Chapter 3

Anevyren rolled onto her back, grudgingly giving in to that second sense that warned her of the time to awaken. It had been a late night, last night, and she had grown used to retiring early in the evening. As a result, her body fought valiantly against waking. Still, eventually, she could not argue any longer, and was forced to give in. Hands reached up to scrub her eyes, before slowly forcing them open. Bleary sight took in the hazy view of the dark ceiling, and that slightly darker splotch to the right... with the two oddly glowing flames...

With a scream, she scrambled away from the stranger, sitting so casually upon the edge of her bed. He jumped up as well, quickly retreating out of the room and disappearing. She stood in the corner of her room, hand upon her heaving chest, trying to catch her breath. When finally her terror died down, anger welled up in its place. The usually mild woman found fury taking firm hold of her; she charged out of her room and into the kitchen, where she could hear him moving around.

When she came around the corner, she was confronted with the vision of him, standing at one end of a table set beautifully with breakfast, a candle, and a vase of purple hyacinth. She almost objected, upon seeing that it was set only for one person, but again fell silent when she saw a dirty plate in the sink. She could not help but be struck by the thoughtfulness of his actions, and the utter politeness with which he bowed and extended one hand towards the table, before drawing out her chair for her.

She sank down, smiling despite herself. The stranger handed a fork to her, eyes glinting with humor, before retreating from the kitchen. The meaning of the flowers was not lost on her; it had long been a tradition to offer purple hyacinth in way of apology. Had he known she would realize that? It was not a difficult thing to assume; the shop, the garden—after all, it had been her garden that he had taken the hyacinths from.

Fearing to appear rude, she ate her breakfast, smiling to herself all the while. When she finished, she blew out the candle—for daylight had already intruded on the interior of her cottage—and stood to wash both her dish and his. As if on cue, however, he stepped in and whisked the plate away from her. Anevyren left him to it, as he wished, and went to the bathroom to prepare for another day.

When she came out, she found him standing at the window, looking out over her garden, once again appearing hopelessly lost in thought. She moved towards him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He ignored her touch. "Sir?" Still, he ignored her.

Anevyren gave in, one hand reaching up towards the hood. "Your nose, sir... It needs to be—"

A hand whipped up to grab her wrist, squeezing so hard she feared for a moment that the bones would break. She let out a loud whimper; he pushed her away, and walked across the room to place the furniture between them. Clutching her wrist to her chest, she headed for the front door. "I want you gone when I get home!" she shouted, before tumbling out the door and into the street.

The crisp air struck her damp cheeks, and she forced herself to pause and get a hold on herself. She scrubbed at the tears on her cheeks, self-loathing welling up in her stomach. She had known better. She had acted foolishly. And now, like a child, she was crying—though, she soothed her ruffled pride by telling herself she was shaken more from the pain (far too reminiscent of her father's temper) and less from the actual rebuke she had received.

Shivering, she forced her arm down to her side, and began the weary journey to the Cradle. She had taken only a few steps, when there was a loud crack of thunder, and a moment later, an icy drizzle began to fall on her still-unbraided hair.

Cold hands reached up beneath the dark veil, touching tenuously to the crooked, swollen, aching nose. It was bleeding again; he ignored it. Slowly, he lifted the veil, just enough to look upon the nose—that was all he could bear to see. It had become a horrible mess. Taking a deep breath, he reached up to press on its side. The resulting crunch sent a sickening tremor through him, and he was forced to back away; his vision was swimming. He reached for the well-used rag and pressed it beneath his nose, moving away from the mirror and into the hall. One hand flew out to brace himself on the wall, breaths coming in ragged bursts.

He reached his room, and sank down on the bed, eyes closing in an attempt to fight away the nausea. He could not do this on his own, and he knew as much. He would have to let the girl help. She was obviously some sort of healer—certainly not a doctor, but perhaps... She had seen his face, had looked upon it with no exceeding amount of horror. Why, then, did the idea of her seeing it long enough to fix his nose frighten him so badly?

His hand lowered the rag, the other hand raising to touch beneath his nose. The bleeding had stopped again, for now. Suddenly angry, he hurled the rag at the wall, and ground his teeth together. There was little he recalled of that flight from the Garnier; his mind had been far too lost in pain, lost in self-loathing, to remember much. There were flashes, however—of that night, and the several days afterwards. Days in which he had hidden, had starved, had frozen... Days in which he had attempted to return to the Garnier, for the mask he had been too distracted to remember to grab. That had been foolish—both the leaving it, and the returning for it. People had been waiting, expecting him to return...

Fingertips brushed against the bruise on his cheek, and angry tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He forced himself to stand, and wandered into the girl's bedroom. Bloody fingers pried open her drawers, rifling through her bureau, but coming up empty. He turned then to the wardrobe, flipping its doors open and searching through it. A pair of knee-high leather boots—riding boots, from the look of it—was pulled forth, and he then went to her study. The scissors he had previously used to cut the cloth for his makeshift hood were dropped into his pocket, along with the spool of black thread.

He clamped a needle between his lips, and returned to his bedroom to work. He could not bear to live underneath this suffocating mass of cloth any longer; a real mask had to be made.

