Scard’s unruly mop of brown hair, coupled with his alarmingly dark eye circles, drooping eyelids, and gaunt cheeks, gave him the appearance of someone on the verge of collapsing into sleep, his entire demeanor betraying a profound lack of vitality.
The scene readily painted a picture of the incident: the man in the wool jacket, showing neither injury nor a speck of dust on his clothes, suggested that Scard’s carriage had merely come perilously close to colliding with him.
The reason, quite frankly, was etched across Scard’s face; even as he was being berated, Ghervil worried he might simply drift off, let alone maintain the focus required to drive a carriage safely.
Scard, widely regarded as the most gentlemanly of coachmen, enjoyed an excellent reputation, which likely contributed to the crowd’s shifting sympathies; after nearly ten minutes of the man’s incessant berating, their initial amusement at the spectacle gave way to a growing inclination to defend the beleaguered driver.
Had a collision actually occurred, Scard’s obligation to compensate the man and endure his scolding would have been undeniable; however, since no contact was made, the man’s persistent demand for an exorbitant sum before allowing Scard to leave was utterly preposterous.
“You contemptible coachman,” the man spat, “if you cannot produce fifty Denarii, then prepare to rot in a prison cell!”
“Sir,” Scard weakly countered, “everyone here can attest that I did not touch you. Even if I were to cite the relevant legal statutes…”
At that point, someone in the gathering crowd could no longer bear to remain silent.
“Let’s collectively report him to the guild,” a voice boomed, “get him blacklisted! That scoundrel will never set foot in a carriage on this street again!”
“The police ought to handle this despicable fellow!”
****
Though the crowd’s rising anger subdued the man’s bluster and lowered his voice, he still cast defiant glances their way, his stream of curses unbroken.
He paid scant attention to the public’s condemnation, unconcerned by threats of collective reports; at most, he would simply resort to private carriages, which were often more affordable than the monopolized services.
Nor did the prospect of police involvement faze him, as he believed himself to be in the right; all other pleas for him to leave quickly and cease disrupting business fell on deaf ears.
Yet, as fate would have it, his gaze landed upon a nun among the onlookers.
He watched her gaze at him with an expression of profound ‘pity’, her hands clasped around the crucifix at her chest, her lips moving in a silent prayer or incantation.
Nuns commanded immense respect, holding a revered position among the common folk.
The man instantly froze, a wave of guilt washing over him; he would much rather incur the wrath of a policeman than offend a nun, fully aware that the religious order and the Church stood behind them. Beyond merely being barred from entering sacred grounds, severe transgressions could lead to curses, ill fortune, or even the loss of the goddess’s divine protection.
Daring not to dwell on such terrifying possibilities, he nervously retreated to the edge of the clearing the crowd had formed, defiantly muttering, “You’ll regret this!” before seizing an opportune moment to swiftly slip away.
Ghervil had not anticipated such a potent outcome; she had merely intended to lend her voice to the crowd, offering a bit of encouragement, never imagining she would actually frighten the man off. Clearly, she had underestimated the extent of ignorance prevalent among some of the lower echelons of this world.
****
“You appear to be in dire need of assistance.” As the crowd dispersed and she secured the carriage, Ghervil retrieved the fallen hat and extended it towards the gaunt man.
“I… I must first thank you…” Scard mumbled, his head still bowed, his voice barely a whisper. He paid no mind to the nun, who stood a head shorter than him.
“But someone like me isn’t worthy of your assistance; I very nearly caused a disaster.”
“The Goddess instructs us to treat all individuals with equal compassion, Mr. Scard.” With a gentle gesture, Ghervil slightly lifted her headscarf, revealing a glimpse of her hair and a benevolent smile.
“Someone rode in your carriage without settling their fare. I wonder if this small favor might help offset some of that incurred cost.”
Her snow-white hair, instantly recognizable anywhere, immediately triggered Scard’s memory of the beautiful girl he had once mistaken for a noble. As her true identity dawned on him, a flicker of terror darted through his weary eyes.
“You are… Solis Abbey… wasn’t it already…?”
“Rest assured, I am neither a ghost nor a monster. The abbey was, indeed, consumed by fire, and I am its sole survivor. That day… my mind must have been severely traumatized, causing me to speak erratically.”
Ghervil had abandoned the pretense of amnesia; it was far too cumbersome to explain, lacked any concrete basis, and easily invited suspicion. Deceiving the kind coachman, however, required only a simpler tale.
Ghervil gently waved the hat before him, and it took several moments for the man to finally register its presence and take it. Without even attempting to tame his bird’s nest of hair, he simply placed it on his head, his mental state so fragile that Ghervil’s words took several agonizing seconds to penetrate his consciousness.
