Chapter 2

Her stomach sick with dread, Anevyren made a final check of her belongings—key, money, clothes for the stranger, leftovers for John... Where was her shawl? Of course—the stranger had never given it back. Hastily, she locked up the Cradle, and jigged down the front steps. She nearly ran to John's shop, rapping her knuckles loudly against the brightly-painted wood. He opened the door, greeting her with a similarly-anxious face.

"How is he?" he asked immediately, as she stepped into the warm aroma of the floral shop.

"I do not know," she admitted, as the basket containing her sample leftovers were handed to him—each day, she brought him that which her customers did not take. "I left him at the cottage, this morning."

He started. "You left him in your home? I thought you wiser than this, child!"

Anevyren flinched away from his harsh tone. "I could not leave him in the Cradle," she argued weakly. "There was nothing else I could do with him!"

John set aside the basket, fetched his coat, and turned out the lamps within the shop. "Come," he said gruffly, again lifting the basket and ushering her towards the door. "I'll walk you home."

Together they set off in silence, neither of them with the nerve to speak to the other. Their steps were quick, for anxiety urged them into a haste that neither would normally have indulged in. As a result, they reached the cottage in nearly half the time it usually took Anevyren. She walked up to the door, John half a step behind her, and opened it. "Sir?" she called into the darkness. "I am home... Are you here?"

John followed her within, shutting the door behind her. Both of them wandered into the kitchen; her shawl lay discarded carelessly upon the kitchen table, but there was no other sign of the man's presence. "I am not surprised," she murmured. "He did not seem very interested in remaining."

John was shaking his head. "What if he returns, Annie? He could be some sort of lunatic! He knows where you live, now—he could kill you in your sleep!"

She could not help but laugh as she folded the shawl, and draped it across her arm. "John, don't be foolish. He was just an unfortunate fellow..." More unfortunate than you know, she added silently, for she had not the heart to tell anyone about the man's face. She could only surmise that it had somehow resulted in his current position—there were, after all, a small few people in the world who would not see fit to shy away from such a terrible visage.

"An 'unfortunate fellow' who could be intending to take out his rage on you, Annie," he growled.

She moved into the sitting room, dropping the clothes for the stranger down onto the sofa. She had gone to buy them during her lunch—and, it seemed, had sacrificed a pretty penny for no reason. Perhaps some other too-tall, too-thin man would wander into her life one day? "There's nothing to worry about, John," she told him in a tired voice.

"I think I should stay the night," he said, as he moved to stoke a fire. "I could go home to Hazel to tell her, and be back before the hour was past."

Again, she laughed. "Don't be foolish!" she repeated. "I will be perfectly alright."

He shook his head. "I never liked you staying out in the country on your own, Annie—and definitely, not tonight."

Her brows furrowed. "John, it isn't.. appropriate, you staying with an unmarried girl. Go home to Hazel and the children."

John advanced on her, face growing near-furious. "Annie, I'm staying!" he bellowed. "And that is final!"

Barely had such angry words slipped from his throat, when a dark shadow separated itself from the inky blackness of the hallway and threw itself onto him, driving him backwards and against the wall next to the fireplace. Anevyren recognized the stranger, and she immediately rushed forwards. The man's powerful forearm was pressed against John's throat, successfully pinning him between body and wall. The distorted flesh was no longer visible; a hood had been sewn and stitched together, covering the man's head and face, leaving holes only for his eyes and mouth—like an executioner's hood.

From beneath those frightening holes, the flames of his eyes burned brilliantly.

"Stop it!" she yelled, pulling against his arm. "Let him go!"

That lifeless head turned to look at her, and studied her for a moment, before stepping back. It stuck an arm out between John and Anevyren, and as it moved, managed to push Anevyren back with it.

John fell to his knees, coughing. Anevyren wished only to run to him, to check on him, but that firm gaze daring her to attempt to move past its arm made her think better of it.

"Do you see, Annie?" John managed to sputter. "He is unstable! Dangerous! He's a madman!"

That head had turned back to John, the eyes narrowed. Questioningly, it again glanced at Anevyren. Realization dawned upon her slowly. "John, I don't think he speaks our language. I think.. he was protecting me!" She forced her eyes away from the stranger's, and to John, who was looking at her as if she had grown a second head. "I think you should leave now, John."

He stumbled to his feet, and towards the door. "I'll be back to check on you in the morning," he told her.

"I do not think that is wise, John," she warned. "I will be at the Cradle, tomorrow—speak to me then."

Grudgingly, he nodded.

"John?" she called.

He paused in his movement towards the door, and turned to look at her again.

"Please, don't tell anyone."

Without a word, he left.

Anevyren set the plate of food down in front of the stranger, and paused to watch him. Beneath that black cloth, he was looking at the food as if he had never seen such a thing before. She waved a hand towards it, and then towards him; when still he did not move, she lifted the fork and placed it in his hand. "Eat," she commanded firmly, before turning back to the oven to fix her own plate of food.

