Someone clamped a hand over her mouth and she woke with a start. She scratched at the hand and tried to scream, struggling against whatever it was.
"Shhhhh," whispered a male voice, "If I let you go, promise not to scream?" She looked up fearfully but her fear subsided in the darkness as she saw the familiar white hood, the red and black pattern on the front of his clothes and all of the leather. She nodded and he let go. "I tried knocking but there was no answer and I didn't want to make too much noise, so I climbed in through the window," he explained quickly, standing and turning away. The curtains covering her only window in room blew in the cool night breeze.
Morning was not far off.
Genevieve fixed her hair, a little frantically, and made sure she was presentable before and following him into the kitchen.
"I'm sorry. I'll be honest," she said shyly, "I hadn't expected to see you again. Rescuing me was more than what I could've asked of you." She busied herself with breaking bread apart, cutting some pickled onion and some marinated cheese and putting them on a plate.
"You didn't ask anything of me. I offered," the mystery man replied. He stood like a sentinel, a little out of place in the cosy kitchen, watching her prepare the food.
"Then our chance meeting was in my favour and again, I am very grateful," she smiled at him and offered him the plate, "Please, eat. You must've had a long night."
The man hesitated, then his hand was on it's way to revealing his face. Genevieve could feel herself hold her breath in the balance. It seemed to take forever.
Then he took off his hood.
Blue eyes pierced her scrutinisingly from underneath a brown fringe. His clean face was turned down into a practised frown, or was it a scowl for the inconvenience she caused him? His chiselled appearance lent him closer to his thirties.
Genevieve did not have long to gape at her hero. From his pocket, he extracted two medicine bottles and the sight of them distracted her. He reached right across the table – which wasn't very far – and put them directly in front of her. "This should last you at least 2 months."
"I wish I could pay you but I don't have any money," she said straight away, wanting it to be clear that she did not intend to take them without knowing what the payment was. He picked up some bread, dipped it in the marinade and sat down at the table, not replying immediately, only ate in silence. His blue eyes were cast down in thought, gazing at the two bottles. Genevieve perceived this to be disappointment and she racked her brains trying to think of something she could offer the man.
After long minutes of silence, Genevieve was sweating.
"I haven't any jewellery, nothing of value. Otherwise, I'd gladly give them to you."
"You said you take care of your mother, but do you do anything else?"
"I'm a seamstress. I work in the dress shop around the corner."
"I will call upon you to make something for me. Will you do it?" he asked.
"Yes, of course," she said, a little put off. She was thinking something a little more immediate but did not give it too much thought.
"Do not waste time, give the medicine to your mother," he said finally, eyeing her carefully. His blue eyes were direct and suggested a 'not negotiable' warning. She studied the bottle and smelled it contents. It wasn't pleasant but then, if it took away pain, did that matter? She took a bottle into the bedroom. Her mother woke with a pained start but Genevieve put her at ease.
"The Lord has smiled upon us, Mother," she said gently as she pulled a chair close to the bed. She showed the bottle and unscrewed the lid. "This is going to take a little bit of the pain away." She poured the medicine onto a tablespoon and held her mother's head as she took it.
"How?" rasped her mother once she settled.
"We have been sent a Guardian Angel, Mother. Do you really wish to question the Lord on such good fortune? He has brought us enough medicine to last two months! Please, don't worry Mother. Everything will be alright."
She waited with her mother until the old woman fell back asleep then ventured back out to the kitchen. The plate was empty and so was the room. Disenchanted, she cleared the plate away and wondered when she would see him again.
Despite the frantic events of that night, life returned as it always had with one major difference: Her mother was able to spend more time out of bed. Spindly legs held her up as she painfully limped around the small kitchen and collapsed proudly onto a chair. In this triumphant state was how Genevieve had found her mother some afternoons after working at the tailors.
She was able to pick up more work at the tailors because her mother could manage by herself. More coin in Genevieve's pocket meant more money to spend and she would find herself down the markets eyeing the more expensive grains and exotic fruits.
"Genevieve! When are you going to marry me?" Arlo called as she walked past his vase and mat stores. He was a delightfully chirpy man, a few years her senior and someone she would not consider marrying in a million years. He was a trader, looking only to make a profit and made advances to anything wearing a skirt. Italian men, Genevieve knew, were the cheekiest beings on the planet. If they could get away with murder, their mothers would let them.
"I don't know Arlo, when are you going to stop calling out to every lady in the market?" she replied, amiably.
"Oh, it is only you who I call out to. No one else has my eye," he said, with a wide smile, his hands out to her invitingly.
"I find that hard to believe."
"Come now. You stand there, unmarried and beautiful. It is a sin for me not to ask!"
She made no response as she threw a smile over her shoulder and sauntered off, looking for more vegetables. The last thing she needed was a vase, a mat or pity from anyone. She worked for her coin, managed herself and took care of her mother. If anyone thought they were doing her a favour by marrying her, they were mistaken.
"You will change your mind one day!" Arlo called to her back. She didn't bother responding. She thought to herself, No I will not.
She always imagined that she would marry a man with a more wholesome trade: a builder, or a farmer, someone who knew how to use their hands as well as their brains. A creator of marvellous things, not a sly fox trying to get the better of a situation. Businessmen troubled her as they often said one thing and thought another. How was a woman meant to know what such a man wanted?
