Every Sunday Vanessa Ives turned off her phone, locked up her flat and walked eight blocks to the Olympia Café and Bookstore. Most shops of the street would be closed and the in-flux of cars on this day and hour—nine o'clock—would be at a minimal. She carried the half-finished and well-used copy of Edgar Allen Poe's poetic anthology under her arm, along with her small purse. It was a rather pleasant day—not too cold and not too warm and the breeze softly hit her long dark tresses filling her pleasure.

Vanessa felt like red today and that's what she wore. A thin cotton white shirt and bright red knee-length skirt. It was rare that she showed her legs, but trousers or even her favorite pair of paint-splattered and worn jeans seemed too restraining. On her feet was the soft leather sandals she wore all too often—her feet and back never ached when she wore them. Not even when she walked or stood for too long.

She passed the bakery with a queue of people waiting to by pastries, bread and fresh coffee. She passed the pharmacy, always open. The school building was closed, its wrought-iron gates shutting all passersby from inside of it. She had always thought their delicate weavings and design to be beautiful… Gates and fences could be ambiguous things—oppressive in a way, but also beautiful.

As summer transitioned into autumn, she admired the bloomed flowers scattered in flower beds and window-boxes lining the working-class brick and stone townhouses—the leaves of the trees that slowly reddened and fell. This was her favorite time of the year, Vanessa was naturally a somber and introverted person—her few friends never hesitated informing her how piercing the look of her eyes could be, the no-nonsense curve of her lips. But anyone who truly and intimately knew her, knew also that behind the façade was a woman who felt things all too fiercely. She was selfless and capable of carrying the problems of the world on her shoulders—but her own she wished not to face—because they were so numerous and so absurdly dark and violent.

There wasn't a day where she didn't feel the chilling sensation of a voice whispering in her mind, the sensation that she was constantly being followed and watched. She never put her guards down—never—because she knew very well that the moment she distracted herself from her self-protection, she knew that the darkness could overcome her.

Sundays were her second favorite days. Like very few other people in the world, she looked forward to her Mondays—the first day of her weekly lectures at the University. She smiled at the thought of her students. After five years teaching at the University of London, every semester the faces would change—but the patterns continued, always the same types of

students. The ultra-feminists, the pseudo-hippies who wore sunglasses inside to hide their reddened eyes, the Marxists, the teacher's pets, the ones who spent most of the class outside, the gum-chewing material girls with their impeccable blonde straight hair and painful-looking heals. But with each class she learned something new and that was the best thing… She also loved the laughs they would occasionally exchange, to break the ice of a particularly complex discussion and the look on their faces when she would return their graded exams.

Never in her life had Vanessa thought she would become a professor—when her life had always been the field. It still was, but she had learned after a rough patch, that it was good to have some professional stability—and she could not deny that the cosmopolitan, urban woman in her enjoyed being in London.

She arrived at the café and her eyes shut in delight as she opened the door and the scent of books, aged wood, coffee and cinnamon hit her nose. The cave-woman in her wanted to live here forever, build a small fortress of books and never leave. Vanessa smiled and waved at her regular waiter, Amir, who came from Pakistan as a boy with his parents. He knew not to offer her a menu by now, but rather her usual large cup of black coffee with no sugar and buttercream torte.

As he set her meal on her usual table, at the far-end window booth, he smiled warmly.

"What are you reading today?"

"Poe. Have you finished the Dickens book I gave you?" He nodded eagerly.

"I enjoyed "A Tale of Two Cities" thoroughly, Ms. Ives… But I don't know, it didn't exactly speak to my soul as that other one—"The Kite Runner" did. I think it's because it was very close to home…" Vanessa nodded.

"I see. Are you interested in Italian literature?" Amir shrugged and motioned that he was not sure. "I brought you something, Amir." Vanessa opened her purse and pulled out her personal copy of 'Invisible Cities' by Italo Calvino… This is one of my favorites, so much so that I used a few quotes out of it for my thesis. I hope that you will enjoy it more."

