She stood there, her head bowed, her breath shallow as her shoulder hunched, as if trying to make a smaller target. Every part of her was pulled tight with the awareness of him.
Then he stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him against her skin. He smelled of a mix of coffee, ale and sweat. There was soot on the bridge of his aquiline nose and on his cheek.
The wall pressed cold against her back. Without her realizing it, he had backed her into a corner.
Freedom tantalised just beyond her reach.
He leaned in slightly and she felt it—his breath at her hair followed by a slow inhale. He did not touch her.
Asha couldn’t move or even breathe from terror.
She felt like prey that knows the moment of struggle might be the moment it loses everything.
After a few seconds, though it felt longer, he stepped back.
“I don't force women. Come out when I knock tonight,” he grunted.
Asha did not look up, just flattened herself on the wall.
He moved aside and she ran for the stairs even as her legs threatened to give way beneath her.
She didn’t look back.
***
That night, she finished her shift as usual.
When she finally lay down beside her son, she didn’t sleep.
She listened to the familiar creak of old wood fighting age, to footsteps that weren’t his.
And finally, there was a soft knock around midnight.
Her entire body went rigid.
Another knock.
For long painful moments, she didn’t dare breathe. She was only too aware that all that stood between them was a flimsy lock and a spindly chair.
Her hand found her son in the dark, and curved herself around him.
The silence stretched. Then she heard a harsh sigh and heavy footsteps retreating.
The familiar sounds of the night reigned again.
Asha lay there for the longest time, eyes open and body unmoving. She didn't dare examine how she felt.
***
Weeks later
It started with an extra hour.
“You can sew?” Mavis had asked one afternoon, eyeing the neat way Asha had mended a torn apron.
Asha nodded.
That was how the second job came about.
