Gianna

God, it was bright!

I blinked, wincing at the harsh rays peaking through the shutters. The light created stripes across the bed. I twiddled my fingers between them. My head ached, though the earlier dizziness left. I looked around the room. Dust had settled on whatever surface it could find. This place was steeped in it. I felt several layers of linen blankets suffocating and musty. How long had Uncle been gone?

Though looser from sleep, my corset still dug into my ribs. My bones shook as I scrambled out of bed. An uncomfortable squelch escaped my stomach. I stumbled, trying to make sense of what occurred yesterday.

The driver!

Oh, my. Poor man! He never deserved such an end. And to die so near respite. What tragedy. And Erik had made me leave him and all my things…

Erik!

That boy! That mask! What kind of person wore a veil like that? They certainly would not let anyone run around like that in New York. He looked like some fairytale creature, appearing out of the woods. And he was in my uncle's house! The thought made me blush. We slept in different rooms but still unchaperoned under the same roof. Father would throw a fit. Shame rose within me.

He had helped me, hadn't he? He could have kept walking, but who wouldn't help a defenseless woman? A wealthy-looking one at that? He could not be a pirate, could he? Or a train robber? Father had warned me of such men.

What was I to do - send him away? That would make me alone in an unknown country whose language I had tried and failed to learn. The forgotten book of Italian still sat in the carriage. I paced, only to realize I did not know my next step. I pulled up the ripped sleeve to preserve a modicum of decorum. I recongnized how out of my depth I was in that moment.

The door creaked, and I cringed.

"Good morning," I ventured.

But he was gone.

He had no responsibility towards me. I was just a stranger in need of help. And he was just that– a stranger. That heavy veil and those thin, spider-like fingers riled my nerves anyway. He was probably a bad person, running around the forest like a heathen. He was odd, and I did not care for it. And how anxious he was when I brought up going to the police? He treated the suggestion like a threat. And he did not hesitate to fire the gun. Who acted like that?

Someone who had done similar things many times before.

I stilled. Did he still have it? Was it in his pocket, ready to be unleashed upon his next victim?

Other than the depressed fainting couch, I saw no signs of life. He presented as a figment of my injured imagination—such an unearthly countenance he had.

Half relieved at his absence but half panicked at being alone, I searched for food, money, and anything valuable. I found a small pump and gulped several glasses down. I washed my gloves, trying and failing to get the blood out of the fabric. I surveyed the rest of the home. The quarters lacked the lived-in feel I had expected. My uncle wrote warmly in his letters, but the sparse decor in the parlor and small kitchen contradicted his prose: a table, wood stove, and dry sink. No tablecloth. Uncle kept a tidy house, yet it needed a good scrubbing. I could help.

But I did not have to. No one was watching. No one ordered me to get back to work. Not even the strange boy was there to criticize me. I was alone.

My heart lurched.

I needed to determine my next steps. I found a needle and thread and attempted to stitch the torn parts of my gown. My wanderings caused me to prick my finger. I stared at my hands and sighed. It was useless. The wool refused my coaxing. I had saved for months for that fabric. I mourned its loss, slamming the project on the dusty table. My face heated at the implications of going out in my chemise. I needed something to wear.

There was not much, but I discovered all the closets available. My uncle seemed an open person by his letters, and his doors were no different. I blatantly snooped through his things, from old toys and clothes to school assignments. Trousers and shirts lined the rack.

My perusal stopped when I discovered a leather box- dust-covered but well-oiled. Someone had taken time to carve the initial TG. I held my breath. Mother's?

The trunk contained a simple summer dress with a high collar and modest, poofing sleeves. Out of fashion but incredibly well made, someone had handstitched the sleeves.

My mother died when I was very young, but I remember flashes of her. She always wore dark, rich colors- reds, greens, and blues were most common. I simply could not picture her in this yellow, though. Father always said her dark hair was keenly suited to red.

Papers poked out of the box, and I fingered one open. I stared at the script, and my head pounded. The lettering was crammed together as if someone had only had one piece of paper.