So deeply did he pour himself into work on the mask, that he did not hear the door open. It was not until footsteps sounded in the hallway that he stiffened, thrust the mask and the supplies underneath the bed, and retreated to stand against the wall. The door to his bedroom opened, swinging back to cover his form. Those soft footsteps wandered deeper into his room, paused, and then he heard a slight weight sink down onto the bed.

Words reached his ears, though he could not understand them. The language these people spoke was one he had not heard before; a few words had been picked up on, but for the most part, he did not understand a word of what was said. This was no different; it was no more than a jumble of sound, now, and it did not help that the girl was crying.

He lingered for a long time, listening to her, trying to decide what to do. She was obviously distressed; was it his place to intrude upon her, in such a state? When several minutes passed, and the sobbing and the muttering had not died down, he pushed the door back gently, and stepped into the ring of light from the lamp beside his bed.

The girl saw him, and let out a little cry. It almost occurred to him to be hurt, until she leapt to her feet and threw herself onto him, arms going around his neck. Her sobs grew louder, and she was saying something—repeating it over and over again, furiously. She leaned back to look into his eyes, and must have seen the confusion there, because her face fell dramatically. Sniffling, she took his hand, and led him into the kitchen. Her spare hand lifted the purple hyacinth, and extended it towards him, a sad smile curling her lips.

His lips parted, and for a moment, he almost considered speaking. So heart-warming was her offering of apology, so kind her eyes... He clamped his lips shut. He had made a vow—on his last night at the Garnier, as he watched Christine and Raoul leave together—to never use his voice again. He refused to break it for a silly girl holding a purple hyacinth.

Still, he refused to allow that defeated look to remain on her face. He nodded, and took the hyacinth from her, offering a smile to show that he understood. She brightened considerably, and led him over to the chair at the table. Determination shone brightly in those eyes, now, as she sat him down and dragged the other chair around in front of him.

She made a sound, and then pointed at herself. He stared blankly at her, thankful that she could not see the blood rushing to his cheeks. He felt like an idiot, and the helpless look on her face did not make it any better.

This time, she pressed her hands against her chest first, and then very slowly said, "Anevyren." She tapped her chest several times, repeating the word. His face lit up. She was not saying a word, she was saying her name! Anevyren! No wonder the confusion—Anevyren was not a name he had heard before, though he supposed that would go hand in hand with a language he had never heard before.

She was watching him expectantly, hopefully. He nodded to her, and raised his hand to his lips. He drew an "X" across them, and shook his head. She looked somewhat disappointed, but far less than she had when she had believed him not to understand her.

Anevyren was talking again; he tuned her out. There was no point in listening to that endless, senseless chatter; the way she flowed through sentences as if talking more to herself than to him made it impossible to even attempt to pick up familiar words. It was easier to just ignore her.

Her steps were carrying her towards the door, a hand passing in front of her face in a goodbye wave. He barely had time to lift his hand as well, before she had vanished out the door again, with a much sunnier countenance than previously.

Anevyren jogged down Carlington, smiling brightly. Her lunch break was very nearly over, but it would have been worth it to be late, to have accomplished so much with the stranger. She still did not know his name, but at least he knew hers—and, at least she knew for sure that he could not speak her language. Still, they had flowers—it would help her along the way, make things a bit easier.

John's door opened, and he stepped out. "Annie!" he called.

She slowed down, and turned to look at him. "I can't talk now, John," she told him. "I've got to get back to the shop."

He stepped down from his stoop, and fell into step beside her. "I've got another half-hour; I'll come with you."

Anevyren bit her lip. She could not argue against his wishes without seeming as if she were attempting to purposefully avoid him—but, after all, she was purposefully avoiding him. "Very well," she said, in the cheeriest voice she could manage.

They walked into her shop, she taking the stool behind her counter, and he leaning against it. "How is your stranger?" he asked, voice deceptively mild.

"Fine," she answered stiffly, reaching forwards to rearrange the "Free Samples" sign. It tended to become more and more crooked, with each happy hand that reached within her basket.

John grabbed her wrist, and pulled it towards him. Instinctively, she let out a little cry—both because she was still shy of being grabbed, and because he managed to successfully lay his hands directly upon the bruise on her wrist. "From him?" he asked angrily, looking down at the bruise.

"No, I..." She pulled against him. "It's nothing, an accident."

His eyes raised, glowering at her. "I can see the fingerprints, Anevyren."

With one rapid yank, she managed to free herself of his hold. "It's nothing," she repeated coldly. "An accident." At the rising of his eyebrows, she attempted to further explain. "I.. startled him."

"And so he attempted to break your wrist." It was not a question, was rather a statement of disapproval. "And he is still there?"

She nodded. Silence extended for a moment, and then she attempted to shift subjects a bit. "We.. communicated, just a moment ago." Despite attempts to keep her voice casual, her excitement broke through. "He gave me a purple hyacinth, John, and made me breakfast, and—"

"For the wrist?"

She hesitated, and then nodded. "Yes, for the wrist. He felt terrible..." As did she, now, for guilt was welling up from deep within even from that tiny lie. She pushed onwards. "And he learned my name, sort of."

"Sort of?" he repeated dumbly.

"Yes..." Anevyren sighed a bit. "It seems that he is mute, but he made it clear that he understood that I was saying my name."

John opened his mouth to ask another question, but was forced to quickly shut it again when the bell announced the coming of a customer. "I will speak to you later," he said softly, before turning to merrily greet the customer, and then quickly departing.