12 July, evening; Questions and Answers

The firelight up ahead splashed out in a small circle, illuminating the side of a wagon and throwing into relief a familiar shadow, and Paol's reluctant step slowed to a halt. He'd come near to turning around half a dozen times already and now it was almost too late. He shouldn't be here. He'd been told in no uncertain terms to stay away and here he was slinking back, unable even to explain his presence.

And why was he there? He'd had the whole march and all of picquet duty to wonder about that. The way Jeremie had asked, it sounded as though he wanted Paol to be there in case of trouble, but what could that have had to do with the fight? Unless Quentin had made threats against them to Jeremie. But if that was the case, Rosy would have told him. So it must have been something else, but for the life of him Paol could not think what.

Perhaps, he thought, he could simply stay out of sight in the darkness close by. No questions, no confrontations. But something, fatalism perhaps, compelled him forward toward the firelight.

A soft step sounded nearby and Margot glanced up to see, much to her surprise, Kerjean standing there. "Paol," she greeted, smiling, "I was afraid we'd chased you off for good. What can I do for you, love?"

"Nothing," came the hesitant answer, "I just--just thought I'd come by." The last statement came out sounding more like a question, but Margot ignored it for the moment.

"Well, you'd best come sit down then, hadn't you?" she said, indicating the fire. "Mathilde went to bring Rosy his shirt, but she'll be back soon, I should think."

Paol nodded, moving closer and holding his hands out to the warmth of the fire, but he made no move to sit. After a long pause he said, fumbling and awkward, "I'm sorry about this morning. I should've--"

"Already forgotten, love."

It might have been the firelight, but his face seemed to have gone rather pink. "Thanks." There was another, longer pause and then, "How's Georges?"

Margot smiled. "Mending. Not as quickly as he would like, but it won't be so very long now."

Paol nodded again, staring into the fire and Margot let the silence drag on for several minutes before asking gently, "Paol. What are you doing here?"

He seemed to hesitate, and it was some moments before he admitted, "Rosy asked me to."

Margot's brow creased in momentary confusion, then she shook her head. "Bless the lad, I told him not to worry about that."

Something must have shown in Paol's face because she gave him an odd look. "He didn't tell you? Oh, for heaven's sake. He didn't tell me specifically what was said, but it seems Quentin expressed some kind of ill intent toward me and mine. Mathilde, I expect. And now--"

"What?" Paol stared at her in horrified disbelief. "Jesus, I-- If I'd--" If he'd known that, Quentin would not have walked away from that fight, at least not under his own power. "Why didn't he say something?"

"Calm yourself, child. It's been taken care of. There's nothing to worry about."

"But..." He trailed off. It didn't matter. It had been dealt with, that was all that mattered. That left only the fact that Blanchard did not trust him. Or perhaps not. He had trusted him to look after them. Trusted him to take a beating in ignorance, he thought bitterly, recalling Bright's words. The Englishman had been right about that. Paol was little more than a blunt instrument.

"Tsk," Margot chided, "There you go fretting again."

"Sorry," he mumbled, glancing down at his boots. For the first time in a long time he felt entirely out of place.

"Pah. Come, sit down. Or are you going to go running off now?"

"No." He had told Rosy he would stay, so he would stay.

"Good. Then you must sit down."