the evening among the candles flickering in old lanterns hanging from creaking boughs. For nearly a year this property had been her sanctuary, even on the Other Side, where she could wander the gardens and enjoy the view, if not the scent of the roses or the warmth of the sun on her face; she watched Granny tend the gardens, and learned.

Three centuries of Lavalière ancestors had lived here, lending their experiences and tastes, unusual antiques, questionable artwork and secrets hidden behind false panels and concealed closets to the house, which had grown up organically, added onto by successive generations to create a tangle of breathless libraries; salons; mosaic-tiled internal courtyards overflowing with jasmine and lush greenery; sweeping, lazy terracotta-shingled porches groaning with plant-pots and fragrant from drying herbs dangling from the ceiling whirling with idle fans, the paint-faded shutters creaking in the breeze, knocking gently against the window-boxes vibrant with flowers; the pergola groaning with figs and glory-lilies, perfect for long dinners; the elegantly-painted drawing-room inspired by French chateaux. Early dawn sunlight glittered off the murky glass of the Victorian greenhouse, glowing green inside from tropical, rare plants and flowers Granny and other adventurous relatives had collected from all over the world.

There was a breathless quality to the estate, timeless and sun-warmed, sparsely-furnished by homey, welcoming, cosy and elegant. It was in the tranquil warmth of the sun making the insects in the overflowing flowerbeds tick, in the organic, lived-in, slightly worn nature of the terracotta tiles and sun-bleached paint on the shutters, the creaking of the porch steps giving beneath her bare feet, the wood already warmed by the sun. And there was magic here, in the way the flowers, past their best in any other part of the Northern Hemisphere by July, were still in full bloom in late-August, in the sense of time moving slower, the modern world left at the borders of the property, a sense of safety. Of being home. Three centuries of witches had lived and loved and fought and farmed this earth; and magic was absorbed in every inch of the land, interwoven with every fibre of the house, almost as live and sentient as Anise was. The house knew things. It kept their secrets, and its silence; it protected them from danger.

She gazed at the faded buttery-yellow back door, frowning gently. The house protected them, kept their secrets. Granny lived in there, disconnected from her Ancestors but still vulnerable to their influence if they chose to lash out… She backtracked to one of the little garden shed lean-tos, taking an ancient knife from one of the terracotta pots, and approached the house. At every corner, above every doorframe, she carved a tiny sigil.

To protect the occupants from prying eyes and evil intent.

In her ruined satin dress and tangled hair, her bare feet grubby, Anise carried the basket of eggs and fresh spinach to the back-door. A faded sage-green shutter waggled in the breeze, almost like a wave, and as the door opened of its own accord, and welcomed her over the threshold with the scent of freshly-baked sourdough bread and hints of turmeric and curry-powder in the air, strains of 1920s jazz drifting to her with the excited yip and snuffle of puppies, she thought she heard the house groan as the old wood settled, almost as it was relieved she was home.

The worn rugs were soft beneath her bare feet, and she smiled, setting the basket down, and sank to her knees as her family's dogs scrabbled toward her like a tiny horde ready to nibble and lick her toes. Artichoke, Linguiça and Dignity, three heartbeats at her feet: two Miniature Dachshunds - Artichoke, a stately old wire-haired with a tartan bowtie, and very pretty short-haired Linguiça, a first-time mother now – and Dignity, their beautiful Cavalier King Charles Spaniel whose own litter looked like fuzzy jelly-beans curled in a basket.

The house started to settle, the old beams and worn floors settling with noticeable creaks, the drapes opening of their own accord to let in the sunlight, fans whirling slowly in greeting as she wandered past, and she found Granny coiled on her antique yoga-mat, Anise's own unfurled beside hers, her eyes closed. Waiting.

She eyed the neatly-stacked tarot cards on the scrubbed table, alongside the elaborate water-tap and absinthe bottle and sugar-cubes and the embroidery-hoop; the stack of 45" records and Granny's red-leather gramophone and the spice-chest beside a large pestle and mortar, the range fired up and issuing glorious scents that made her stomach growl with sudden awareness of how hungry she was. Anise hadn't eaten in a year.

She stripped out of her ruined ivory satin dress, down to her underwear – her bra still stained with old blood – and climbed onto her purple mat, assuming the same position as Granny - and groaning when she found it wasn't so easy. It had been a while since she had practiced yoga – with gravity – and Granny's positions were gentler, easier ones because of it. Wondering how Granny had known, but not at all surprised she did, and why she had gotten her cards out, Anise practiced her yoga in silence, listening to the jazz music, the hum and tick of nature outside the house, the birds singing outside open windows.