Once the hat was settled, he painstakingly composed his features into an expression of profound regret.
“I swear to the Goddess!” he exclaimed, his voice imbued with a newfound urgency. “I never once imagined you to be such a thing! That would be an affront to the Goddess herself! I also feel immense sympathy and sorrow for your ordeal, so…”
“Neither the Goddess nor I would take offense, I can assure you of that.”
To lend further credence to her performance, Ghervil deliberately clasped her hands around the cross at her chest, feigning a devout posture. She worried that if Scard became any more agitated, the surrounding crowd would once again converge, causing yet another significant delay.
“If that is truly the case, then that would be wonderful. So, you sought me out for…?” The man’s tightly wound features visibly relaxed.
Ghervil’s right hand slipped into her pocket, where her fingers deftly counted the smooth, circular metal coins. A fleeting flicker of reluctance crossed her face, swiftly replaced by a practiced smile.
“To resolve the matter of the debt between us—though, of course, you are the creditor.”
****
Five minutes later, Scard ambled away, gently leading his carriage, his pocket now laden with ten gleaming silver coins: four for the initial fare and the remaining six as compensation from Ghervil.
Faced with Scard’s persistent rejections, she had no choice but to invoke the name of the Goddess.
“The additional six Denarii are offered as recompense for the night you spent sleepless in fear and for your inability to work today; such is the will of the Goddess.”
After this transaction, she was left with a mere twenty Denarii and five Groats.
A faint pang of regret pricked her, yet she harbored no true remorse.
There was no doubt that her actions were directly responsible for Scard’s current state. Compared to condemning someone to live in fear and thereby triggering a cascade of issues, sacrificing a couple of meals or enduring a temporary dip in diet quality seemed a trivial price to pay.
Her spirits lifted considerably, yet her body remained profoundly weak.
As Scard, leading his carriage, slowly faded into the bustling crowd, Ghervil found herself assailed by a wave of concern.
His home was not far from this spot; otherwise, the incident would not have occurred here. Departing in such a fragile mental state, he was almost certainly destined for an overturned carriage before long.
‘As long as he refrains from driving the carriage, he should be fine, right?’
Her own objectives stood in stark contrast to Scard’s, leaving her to offer only a silent prayer in her heart.
Having purchased the necessary fabric and apron at the market, she was left with a mere three Denarii and five Groats in her pocket, a sum achieved only through meticulous budgeting.
She intended to fashion two new outfits, desiring nothing overtly bright or beautiful, preferring instead simple, long skirts that would fully cover her legs. Including the set currently soaking at home, a total of three outfits would suffice for her daily rotation.
Truth be told, she harbored a strong aversion to wearing skirts; the incessant breezy sensation was profoundly uncomfortable, and taking too wide a stride would invariably stir up a draft, occasionally revealing more than she intended.
There was simply no alternative; in such a feudal nation, she was compelled to conform to local customs. Skirts were the standard attire for women here, and throughout her journey, she hadn’t encountered a single person wearing trousers or even jeans.
Stockings might offer some relief, yet they too felt peculiar; her legs would be tightly encased, and after sweating, the fabric would cling uncomfortably to her skin.
The fundamental issue, however, remained the exorbitant cost; even the cheapest pair of stockings of decent quality in the shop commanded twenty Denarii, a luxury afforded only by the affluent and the nobility.
Upon entering the shop, she encountered a rather awkward situation: both the staff and other patrons regarded her with peculiar stares. It seemed inconceivable to them that a nun would be found in such an establishment, let alone one clad in her habit while purchasing intimate apparel.
At that moment, she yearned to bury her face, which she imagined must be a furious crimson, deep into the earth.
In truth, the few garments the abbess had left for her in the chest were already sufficient.
‘It was all the fault of insatiable curiosity!’
The ingredients, to her surprise, proved quite affordable; a single loaf of bread cost only three Groats. After a thorough circuit of the market, she managed to fill her basket to the brim with her remaining funds. Indeed, had there been room for more, both her basket and she herself would have been utterly overwhelmed by the sheer enthusiasm of the townsfolk.
Owing to her habit and her demonstrable kindness towards Scard, she had garnered considerable goodwill from the populace, many of whom were reluctant to accept payment from her.
She felt utterly overwhelmed. In the past, watching such scenes in films or television, she would feel a pang of envy, imagining herself befriending neighbors and living in harmonious camaraderie. Now, with the reality thrust upon her, she discovered a profound awkwardness in handling such warmth.
It was nearly ten in the morning when Ghervil, laden with an array of goods and a weariness that permeated every fiber of her being, finally returned home. It was then that she resolved never again to wear her habit when visiting the bustling Canary Street Market.