Amir gladly took the book from her, being careful not to be spotted by his superiors.

"If it weren't for you, I would be working in a bookstore, knowing nothing of books." Vanessa smiled. She genuinely liked him. Amir was kind and hard-working, but had it tougher than lots of others because of his origins, his color and religion.

"You underestimate yourself, Amir. Sometimes I wish my students had half-your enthusiasm and drive. Now get to it, Mr. Sheridan is coming downstairs." She whispered the last part and winked at him conspiratorially.

From across the establishment, the owner nodded in her direction and Vanessa complimented him in return with a small smile. She sipped her warm drink and took a bite of her dessert; she still had to finish her poetry and then search the tall and overflowing shelves of the bookstore, for something good and new to read.

-/-

The sun was setting when she put down Michelle Perrot's "Women or the Silences of History". It hadn't been exactly the novelty she had been looking for, but it was the eternal must-read of every Historian, especially female ones such as herself. This had been the book that inspired Vanessa to delve into Female and Gender History and more specifically the history of women and witchcraft… Women who in many ways were like her.

Vanessa had devoted the past decade of her life studying what was the closest to home for her. She was deeply wrapped in her spiritualist and divine struggles and the search for answers to why she had premonitions, why she could read such ambiguous things like cards or leaves. How the phases of the moon altered her emotional state; why at moments she spoke an idiom like no other, that slid from her tongue easily like the hiss of a snake. Why she had to hide it from everyone… Why people unconsciously feared her. It was a force Vanessa conveyed of which she had little control.

She had never asked to be the way she was—to be cursed by knowledge beyond the explanations of science. To have deeply imbedded in her soul the presence of darkness and what she knew was the influence of the devil.

Vanessa had no control over the fact that for a week now she sensed his arrival in her life—the arrival of the man who would complete her. It was silly, she knew very well, but there was a hopeless romantic in her. Love would just be another curse added to her list. Vanessa read it in her tarot cards; she'd seen it in the tea leaves.

As the bell on the door of the bookstore and café chimed and the cool winds of the evening made her shiver and goose bumps rise onto her skin, Vanessa immediately knew it was him, walking inside in a casual dark green sweater, the stubble of a beard on his chin and twinkling brown eyes glancing straight at her. She hated that she'd blushed… were it not for the dim lighting at this hour Vanessa would be truly and honestly embarrassed.

Amir, bless his soul, interrupted their small exchange guiding the man to the booth in front of hers and she was quick to ask for a glass of cabernet. Another coffee and she wouldn't sleep. It was a problem she had—insomnia. The entire world functioned during the day—her body begged to be active at night.

"I've never seen you around here…" Vanessa finally said to him as he wouldn't strip his eyes from her. It was oddly alluring.

"I just arrived in London. So you're a regular then?" She nodded with a shadow of a smile—he was undoubtedly an American. He caught sight of the pile of books next to her. "And a bookworm, huh?" Vanessa nodded and sipped her wine—taking her time and appreciating the rich taste on her lips.

"Guilty as charged."

Amir arrived with the American's meal and coffee and he lifted his mug to her. Vanessa complied and watched him intently. He had a southern drawl like the ones she would hear in cowboy films growing up. Her father had been fond of them. The cowboy was handsome, she could not deny, but he also exuded a sort of warmth and another feeling Vanessa could not name—something downright sexy.

"I'm Ethan Chandler…"

"And I am on my way." Vanessa threw back the rest of her drink and left the money on her table, leaving an extra nice tip for Amir. She didn't look back.

He watched her—the mystery café woman he had also seen the Sunday before. He admired the contrast of the ruby-red on her skin, the curve of her hips as she sauntered away, carrying the books against her chest and his heart along with her—the long, dark and curly tendrils of her hair, falling well down her elbows; the curve of her full breasts that could be admired from the slight transparency of her shirt…

The striking and enigmatic bookworm was most definitely a sight to behold and a woman not to be easily forgotten.