When she joined him at the table, he had set the fork back down, and was watching her expectantly. She lifted her own fork, and began eating. Still, he did not eat; he merely watched her in awkward silence. She finished her own meal, trying to keep her eyes away from him as much as possible, though she was painfully aware of his eyes upon her, and his utter lack of movement—and, thus, his utter lack of eating. She cleared her place, washing plate and fork, and then drew her chair close to his own. One hand lifted his fork, stabbed a morsel of food, and moved it towards his mouth.

Moments before it neared his mouth, he turned his head away.

Scowling, she reached up and caught his chin within the grasp of one powerful hand; the other, bearing the fork, now jammed the food into his mouth. The man reached up with his own hands and captured her wrists, pushing them away and holding them there. His grip seemed almost casual, and yet try as she might, she could not escape from it.

He chewed the food slowly, and then plucked the fork from her hand. He stabbed another piece of food, lifted it, and placed it within his mouth. Gracefully was it pulled from the prongs of the fork, and he appeared to relish in the chewing of it. Relief washed through her—and, she was surprised to find, a bit of pleasure at his apparent approval of her cooking.

His head turned, to look upon her hands—still within his grip. His eyes studied the somewhat purple-tinted hands—so different from the rest of her skin, which was as pale as marble—and then raised to meet her own, in question.

"From working with the plants," she explained in a soft voice. "It is a permanent side effect of my lifestyle. No matter how hard I scrub," she added, with laughter in her voice, "the color never quite seems to go away."

He watched her for a moment more, and then released her wrists, and turned his attention back to the food. She still was not sure whether he could understand her or not; with only eyes and the turn of his lips to go by, his expression was not in the least bit readable.

She shrugged, and stood, replacing her chair and wandering into the living room. The clothes she had bought for him were lifted and carried back into the kitchen. She set them on the table, nearby his seat. "They're not as fine as what you're used to," she said, with no amount of sarcasm—she had noticed, throughout the evening, that though his clothes were tattered and dirty, underneath the wear and tear they were of very expensive material. "They should fit, though, and that's what's important."

He finished his meal, and pushed the plate aside. The clothes were inspected, and his head nodded once.

"Come, and I'll show you to the bath." He did not move; she reached forward, and took his hand, and gave him a slight tug. She then made a "come hither" motion with her hand; that seemed to do the trick. He followed her through the house, his steps utterly silent. She led him to the bathroom, opened the door, and pointed within. He nodded to her, before stepping in and firmly shutting the door in her face.

Constraining a sigh, she went to her bedroom. The door was considered for a long moment, before slowly she shut it and slid the latch into place. She felt foolish—cruel, almost—but she had to admit that John was right. The man had shown carnal instincts, had proven that he felt no remorse at the thought of taking a man's life. Why should she feel safe sleeping, with his presence in the house?

She undressed and pulled her nightgown over her head. The braid was undone and her long hair brushed, before she realized that she had not made up the guest bedroom for the man. (In truth, she was not even sure why she had a guest bedroom, for not once in her life had a guest set foot in her home; tonight had been the first time even John had come. She supposed now that it was good, though, that she had thought to have one built.)

With a sigh, she set the hairbrush aside, unlatched the door, and padded down the hall and to the guest bedroom. A lamp was lit, and she moved towards the bed—only to find sheets already upon it, and a few objects scattered around. The stranger had obviously made himself at home, not only with her cloth (with which he had stitched himself the hood). She smiled a bit, and had almost snuck back out again, when she saw lying upon the bedside table a piece of paper. She lifted it, and looked upon it in silence. It was a drawing, rough but still good, of a girl's face. The girl was crying, and a sad smile was upon her lips. She was beautiful, pristine...

Anevyren carried it into the sitting room, and sat down in an armchair near to the fire. The girl's face was studied for a long time, all sorts of romantic daydreams flowing into her mind based upon it. Was she a mother? A sister? A wife? She certainly looked saintly enough to have wed a man with such a face; she looked almost angelic in her purity.

The stranger stepped from the bathroom and into the sitting room, looking at her. His hair was obviously still wet; it was soaking through the hood. His clothes clung to him, as all clothes cling to damp skin, and the skin upon his neck glistened in the firelight.

The paper was held towards him. "Who is she?" she asked, eyes wide. "She is very beautiful..."

He held the paper in one hand, and ran his fingers across the girl's face with the other. For a long moment, he looked down upon that drawing, stroking it lovingly.. before suddenly, stroking fingers caught it up and crumpled it, and threw it into the dying fire. Angrily, he turned, and vanished into the guest room. The door slammed.

Anevyren stood shakily, and eased down the hallway past his room. She entered her bedroom, and was just in the act of shutting the door, when a quiet moan met her ears. She paused, listening, as the moan turned to sobs, which quickly became angry but heartbroken snarls. Shivering, she latched the door, blew out her lamp, and snuggled deep into her bed.

The sounds of the stranger weeping eventually led her into sleep.