2 June - Mornings after

The morning came far too early, as it always did. Jérémie covered his head with his blanket and cursed the men who were moving about nearby. Certainly they could hang about an extra hour. There was not that great a rush to get on the march, after all. It was not even full light yet!

A foot nudged him roughly. "Come on, Rosy. No lounging around now!"

Grumbling to himself, Jérémie unwrapped himself from his blanket. Somebody had rekindled the fire, which was blazing merrily. The early morning air was brisk and chilled, but that wouldn't last. He yawned and set about the business of rolling his blanket so it could be strapped onto his pack.

"Hey," Couture said, wandering over with a mug in his hand. "What's going on with those two English ladies? You seemed pretty damn interested in 'em last night! So what was it like?"

"English ladies?" Foucheaux echoed, moving closer. "How did you manage to get at two English ladies? I couldn't get near them at all! Some lucky sods got to guard the women, but me, I had to guard the men."

Paol snorted softly. "Should've said something, Foucheaux. I'd have swapped you for a couple hours sleep."

Foucheaux snorted with laughter. "You too, eh? Well come on, let's hear it!"

Rubbing his eyes, Paol looked blankly at Foucheaux. "What?"

"Tell us about the women," Foucheaux wheedled. "Go on! I heard you were sneaking off with them."

Oh for Christ's sake.

"Maybe you lot should find out for yourselves," Jérémie suggested, helping himself to some bread and slightly-hard cheese from his pack. "Those two are interesting. I'll say that for 'em."

"That's no kind of answer at all," Foucheaux protested. "Were they willing, or did they put up a fight? Where'd you take them?"

Paol muttered an oath under his breath. "It was glorified guard duty, Foucheaux. The rest is all in your head."

He frowned, feeling sure he was being cheated out of a juicy story. "But you took them away somewhere."

"They wanted to see one of those greenjackets," Jérémie told him. "It wasn't anything special."

A tent flap stirred and Jenny emerged, still wearing her dress from the night before and her hair loose in a golden disorder. She squinted and covered her eyes with her hand. "Please, I would like some water," she said in quiet accented French.

Water. Right. Glad of the distraction, Jérémie dragged out his canteen. "Here," he said, rising to his feet so he could hand the canteen to her.

Jenny took the canteen and backed into the shade of the tent while she took a long drink. Then she handed it back to him and said "Thank you. I sleep. I do not walk."

That would be a problem, but for the moment, Jérémie had no objection to giving way.

"All right," he said, taking the canteen back. "Sleep, then."

Olivia exited the tent as well, squinting in the morning light as she tucked the last few escaped curls back into their pins. She smiled slightly at the two soldiers from the night before, and then turned to Jenny.

"Are you feeling at all better this morning, Miss Ross?" she asked in an undertone.

"Yes," Jenny sighed, retreating further into the tent's relative darkness but still squinting at the morning light that came through the canvas. She curled up on the cot again. "I just want to sleep. Thank you," she added belatedly.

"Sleep well," Olivia offered, watching Jenny return to the cot. She hoped that the other woman was not seriously ill. That was not something she had any idea of how to deal with, and she was already feeling severely out of her depth.

Navarre hovered over the bubbling pot with characteristic impatience. It was done, right? Nearly? He forced himself to sit back down. He poked absently at the coals for several moments, and then he was rocking forward again to peer at the contents of the pot. "Eh, close enough," he muttered, grabbing for the ladle and cluster of gamelles, the handful of mess tins issued to their squad. One by one, he filled the tins and passed them around. He himself didn't bother waiting for one of the gamelles to come his way, but started eating straight out of the pot. He burned his mouth on the liquid, but he didn't care. He was hungry and he'd managed to scrounge some meat from the captured supplies the night before which did wonders for the weak soupe they normally managed to dredge up.

Foucheaux grinned in the direction of the tent. "Ain't you gonna invite them lasses to join us?" he asked, digging Kerjean in the ribs.

Frowning at the unfamiliar Frenchman, Olivia raised her chin to glare at him. His manner seemed rather too gleeful, and she did not doubt that his implied invitation was not merely a kind offer of food.

"I believe that Miss Ross needs sleep right now," she said. "Perhaps one of you would be kind enough to save her some food for when she wakes?"

Paol felt his face growing warm. He elbowed Foucheaux back. "Shut it."

Somewhat hesitantly returning his attention to the woman, he nodded an acquiescence. Between himself and Rosy, if nothing else, he figured they could get her companion something to eat. "And you? Are you hungry?"

"I am," Olivia said with a small nod. After all, it was not as though she or Jenny had actually received dinner the night before. The thought of food reminded her of this fact, and Olivia realized that she was famished.

Rummaging in his pack, Paol pulled out a cup. It looked clean, he decided and, leaning forward, dipped it into the pot. Navarre started to protest, but quickly gave up, muttering something about women.

"It's hot," Paol warned, wiping off the side of the cup and handing it to her. It was, he realized, feeling suddenly self-conscious, a stupid thing to say as anyone with half a brain could tell from the steam rising and the heat transferring through the metal that the contents were hot.

"Thank you," Olivia said with a grateful smile, reaching to accept the cup. She positioned her fingertips at the rim and bottom seam, trying her best to minimize contact with the hot metal. It still burned slightly against the pads of her fingers, but she ignored it, determined not to seem weak in front of the French soldiers.

Blowing on the surface of the hot soup, it occurred to her that they had not given her a spoon or any sort of utensil. Olivia glanced around the circle of soldiers, and decided that they were not likely to. She sighed mentally, and took a sip, hissing slightly as she burned her lip. It was too hot and rather thin, but at least it was something.