The sound of her name stuns her. An awful feeling shoots into her stomach, turning over and rising to fill her head with sudden suspicion and distrust. Her face petrifies, every inch of it rigid behind a terrified expression as she hands over the towel at arms length.
      "It's my language!" cries the stranger, gesturing to the window where the letters of Françoise's name have almost frozen over again. "I am Angelisa. Enchanté."
      "Enchanté," replies Françoise, breaking a smile as the tension pours from her body. She glances at her guest who is gazing up with a smile while she rubs vigorously at her hair. Françoise stares at her face, feels calmed by her grateful expression. Something registers in her memory and lingers until, after a short moment, she turns and disappears again to search for the clothes.
      The stranger doesn't seem so much of a stranger after all. She is familiar, but Françoise cannot pinpoint when or where they might have met. Surely her accent should make her easy to recall, but her mind is blank. She collects a pile of thick winter clothing and makes her way back to the heat of the living room. Preoccupied with the stranger's identity she is not fully focused as she enters and is caught by surprise by the sight of her guest in just her underwear. Françoise stops on the spot, mouth agape in sudden embarrassment but unable to look away despite a voice inside telling her to do so. Angelisa lifts the towel in a half-hearted attempt to cover her body and smiles as Françoise lays the clothes on the sofa.
      "Thank you."
      "Would you like some tea - or maybe some chocolate?"
      "Oh yes, chocolat!" replies Angelisa, her eyes lighting up like a child on Christmas morning.
      Françoise retreats to the kitchen and grabs a couple of mugs and a tin from the cupboard. A carton of milk is sitting out on the counter top and she pours some into a pan and lights the gas stove. She starts to pace around the floor, concentrating intently on Angelisa's image and scrunching her face as she tries to figure out where they could have met. Her mind is blank, and the more she thinks about it the more frustrated she gets. The cold starts to penetrate her clothing, pricking her skin. Her impatience is growing and she moves away from the stove with her arms around herself, dwelling on the lingering question. Her jaw begins to tremble with cold as she peeks around the corner into the living room.
      Angelisa stands with her back to the fire drying herself off piece by piece. Françoise watches, sees her cold, reddened skin gradually fading to the warmth of the flames. Lifting a leg she grabs her foot and pokes the corner of the towel between her toes, hopping once or twice to maintain her balance before switching feet and repeating. She whips herself around to face the fire, flings her head forward and lets her long dark hair dangle where the heat is strongest. It glistens, reflecting the vibrant orange of the fire, and appears to Françoise to be moving, wriggling serpent-like as the water within succumbs to gravity and trickles in a puddle on the stone fireplace. A hand emerges at her neck and grips the mass of hair, wringing it dry before the other hand covers it with the towel and begins to rub briskly. With a few quick manoeuvres Angelisa wraps the towel into a turban and straightens her body. Françoise studies her, transfixed, feeling the goose bumps beneath her clothes subsiding. Hands outstretched to capture the heat, Angelisa radiates a warm glow, her skin light and smooth like an uncovered pillow.