Dear Charlot,

I miss you. I treasure my time here, but I miss Venice. Why did we ever leave it? I might have been contented to float away in a Gondola. But that is enough daydreaming. We often visit Josiah's factories, which only get hotter in the summer. The noise is truly awful. I long for the human noises of Wall Street, and I try to convince Josiah to let me stay in the city. Sometimes, he allows it. Henry is off to boarding school, and I miss him so. Josiah stopped taking me to the mills after I feigned yet another headache. The workers glare at me, and I do not like it. Gianna is a good girl, and I found that adjustment to be her mother is not hard. We spend much time together, and I wonder why I ever asked if she would accept me, and I, her. Josiah said it was not in her nature to learn it. I disagreed. We speak French exclusively. I do not like American English- it is worse than its British cousin, and although I can communicate, I do not understand my neighbors, nor do they see me as more than an odd foreign wife.

How are your studies in Rome? You are so very talented. I hope all goes well with you.

How is her Highness? I miss her antics. You must take her on walks more. Being cooped up only makes her cry out. You must take care of her in my absence! I know you cannot understand each other, but you must give her excellent food and water. Boil it twice. She is particular about it. I have mourned this adjustment for her. I know you are capable.

Take care of yourself, and do not drink too often.

With love,

Therese

I read it five times. Then five more.

By the date on this letter… I must have been three or four. She seemed…melancholic. And her Highness? A dog? I knew I received my love for animals somewhere. I pocketed the letter.

My eyes fell on the dress. I did favor the yellow. The linen cloth was lighter and allowed more movement. The dress's measurements forced me to abandon the crinoline, flatting my silhouette. The gash above my left brow looked even worse against the butter yellow of the garment.

Oh, this was terrible! I could contact the police, wire a letter home, and explain my situation. The unaired room stifled me, and I finally braved the outdoors after I replaced the gloves on my hands. They were still damp, but they would have to do. I would go to Rome. That was reasonable and responsible. He took the horse, so I would have to walk. I laced up my dirtied boots and craned my neck out.

No one was there.

I reminded myself that it was all right. I could face this task. I would find an authority of some kind. This was a large city; I am sure many spoke French here.

It was not alright! I could starve out here. I had one pair of clothes. No money. I had no idea where the city was. I was too busy staring at the streets, the foreign yet familiar chaos. People chatted, hooves clicked on the streets, and smells came from everywhere. Driving through Rome had felt like a fairytale. I thought about the carriage but dismissed the idea in the same instant. The thought of confronting the gore again chilled me. Who would want to touch the blood, look into a glass-eyed stare for a second time in as many days?

I inhaled. That man might have been a father. He was someone's son. It was my duty to tell someone. I turned, marching in the direction we came from. Would someone find the scene? Erik has said they would. But who was I to trust him? I prayed I did not encounter the carriage as I walked.

That man sacrificed his life to get me here. The least I could do was help ensure his body was buried.

I stopped and gasped.

He stood under a tall pine. He spoke and petted the horse's neck, running his hands through its mane. With his dark clothes and black hair, he looked out of place in the bright summer sun. He noticed my perusal, and his head whipped up, eyes narrowing. The disturbing veil was gone, only to be replaced by a cold, impersonal leather mask. It stretched from his forehead to his top lip, which looked thin and dry. Ragged clothing hung off his narrow shoulders, but he carried himself well. My earlier boldness dried up under his gaze.

"You enjoy staring at people?" He said.

No. I am not some idiot! "Getting ready to leave?"

"No, though I can't imagine staying here much longer." His voice was lovely—smooth and silky, like fine fabric.

"Why?"

"I cannot stay in Rome any longer- due to… circumstances."

Circumstances. Like the circumstances around the gun? My eyes went to his pocket, but I could not detect anything. "Ah. Well, thank you. For- everything. You are very kind." I should be good to him. He did help me yesterday— he probably saved my life. That mask unnerved me still. He could probably scare off robbers.

"Are you well?"

"How do you mean?" But I suddenly remembered the welt on my forehead. I placed my palm on it suddenly, accidentally slapping the wound. I winced. "Oh, I am sorry, it is probably horrific. Please, excuse me."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed, turning around to lead the horse away.