But marriage was a long way off for her and it was impossible to meet anyone, now that she could not attend church anymore. The priest serviced Genevieve and her mother at home for a few coin. Her low status meant that her options were limited. Who would want to marry a peasant? Genevieve's only chances were to gain employment in a rich family's home as a servant, if she weren't to marry. She frowned – this was not a desirable option either. While her room and board would be taken care of and cleaning and cooking and child-minding would occupy her time, she was afraid that she would be targeted for... other duties by the man of the household.
In the town, life was amplified by the sheer number of humans who lived there. Anonymity and notoriety were dependant on who knew you. If a thief was found, they were tied to a stake in the main square and common folk could goad them and throw rotten vegetables at them. If a woman went to church unattended by a chaperone, whispers rippled up and down the aisles almost drowning out the priest's sermon and her maidenhood was questioned. Either you were no one, a ghost in the crowd or you were the centre of it all, the main actress weather the attention was wanted or not.
Genevieve tried to be the ghost. Anonymity was her friend. She risked herself by wondering the markets alone but she had no choice. With few reliable friends and few coins to spare, she timed her market visits for early in the morning and made sure she was home by mid-morning. She made sure she was away to the tailor's at odd times, very early, and she never took the same route home in a two week turnaround. There were real risks that she had to carefully consider. Lest she be killed, or worse…
There was a knock on the door. Genevieve opened it to the familiar figure and she stepped aside for him to come in. He stood there in the foggy morning like the mist itself. His clothes were the same, his hood was the same and she could not see his face.
"I was wondering when I'd see you again," she said to him.
"Counting down the days?" Flirting? This was not what she expected.
"I don't like being in debt," she replied smiling. Visitors were few at the tiny house but she didn't tell him that. He smelled of manly sweat.
"I need to ask you for my favour," he said.
"Of course. I will do whatever you ask," she replied and sat down at her kitchen table, inviting him to do the same. He didn't reveal his face this time, even though Genevieve wished he would. She wanted to see his face again. Was it as handsome as she remembered? He pulled out a garment coloured white and red.
"I need this to be made into a hood, similar to the one that I am wearing." She took the material from him. It was strong and a little rough.
"With the red lining as well?" she asked, studying his hood.
"No something different but not too flamboyant," he seemed to freeze as she drew closer, running her hand over the design. "Will you do it? I will leave you one of my other shirts so the size will be right."
Genevieve picked up the shirt and felt the texture in her hands. His old shirt was cut in places. Rips would leave jagged marks on the fabric but these were clean cuts like from a knife. She did not enquire about them, it was not her business. She lay them out on the table and pondered her line of attack.
"I will do it. It will only take the day. You are welcome to stay here if you like."
"No I must leave. How is your mother?"
"She sleeps a lot better now. She also walks around the kitchen as well," Genevieve smiled and directed his attention to the chair, "In the afternoons I find her sitting exhausted but content right where you are now. A glorious smile on her face."
"I'm glad to hear it," she couldn't see his face but she imagined his smile, "I will return late this afternoon for the garment." Genevieve nodded and watched as he left, closing the door behind him.
She waited a few minutes then picked up his old shirt and smelled it. The manly sweat lingered on the cloth. The last time she smelled such a man was her father and she did not miss him very much.
Not the mental image she wanted to lay over the one she had of this man.
She set to work straight away, placing the old shirt on the table and the new material. As she worked, she contemplated the design for around the hood. She had an idea and went looking for gold scraps that she had in her material drawer. She worked away at her sewing machine for most of the day.
Just going on dusk, as she was preparing dinner for her mother, he returned. This time he removed his hood and smiled at her a little. She smiled a little back and waited as he inspected her work. He examined the gold border approvingly as she examined his face covertly. He put a small bag of coins on the table.
"Oh please!" she protested straight away, "You don't need to pay me. It was a favour I owed you. In fact, you'll insult me if you do," she said trying to hand it back to him. He refused to take it, smirking at her attempts and grabbed her hands, holding them in his. He spoke directly to her eyes, stopping her just by looking at her.
"This is nothing. I'll be offended if you don't take it," he replied sycophantically. Taken by his directness, she froze and wondered why. His eyes flickered past her briefly. "I'll be watching out for you," he said quietly to her with a surprisingly serious face. She wondered at his fleeting change in mood. Before she could protest or ask what he meant, he bid her a good night and left, closing the door behind him.
Back to cooking, Genevieve felt surreal yet excited, content and yet cautious. She attempted to push all these thoughts from her mind and fed her mother with what she hoped was not pre-occupied attention. Her mother was too old to notice anything other than to be grateful for the food she was receiving. They prayed together and read the bible, but all these things felt like clockwork, automatic.
It would be weeks before she caught sight of him again. But she was sure she did see him. Several times. She would be walking through the markets like she usually did and she would see him mirroring her on the other side of the stalls. When she rushed over to say hello, he vanished into thin air.
Or she would be on her way to the tailor's and she'd swear she'd seen him amidst the crowd, walking like a shadow, blending in with them. At least, she imagined it to be him…
Once, as she looked skyward to observe the weather, she thought saw him duck out of sight on one of the rooftops…