On the Other Side, she had practiced her yoga every morning beside Granny. But she had forgotten what it felt like to be tied to things, the deliciousness of that connection thrumming through her veins, live and golden. She wasn't used to gravity, pulling on her. She hadn't felt the tug and quiver of her muscles from overexertion, she hadn't been tired in over a year, hadn't slept – and her body itself had been dead for a year. It was no wonder it had been such a fight to come back to life – the muscle atrophy alone had to have contributed to her hellish struggle. Her muscles had loosened a little on her barefoot walk home, and she took to her yoga-mat, feeling the strain of her muscles. Being dead had put her out of shape, even for the gentlest stretches. How was she ever going to get back into the calibre of gymnastics moves she had been performing before her death?

One day at a time.

Muscles aching, she groaned and climbed off her yoga-mat as Granny slipped nimbly up, silver-haired and glam, serene and smiling with her eyes as she offered an arm to Anise, gently pulling her into a full-body hug.

She had missed contact. Human contact – hugs, tickling, cuddling up watching TV, lazing about on a picnic-blanket in the sun reading with Chantal, poking each other with their toes. She had missed touch. The Other Side was barren of it, of any kind of touch let alone human contact.

"Lovely to have you back, poppet," Granny said warmly, not letting her go; maybe she sensed Anise needed it. Maybe she sensed the turmoil in Anise's head, and her heart – she had executed one of their own, mercilessly – remorseful, but unrepentant about the necessity of killing Céleste Dubois, who had infected their coven like a parasite for centuries. Anise had no tolerance for self-absorbed traitors, and her mind went briefly to Davina, swallowing the lump of guilt that rose. That was the one and only time she would feel badly about Davina's loss of magic. She had abused her gifts, disrespected their heritage, betrayed them, felt no compassion for the innocent – Anise had nothing to feel guilty about; she had protected what was left of their coven, after Davina had helped the vampires destroy it.

Granny inhaled sharply, releasing Anise, and sifted her polished fingertips through Anise's tangled hair, a wondering, faraway, thoughtful look on her face, her bright eyes sparkling like tourmalines, all but erasing the fine lines around them. "You came back with a bit of a bang, didn't you?" she smirked, pride radiating from her as she chuckled, and turned to pull a vegetable curry out of the range.

Anise glanced at her grandmother, licking her lips hesitantly. "What… Why do you say that?"

"I can smell it on you," Granny said, and Anise avoided tripping over Artichoke, approaching the range to prepare the fresh greens. "I'm afraid sometimes it is necessary."

"Murder?"

"That woman should have died centuries ago," Granny said sternly, her English accent as crisp as the Dowager Countess'. "You only prevented her from ruining more and more lives. You brought justice to the girls whose lives she stole."

"It still feels shitty," she mumbled.

"Good," Granny said, and Anise was reminded of Elijah Mikaelson - telling her that she needed to worry only when she stopped feeling bad for brutality. "We've far too many creatures of the night in this city who care nothing for the chaos they wreak. It is high time we learned to be accountable."

"What do your cards say?" Anise asked curiously, peering closer at the hand-painted cards.

"Too much to read in one sitting," Granny sighed evasively, and lifted her palm, the cards stacking themselves before Anise could get a good eyeful of the reading. Granny was very well-schooled in reading tarot; the absinthe she consumed only aided her ability to decipher the meaning behind the cards. Granny knew things she shouldn't, and like a miser with gold coins, gave information in tiny doses. She said knowing too much was dangerous; she never read for herself. Anise set the table for breakfast, preparing her favourite sweet lassi to drink as Granny checked on the daal, thinking over what she had done last night. Céleste Dubois's execution; neutralising the White Oak Stake within Lafayette Cemetery… Meeting Elijah Mikaelson.

She hadn't offered to help the Original out of any long-con; she thought it was the most decent thing to do. A dead Original may be beneficial to the world in general, but there was no telling what would happen to Rebekah's two warring brothers, to Marcel, to New Orleans itself, if she died irrevocably. She had seen the way Rebekah and Elijah Mikaelson were together. She hadn't protected Rebekah Mikaelson so that Elijah would look at her and see a potential ally. There was too much going on, everything too convoluted, with political alliances shifting on a daily basis, to think about an endgame.