How rude! I did nothing! I did not control his situation! His casual dismissal surprised and infuriated me. He didn't even look middle-class, for goodness' sake! He was no better than I! "You are leading the horse on the wrong side." I imagined him arching a brow, but the mask hid any expression. I felt the corners of my lips turn up, giddy to compete with this strange figure. "You always lead on the left, you know."

"And since when did you become the equestrian, Signorina?"

"I do not like your tone. And because you asked since I was eight." His head cocked to the side. A saddle lay flat on the ground- really, did he not know how to lay it the right way? He would ruin it! "You have not been around horses much, have you?"

His eyes, a disturbing yellow color, narrowed. His mask, simultaneously revealing more and hiding much, transfixed me. I stepped back.

"I will not harm you!"

How was I to know that? It was not as if he resembled an upstanding citizen. I thought about the missing gun. The horse shifted its feet. I used this as an excuse to walk around, calming it and myself.

Thoroughly chastised, though still unnerved, I placed my hand on the dapple's withers, attempting to steer the conversation to safer waters. He was simply an unsettling person, I concluded.

"Right here is where they love to be scratched. Watch."

After a few movements, the large gelding jutted his neck out, his long eyelashes fluttering. It looked like Erik was smirking, though his grim disposition made it hard to decipher. I thought it safe to venture a question.

"Have you ever had a pet?"

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"A dog."

"Oh, I always wanted a dog. I love animals. What kind?"

He huffed. "Do you ever cease your imbecilic questioning?"

Why was he acting so rude? Maybe he needed a taste of his own medicine. "Do you ever stop sounding like an old man?" His speech came off stilted. He looked and sounded close to my age, yet his demeanor bespoke a certain maturity. He did not shuffle his feet or slouch. He stood still and straight with a military-like confidence. Where did this sophistication come from? And it seemed like he didn't even need to try! Dressed like a beggar and speaking like a gentleman. Really, in what world? I tried not to be offended- I did- but he was just so rude!

"You snooty French people- thinking you're better than everyone else… well, do you want to learn how to ride a horse or not?" I doubted he would want instruction from my sex, but I desperately needed to point out his ignorance on the subject.

"So you are not French."

"On my mother's side."

"Fine. Show me then." He motioned a hand dramatically, like some showman.

I reached for the saddle Erik found, spotting a large hole in the saddle flap. I paused. Did he use...? For his...?

"I required it for obvious reasons."

"The reasons are not so obvious to me."

"It is none of your business. The device is still usable. Continue."

I let it drop. He cut through no vital part, though it was a terrible use for a perfectly good saddle. I explained various straps and adjustments. He took it all in quietly, nodding on occasion. I admitted that he climbed on with grace. His long legs forced me to adjust the stirrups, and he tensed when I brushed his calf.

"Keep your heels down and your hands quiet." His hands were cold despite the warm air. I did not want to touch him, but his positioning was so poor that I was forced to. He gulped loudly- was I so disgusting? Though my bruised head painted quite a sight, I did not care. No one passed. And I did not seek to impress him. We were isolated in this forested world. Despite his lack of civility, I enjoyed conversing in French. I had not spoken it in some time. It came back to me more effortless now.

"What is that supposed to mean?" His scathing tone brought me out of my thoughts.

"It means keep them low and don't pull on his mouth so much—he'll thank you for it." Erik did as I asked. This surprised me, considering how obstinate he had been before. Perhaps he could be a quick study. The gelding propped up a back hoof, sighing.

I showed him various techniques and directions for over an hour. Despite his inexperience, he demonstrated command as a rider. It had taken me years to develop the surety Erik so quickly exhibited.

"You must master the basics before you move on." He just shook his head, all but ignoring me. "You will be sore tomorrow- I would stop before the pain gets too severe."

"Nonsense." He said flippantly.

"Don't say I didn't warn you!" I called as he squeezed his heels. They were leaving, kicking up dust.

Did I give him the means to leave? Why was I so stupid? All he wanted was that horse.

"Wait! Erik!"

But he didn't hear me. Hoofbeats pounded the hard ground.

I had no reason to trust him other than his earlier act of kindness. But that action was not selfless- he needed the horse. He said so himself. My first foray into the world was an utter disaster. Defeated, I walked back to the house.

