8 June, evening

"Gilles?" Mathilde called, hearing a light step nearby. "Did you bring the water?" When there was no response, she looked up from the small fire she was trying to coax to life and sure enough she could see her brother's spindly legs on the other side of the wagon. "Gilles!" Still nothing. This would be his idea of a joke, she thought, muttering a thoroughly inappropriate word under her breath as she pushed to her feet. "I can see you, you know?" she said, coming around the wagon, "I--oh!" Mathilde stopped dead with a startled little gasp.

Since the baggage train had been taken by the French, Davy had been industriously applying himself to making something useful of the situation. No one bothered much about a boy his size; he could go around more or less as he pleased. So far he had collected a number of odds and ends, he was proudest of the Spanish folding knife that he had lifted from a French trooper who wasn't paying enough attention. It was well worth getting captured in Davy's opinion. Whenever they got back to the 2nd Division he couldn't wait to show the knife off to everyone. Except Lucy. She'd throw a fit if she figured out he was stealing things.

He was on his way back to find Lucy again, sneaking along behind one of the wagons when he heard some girl call out. It was in Froggy-talk, so Davy had no idea what she was saying, but all of a sudden she was coming closer. He froze for a second and then backed up, but not fast enough. She came 'round the corner of the wagon and stopped short, staring at him.

"Wotcheor," he muttered, "Gan awa' noo!"

"You're English!" she cried, taking a nervous step back. He was older than Gilles, closer to her own age. But what was he doing here? And, more importantly, what did he want?

"Ah divvent unnerstan' yer Froggy blather, kid," Davy informed the girl. He wasn't going to retreat from a slip of a French girl, no siree, not him, so he'd stopped backing up and stood with his arms folded.

Mathilde stopped as well, but a quick look round convinced her that there was no one else nearby who could help. Or whom she dared ask for help. "W-what d'you want?" she demanded, unconsciously mimicking the boy's movements and hugging her arms to her chest.

She was practically hugging herself now, looking around anxiously, and it sounded like she was stammering in her stupid foreign tongue. Davy scowled. "Noo haad on a mow. Ye scairt of us? Ye dafty, Ah'm no' gan te hurt ye."

He was scowling. That couldn't be good. But his tone didn't sound threatening. She wished she could understand what he was saying and thought, momentarily, of Bright, but the Englishman would only make things worse. Much worse. "Um..." She cocked her head to one side. "I. Can't. Understand. You," she said, slowly and deliberately as though that would somehow dissolve the language barrier.

"Ah. Cannet. Unnerstan. Ye." Davy told her like he was talking to a very, very stupid person. Frog-language was ridiculous. Some of the sounds she made were coming through her nose, it seemed like. "Cannet ye taak English?"

Mathilde's cheeks flushed pink at his tone. She wasn't stupid. "Why don't you go back with the other prisoners?" she muttered, lowering her voice despite the almost certainty that he wouldn't be able to understand her.

There was a faint mewling and the black and white kitten -- whom Gilles still insisted on calling Beefsteak, just to torment his sister -- came trotting out from under the wagon.

Davy was growing frustrated with this silly Frog-girl, and he made a terrible face at her before he was distracted by a new sound. The boy's eyes were instantly drawn to the source of the mew, a tiny black-and-white kitten, just barely past the awkward stage where walking straight was a challenge. Davy's eyes widened. "Is't moggie!" he said in surprise and unbidden delight.

Forgetting the Frog girl for a moment, he dropped down to hold out his hand to the tiny creature. "Moggie, coom here, moggie."

Mathilde clapped her hands to her mouth. "Don't hurt him!" she cried, hurrying forward. But the boy didn't seem to mean any harm; indeed, he seemed gentler than Gilles with the small creature. Unless of course he was coaxing it over so that he could eat it... Did the English eat kittens?

"He's a baby," she told him, dropping to her knees opposite the boy. "Not for eating. No. Eating."

Davy picked up the kitten, handling it carefully so that it would not protest, and cradled it close to his chest. "Eeeee," he complained at the Frog girl, "Divvent ye be shootin' leik that! Sich a clatter will hev moggie scairt!"

He eyed her sideways. "Is't yourn then?"

What was he saying? It sounded like a question. "Rosy found him in a wagon," she said, reaching a hand out tentatively to stroke the kitten. "And his brothers and sisters. But no maman cat," she added sadly. "They're staying with us in our wagon now. Wagon," she repeated, pointing to the vehicle. Then, on a sudden impulse, she pointed to the kitten, "Chaton."