All she wanted, really, was to consolidate what little influence the coven had left, rebuild whatever could be salvaged, and provide a stable foundation for the future generations – her generation, and the babies – to inherit. She didn't care about power-grabbing; she cared about her friends avoiding execution and the terror of modern-day witch-hunts.

She wanted to live; and she wanted to be able to enjoy it.

"I will tell you one thing," Granny said, taking a biryani out of the range. "Last night will not be your only meeting with Elijah Mikaelson." Anise started, glancing at Granny, whose eyes were twinkling with mischief; Anise sighed, used to her grandmother's mercurial, hellraising personality.

"How did you know I've met Elijah Mikaelson?"

"You were just thinking it," Granny said, staring at her, as if this should have been obvious. "Go and wash your hands, we'll eat together."

"Is Joe not joining us?" Anise asked; she always loved when Joe came to visit. He and Granny were hilarious together. And he told the best stories about Prohibition New Orleans, when being 'jazz mad' was a legit legal defence in a court of law.

"No, he is inundated," Granny said, shooting her a sly look. Anise beamed.

"I'll stop by the store," she said. She had been helping Joe do inventory at his vinyl shop, Vinyl Resting Place, since she was thirteen, and he paid her either in cash or records – only if he approved the record choice, of course.

"And beyond that?" Granny asked. "Have we any plans?" She gave Anise a twinkly-eyed smile, as if she knew what was going on inside Anise's head.

"I…have some things I'd like to get figured out," Anise said on a gentle sigh. Her old life she now mentally referred to, to Chantal's amusement, as 'B.S.'. Before Sacrifice. Now she was A.R. After Resurrection. She had been bound with the Ancestors because of the sacrifice; and now because of it, she was free to live. And death put things in perspective. She had missed a year of school; she hadn't been to gymnastics meets; her place on social and charity committees had been filled; even the coven couldn't provide her with a seamless reintegration into her old life. She had to start fresh – and she was surprised to find out that she wasn't afraid of that. There was no dread; she didn't feel like it was the first day of a new school. But her head did ache at the thought of everything she had to do, and everything she wanted to do – everything she had been chomping at the bit to do once she was alive again, and now that she was, had no idea where to start.

She knew what she wanted, just not how to get it.

"Such as?" Granny smiled.

"I need to enrol at school, and I'd like to get back…maybe not to gymnastics, but something," Anise said. "And there's…there's the coven. What's left of it."

"Would you like to hear my opinion?"

"Yes," Anise said. Granny never gave her opinion unless asked for: and Anise was wise enough to know to ask for it.

"While the Old Ones bicker and war, utilise everything your generation has at its disposal to form something for yourselves," Granny said sagely, and Anise frowned, biting her lip thoughtfully. Granny sighed. "You're not the only one to be left orphaned by the Harvest. And the disenfranchised make for marvellous targets - either by zealots of our own kind, or of the enemy."

"Do they have to be enemies?"

"Historically they have been. However, there are few ancients here in this city, and this world we live in is a very different one than has ever come before us," Granny said slowly. "The vampires have long lives, the witches have a long memory, and the werewolves share a long history. But recent events have culled the numbers on all sides; only the very wily, the very cowardly and the very young have survived so far. And the young have been brought up to see the world very differently, they will refashion the world in their own image, with their own values. And you, my poppet, will be the chief architect."

Anise blushed. Granny had such unyielding faith in her talents, more than Anise had ever had in herself in anything beyond gymnastics and successfully navigating her school's social scene without major drama. The other girls had thought being chosen for the Harvest made them special. She didn't believe that now any more than she had then, but at least now she felt a connection to the coven as a whole, a responsibility to the collective, their history - and particularly to their future. She had been chosen by the Ancestors, had been killed and resurrected, spent nearly a year, an eternity, in their company, learning from them, to return…altered. Enhanced by knowledge and a kind of clarity, a purpose - even if she had no idea how to get where she wanted to be… She had watched, and made notes on how she would change things if she could. Now, she just had to be brazen enough to attempt to.

And Granny had just hinted at her first step. The other survivors. The young ones, the ones who had been left alone, and frightened, and completely at a loss what to do, who to confide in, scared and grief-stricken and angry.

"What if nobody responds?" Anise asked quietly.