I spotted bright yellow spots hidden in the green trees. Lemons. Uncaring, I picked several, my arms crowded with them. I would eat. Then I would walk to Rome.

Why was I so torn up when I had just met him? I hated my dependence. He would not be back, I decided. I could always stay here, though the idea sickened me. I had yet to learn where I was- or how to get anywhere. I should speak to someone soon, but the thought of venturing into the woods again- with the bodies… I made to leave again after a small, horrible meal. I needed to learn how to cook better. The sun poked through the western windows. Nighttime approached, and I shivered. All alone… in this creaky old home…

I'd rather spend the night in the mill.

I examined my head. It was a nasty gash, but it would heal. During my musings, Erik walked in. My heart jumped a little. He was back! I let out a breath. How did he sneak up behind me so fast? His thick black hair was windblown, giving him a wild look. He glanced at me and the mirror, his lip pulling up into a sneer and turning away. He could at least try to hide his disgust. He scanned the room, looking anywhere but me.

"What is that?" He pointed to the pitcher.

My cheeks grew hot, embarrassed that he caught me staring at myself and trying not to look so relieved at his return. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Lemonade."

"Ah- well, I have a proposition for you." His eyes shifted around, and his leg twitched. Really- his eyes and body were so expressive for someone with a mask, as if his entire form burst with emotion, begging to be let out. He coughed. The dust? "Yes- well, you are safe and delivered to your desired residence. I will take the horse out of your hands as payment for your rescue."

I stared at him through the mirror. He refused to look in my direction. "No. Do you even know how much that horse cost?"

"Less than a life?"

I had just conceded to walking into Rome alone an hour ago. Yet I refused to give up the ground I had gained. Never mind the fact that he could have left earlier. "And my rescue? You did help, I will admit. But you could have stepped in sooner. Perhaps what you did resulted from simple good manners, not heroism."

He looked personally offended. "I apologize for not meeting your standard of gallantry, mademoiselle. I thank you for pointing out my moral failings."

"You misunderstand me. I had no intention of criticizing you, only pointing out reality. It was I who killed that man."

"I disagree. I shot him."

"And I stabbed him." Were we arguing about this? I rolled my eyes rudely. "Fine. It's a wash. But look at it this way. Without you, I may be still on the forest floor, though very much alive." I clenched my teeth. I felt dirty. "You received a place to stay- that was our agreement. I will give you no more, Monsieur Erik."

"Fine. I will leave you here- all alone tonight. Perhaps more robbers lurk about the property. They do love plucking up innocent little girls."

"Don't try to manipulate me! If I gave you the horse, you would be gone anyway. I would get nothing."

This gave him pause. "I could be convinced to stay—for a price. It's not like you could go out on your own."

"I was planning on doing that very thing."

"And I imagine we would see a repeat of yesterday's events. You should stay here."

"What makes you think I want to stay here?" Was I going to wait for my uncle for a month? His pantry was lined with grains I had no earthly idea how to turn into anything edible—not even grits. The taste of my earlier creation still clung to my tongue. I didn't even know my way to the city or the language. "Take me to Venice. Once we're there, you can have the horse."

He mulled this over for a bit, making a show of thinking. "What makes you a good travel companion? From my knowledge, you are not exactly a good luck charm."

As if I could control any of those events! Still, my fear trumped any misgivings I had over his disturbing presence. "I will not complain, and you need what I have. My uncle will pay you handsomely if you deliver me safely. And you cannot injure me in any way. And did I say you'd get the horse?"

He grew angry. "I will not injure you!" I twisted around. He sighed, and his eyes softened. He seemed...tired. But that look faded, and his normal constitution took over again. "How do you know he will? You have never even met him."

I had no idea how my uncle would react, but I would have to trust that he would believe the reality of my circumstance. He said he would want to buy me clothes. Would buying my safety not be more meaningful? "I will convince him," I promised. He searched my eyes, and I did not look away.

"Very well."

I poured him a glass of lemonade, keeping my distance. "A toast- to our deal." He looked amused as if this was a big joke to him. This was how business was conducted. This boy was poor- he did not know about these ways of things. Still, he obliged, clinking his glass to mine and sipping the drink.