Daughter on his Doorstep (HC #2)

7: Inglés Safe Stew

The sight that greeted Thomas was perhaps the least likely either of them could have imagined. Standing in the doorway was a woman, older than the both of them but of no more than forty years, who was covered in dust and dirt. Her skirts and blouse were stained grey, and her dark brown hair hung limply around her cheeks. She was thinner than she should have been, but by no means weak: she raised a gaunt chin and glowered at them from above hollow cheekbones.

Vincent couldn't see Thomas' face from his crouch, but he saw the moment Thomas adjusted himself, sinking back onto one leg as some of the surprise left his posture.

"Good afternoon, ma'am, and apologies. We did not mean to intrude, but perhaps you can help us." With his most dazzling smile, Thomas stepped closer to the woman, one arm extended to indicate the bags strewn across the floor. "You see, we-"

The moment he moved, the woman flinched away, her glare disappearing momentarily. Both men saw the emotion it was replaced with: fear.

Thomas stilled. "Please, we mean you no..." He trailed off as he saw movement behind her, several shadowed faces coming into view over her shoulders. A pit opened in his stomach as each face he saw, fidgeting and shifting behind the woman, also appeared to be feminine. He inched forward again, trying to get a better look, but the woman at the front reacted quickly.

Her hands untangled from her skirts, revealing the sturdy metal pole she'd held shielded within them, and she raised the object between them. "¡Alto!"

Vincent's brow rose.

The woman's elbows brushed the doorframe, narrow as it was, and she stepped further into the room to better hold the pipe. The people behind her moved with her, clustered close. As Thomas had suspected, they were all women, and all were in an equally bad state. Clothes were torn, shoes missing, and they were all underfed. Curiously, they all appeared to have the same colouring beneath the filth; lightly tanned skin and dark brown hair.

Now with more room to move, the woman at the front raised the pipe higher, gripping it in both hands so tightly that her knuckles blanched. "¡Quedarse atrás! ¡Por favor no nos hagas daño!" Her voice trembled, but less so than the women who cowered behind her. Her eyes darted between Thomas, who still stood a few steps away from her, and Vincent's crouched form across the room.

Vincent raised his hands – showing them to be empty – as he thought. Thomas took a couple of slow steps backward, bring them side by side. "Do you know what she said?"

The other man shook his head. He had heard enough Spaniards speak to recognise 'por favor', but he had never taken to languages. The best he could manage was Latin, and even then he was better reading or writing it than speaking.

With his hands still extended, Vincent pushed himself slowly up from the ground to standing. "Noli timere." Do not be afraid in poorly pronounced Latin, but it was the best he could manage.

It did not appear to be good enough, however, as the women stared at him in confusion. He knew there to be enough overlap between the languages for him to persevere with another stuttered Latin sentence.

"Non faciemus tibi dolorem." We will not cause you pain.

The woman at the front seemed to be struggling to understand Vincent as much as he was struggling to be understood. Her pipe lowered a fraction as she frowned, her teeth worrying at her lower lip. "¿Dolor o sin dolor?"

Pain or...

"Dolore," Thomas repeated, trying his best to smile non-threateningly. His efforts were a dismal failure, as the women as a whole shied away from them and their leader with the pipe brandished it further in his direction.