"They will," Granny smiled gently. "You'll coax some, convince others, and drag the reluctant in by their teeth…and one day they will be glad of it." Anise gazed at her grandmother, absurdly young-looking considering her curious (and undetermined) age.

She had always been amused that her aristocratic English grandmother refused to use utensils when they ate; in true Indian fashion, she ate with her hands, using roti or naan. Granny's early life had been all about rebellion against her stiff noble family; she had fled their stately home to drive ambulances on the front-lines, danced her way through the Prohibition, tippled new cocktails with her fierce force-of-nature Jewish maternal-grandmamma in Manhattan and the Hamptons – very Edith Wharton, only with witchcraft and no corsets – only to marry a one-armed WWI survivor, the younger son of an English duke with, scandalously, six illegitimate children. They had moved to India in the later-Twenties when 'Poppa' had been stationed out there as part of His Majesty's government, and Granny had rarely eaten 'Western' food since. Anise's mother Posy was the product of, Anise thought, Granny's third or possibly fourth marriage; Anise was constantly learning new secrets from Granny's unusually long and very colourful life.

Granny had left India before the Great British Empire truly crumbled, before India was returned to its people, before the political chaos that had caused; she had pursued her frontlines-friend Joe to New Orleans, fallen in love with the sultry bayous and glittering beaches, and only ever left it to pursue that 'flighty temptress, Adventure'.

Granny had seen many empires rise and fall; she had experienced what came after. Chaos; rejuvenation. Progress.

"You think I can do…this?"

"I believe you can have whatever you wish," Granny said, snaring her with a look that snatched the breath from Anise's lungs, "as long as you are willing to accept the consequences."

Anise licked her lips anxiously. "What…what consequences are they?"

"Responsibility, in all its many punishing, glorious forms," Granny sighed. "The benefits…and the blame. People will praise you and lash out at you in a heartbeat, blame you for decisions made, petition you for favours, they will test you, try to break you, follow you, respect your worth, despise your influence…"

"I - I don't want power," Anise said, startled, appalled and filled with dread at the idea of entering into the Game of Thrones that was the current socio-political situation amongst the supernatural of New Orleans, and Granny smiled fondly at her, the lines at the corners of her eyes more pronounced. "I thought you always said that power is only given to those who'll lower themselves to pick it up."

"I have said that," Granny sighed. "And then you were chosen for the Harvest. Your Ancestors wouldn't blow their bullets; they will have been watching you since you were born. You were chosen for a reason, poppet. They have faith in you, just as you did in the Harvest. I know you did not walk blindly into that cemetery. You knew what you were walking into."

Anise sighed, thinking of Daddy. She would never see him again. When Anise had not returned from Lafayette Cemetery, and all hope seemed lost, Daddy had shipped out to the desert and gotten himself killed. Wife and daughter, both dead; he had gone to his death seeking them.

He had given up.

And that was on Davina. When she had refused to die for her friends, she had taken Anise's father from her. She had taken many fathers from many friends.

"'Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die'," Anise murmured, and Granny's smile crumpled for a heartbeat, her eyes glittering with tears. They disappeared, though, and Anise was glad; she had sobbed for days on the Other Side, shrieking soundlessly in her heartbreak and rage and grief, and a good amount of her rage had gone into stripping Davina of her magic, she would never deny that she had not thought about her own loss when she punished Davina. The Defector would be written into the history of their coven as a warning: faithlessness and betrayal were never to be rewarded. And death was unnecessary when setting a lasting example.

"Quoting Alfred, Lord Tennyson to me," Granny said, smiling. Anise shrugged delicately. Granny sighed. "What are you thinking about?" Granny asked, and Anise lifted her eyes to her vibrant grandmother's lined face.

"When I was…on the Other Side, I watched everyone. I kept going back to the bayou to watch the wolves turn into men," Anise confessed, flushing. Every month, she had traipsed out to the bayou to watch the gorgeous macabre event. And there was one she liked the look of when he was human. "Céleste created a potion to reverse the curse on the Crescent pack…"

"And you don't wish the curse to be reversed?"

"What? No! I don't think the potion will do what she said it would."

"How so?"

Anise frowned, trying to find the words. "This witch…body-hopped through the last three centuries, fostering a grudge against the Original family - against Klaus for killing her original body; against Elijah Mikaelson for choosing his family over her… Everything that's happened the last few weeks, with Bastianna and Genevieve and Papa Tunde…she orchestrated it to punish the Originals, to try and break Elijah of his vow to his brother and sister."

