Chapter Two: Pécheur.
Purcell stood over his charge, head lilted to the side in silent scrutiny. He had arranged her on the bench from his table, before the hearth fire in the hope that the warmth may revive her. So far, it had only seen fit to crisp the visible edges of the shirt she wore and summon a dry, straw-like quality to the few strands of hair that it could reach.
Decisively, Purcell knelt beside his charge, arcing an arm over her stomach and taking hold of the farthest side of the bench. With the other he gripped the edge nearest to him and pushed. The result was the offensive screech of wood on flagstone and the lull of the young woman's head to finally face the flame.
Purcell took a moment to gaze upon her before he disentangled himself from the structure and was pleased to see at last, some colour returning to his rescued woman's countenance.
Taking a breath, Purcell released his grip on the bench and fumbled, instead, for the buttons of the woman's waistcoat. He had opened it almost to her naval before a sharp edge of silver pressed itself against his throat.
The pair rose to their feet in tense synchrony and Purcell was not surprised to find the woman far more graceful than he. He straightened awkwardly from his kneeling position, all the while wary of the proximate knife edge. It took him what seemed like an age to stand, but when he was completely upright, he gave an uncertain smile and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
The woman regarded him with narrowed and calculating eyes. Eyes which Purcell, if he had not known any better, could have sworn did not belong to the woman who had smiled to him on his boat. They were no longer pure and crisp, but darker in all senses of the word and held within them an astute rage.
"S'il vous plaît, Mademoiselle…" Purcell croaked, "Lower your dagger; you've nothing to fear from me."
To the fisherman's dismay, the dagger remained where it was, the woman responding only with a short downwards glance to her flayed doublet and an eyebrow raised incredulously.
"Please, I was only attempting to remove your waistcoat so that I could dry it by the fire." Purcell offered, finally lowering his hands. Silence fell around them then, the woman seemingly engaged in her thoughts.
"Where am I? And how did I come to be here?" She asked finally in a voice thick with salt water.
"You were nearly drowned in the Seine. I rescued you and brought you here...to my home." The fisherman then attempted a courteous bow, but was all the while acutely aware of the hum of silver on his chin, "Monsieur Davin Purcell, at your service."
The woman did not seem to care what her saviour's name was and instead turned her focus to a glancing survey of the room in which she found herself. It was in fairly good repair, but simply furnished; aside from a few ancient patches of red or blue, the walls were devoid of colour. They appeared a sand yellow, but this hue flickered in synchrony with the florid tendrils behind her. There was a door and a shuttered window in the wall to her left and an archway leading to a staircase in the one opposite. Other than herself, the man and the bench from which she had just risen, there was only a small square dining table, a dresser and three trunks stacked in the corner. Her gaze lingered on the trunks a moment and she noticed a drip of white lace and blue cotton from one of the unhinged corners.
"Might I have your name, Mademoiselle?" pried Purcell, causing the woman's gaze to fall upon him, once again.
She did not answer right away and instead took a breath, deliberating before finally offering a single word.
"Vivienne."
"Well, Vivienne, might I offer you a bed for the night and some dry clothes? The storm, I dare say, will not pass before morning."
Purcell was relieved to see Vivienne lower the weapon then, returning it to the cuff of her boot deftly. She heaved a resigned sigh and fixed her saviour with kindly eyes and a grateful smile.
"I would be glad of some dry clothing, monsieur, but I couldn't impose on you the night."
Purcell looked a little crestfallen at this, but nodded nevertheless, crossing to the trunks in the corner. He opened the very one that had caught Vivienne's eye before and retrieved from it a bundle of azure fabric, trimmed in ivory lace.
"This should do you for now at least."
He placed the roll into her arms and gave a nod to the staircase in the archway, "There is a bed chamber up there where you might dress and I will see if I can find a cloak. That is, if you still have your heart set upon leaving."
Vivienne was about to confirm that she did intend to leave, but by the time she had opened her mouth, Purcell had turned away from her and had busied himself with the trunks once again.
The bedchamber complimented the wanting living space below, perfectly, following suit with its bland walls and sparse furniture. There was nought but a bed, a worn but sturdy chest of drawers and a standing mirror, blemished with age in the space. This room, contrary to the flagstone floor below, had dark wood floorboards that creaked at the slightest pressure. Initially the sound grated, but after she realised why, she turned her thoughts to reminiscence. She remembered the ship, the crew, the captain. Before the disappearance and before the decision that may, if she had not been so lucky as to be rescued, have claimed her life.
She donned the dress with a degree of chagrin, lacing up the bodice to the best of her ability. It was slightly loose around her bust, but it would do until she could source something else, or until her usual attire was dry. For lack of other options, Vivienne pulled her sodden boots back on, all at once glad to feel the familiar tingle of the dagger against her right leg. She took up a brush from the dresser top and began to work at her matted tresses by the dwindling candle light, wincing a little as she grazed the tender flesh at the back of her head. She moved to stand before the mirror, not entirely impressed with the ensemble and fought hard the urge to turn as a floorboard creaked behind her.
"I found a cloak, for you." Came Purcell's voice followed by a flurry of dark heavy cloth as he tossed the item to the bed. Vivienne said nothing, expecting the fisherman to leave. When he did not, she found herself turning, brow furrowed.
Purcell remained silent, watching as the woman before him returned the brush to its rightful place and outstretched a hand for the mantle. Almost without thinking, he too grabbed at the cloth and held it taut between them.
"Pardon my actions, Mademoiselle, but…it seems to me that you are being decidedly ungrateful."
At this statement, Vivienne released her grip on the cloth. Purcell continued with a sardonic laugh.
"I was selfless enough to pull you from the river, shelter you and dress you and you have not so much as offered a simple 'Merci'…"
Vivienne took a breath and gave a slow, thoughtful nod, "Ah, but Monsieur Purcell, what if I did not wish to be saved? Would you still expect me to be grateful then?"
Purcell fell silent at this and faltered, releasing his grasp on the cloak. Vivienne seized her chance and swept the mantle around and over herself with a flourish. She took a few steps in the direction of the doorway, pausing to afford the fisherman a polite curtsey, in a pantomime of false gratitude.
"Merci, Monsieur Purcell, for your selflessness and hospitality. I am truly grateful to you for preserving my life and I shall ever be in your debt. If our paths should cross again, ask of me what you will and I shall endeavour to repay you, but for now, good sir; Bonsoir et Adieu."
Vivienne had only just reached the top stair when she felt one hand curl around her left wrist and another upon her collarbone.
A startled yelp escaped her lips as she came face to face with the wall at such a force that it knocked the breath from her lungs. For a second, she was in the Seine's embrace again, but this time the pressure was different, this time it was tangible and this time, she could fight back.
Vivienne winced as her assailant twisted her arm and brought his face but an inch from her own. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek and in her ear as a venomous growl slithered from his lips, "How dare you mock me."