"Always and forever," Granny murmured in an undertone, her expression thoughtful. Anise wondered how she knew Elijah Mikaelson's mantra.

"But Elijah did break his vow," Anise said. "He chose to save Hayley and her baby over protecting them, punishing the ones who dared to plot against them." Granny gazed sombrely at her.

"And the potion?"

"She told Elijah the potion would work because changing the wolves back to men would take Hayley farther from him… I think her perspective was warped by her hate, and that Céleste wanted to see that Elijah was in love with this Hayley girl, so she did… I watched her create a potion to reverse the curse, but…I don't trust that it will do exactly what the werewolves will hope."

"Why?"

"Because Elijah chose Hayley over his brother and sister, and Céleste dodged death for three centuries by being steps ahead… She would've wanted the last word; she would've had a backup plan, something to kick Elijah in the tender parts just when he'd thought everything was said and done and they were safe."

"So…?"

"So I don't trust the potion she made, not one she brewed at the bayou-edge, under duress, fuelled by rage and satisfaction that she was winning…" Anise sighed.

"Who has the potion now?"

"The pregnant girl, Hayley Marshall. She's one of the Crescent wolves, but she wasn't raised in New Orleans," Anise said thoughtfully, and something flickered in Granny's pale eyes. "Elijah Mikaelson told her the potion would work; I don't think she'll trust me when I say it won't."

"Why shouldn't she?"

"The coven's been trying to kill her since she got to town," Anise said, rolling her eyes.

"You are not the coven," Granny said gently.

"I'm tainted by association," Anise sighed. "I've been Scarlet Lettered by their evil."

"It is interesting how often desperation passes off as evil," Granny mused. "Surely, soon to be a mother herself, this Hayley girl may appreciate the lengths family will go to, to protect their own."

"I don't think she's had much family," Anise said. "Explains the chip on her shoulder and the false bravado… She has gumption, I'll give her that…misguided, but…I don't know. I don't know how to…"

"Manipulation, torture, blackmail…people always forget the simplest way of getting what they want," Granny said mildly. "Just ask. Perhaps bathe first." Anise smiled at Granny's quirky look, her wink.

"I was thinking, I could go see Poppy," Anise said, and Granny's eyes twinkled. Her vibrant friend owned her own amazing salon, and had been wheedling Anise for ages before the sacrifice to let her have her way with Anise. Because of her gymnastics, and the opinions of the Mean Girls at school, Anise had always dreaded Poppy's idea of a makeover. Now, she was eager to embrace it - and to tease Poppy with all the delicious titbits she had picked up as a ghost.

"You just got home, you're going to leave again?" Granny teased.

"Not yet, but spirits talk," Anise sighed. "People will know I'm back..."

"You sound troubled," Granny said. "Why?"

"One of the witches Céleste resurrected is still around," Anise said.

"She hasn't gone back to the dust yet," Granny said.

"And she's vicious, beguiling, and she came back entitled," Anise moaned, rubbing her forehead. Clawing her way back to life had taken everything she had; executing Céleste, at the same time ensuring her magic could not flow back to the resurrected Davina, had depleted her reserves; gravity, heat and humidity and a fully stomach for the first time in a year were all combining with anxiety and stress of the unknown, of the future, giving her a headache, nausea, and the irrepressible desire to go to sleep.

"And you came back exhausted," Granny sighed. "Come on, poppet. Bath time - and bed."

An hour later, she felt human again. For the first time in a year.

She had floated in boil-a-lobster bathwater scented with Granny's bath-oils, scrubbing the dried blood and dirt off with a loofah and a sugar-scrub that left her skin tingling; she shaved her legs, and hid under the bubbles of a fresh bath as Granny combed organic cleansers and conditioners through her long, tangled hair. She slathered on moisturising camellia body-butter and pulled on fresh pyjamas, her first outfit change in a year, and on instinct folded her bloodstained Harvest dress into a Ziploc, tucking it into the back of her closet in the bedroom that now felt alien to her. She slipped between fresh cotton sheets lightly scented with camomile and lavender, Linguiça cuddling up at her ankles, strains of jazz playing softly downstairs while Granny pottered about, and fell into a deep, blissfully dreamless sleep.

A.N.: Shout-out to Sheila Bennett, who died too soon. Good grannies are hard to come by, and must be protected.