4th August, afternoon

He had slept -- at least he thought he had, if the fitful lapses of consciousness could qualify as sleep – though he was not sure how long it had been. He had lost track of how many times his arm or some memory-turned-nightmare had pulled him awake again. He grimaced, waiting for the throbbing, knife sharp pain to lessen, and rubbed at his eyes.

"You awake, Dominic?"

"Yeah." Charcot had slept as well. His oppressing gloom could not hold out against the exhaustion that had been accumulating for so long, and he had finally fallen asleep. Awaking to Paol's voice, he felt a little better. And he realized that he was no longer surprised to wake up blind. In his dreams (and nightmares) he could still see. He wondered if that would change with time. "I had a dream about Navarre, gardening. Growing vegetables."

The image brought a faint smile to his face. "You sure he weren't just stealing them off someone else?"

"Probably was," Charcot answered with a little smile of his own. "Did you say there's a garden for this house?"

"Aye, in the little courtyard."

He had an idea, half an idea, but every bone and muscle in his body seemed reluctant to move, and it was some moments before he managed to summon the will to push to his feet and cross the few steps to the window. Only a part of the courtyard was visible from it, but what he could see seemed quiet and unoccupied. Good enough.

"C'mon, we're going to get some water."

"What? Now?" Charcot's voice rose in slight panic. "Are you really sure it's safe?"

"I'm sure," he replied firmly, returning to the bed and retrieving the small, white bundle from the floor. He unwrapped the figs and pressed one into Charcot's hand. "Hold that."

Taking the remaining fig, he carefully folded the handkerchief and slid it into his waistcoat pocket, then turned to look for the pail of water. It was still mostly full. He stared dubiously at it for a moment, tempted to empty it out the window, but Manuela had made it clear what the rule was regarding that. With a half shrug, he moved to pick it up.

"You comin', Michel?"

"What's this for?" The thing in his hand felt soft and plump, a little pliable. "It's fruit?" And one end was pointed. "A fig?" He tried to smell it but he was not sure.

There was no response from Bright, so he turned back to Charcot. "Aye, a fig. C'mon, take my arm. Or shoulder, or some'at."

Charcot reached out, but the fig was still in his hand. "Can I eat it?"

"Yes," he said, nudging the door open with his foot and leading Charcot into the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen. He paused at the last step, glancing around uncertainly, unable to shake the feeling that he was trespassing.

Charcot had shoved the entire fig into his mouth so he could use both hands to find his way down the stairs.  He sighed as he chewed.  It was delicious.  He wanted to ask more questions, but they would have to wait since he couldn't whisper with his mouth so full.

He could hear someone moving about elsewhere in the house, but neither of the women were in sight. This ought to have been a relief, and the disappointment which instead followed the observation took him by surprise. He did not know what he'd been expecting, or even hoping for. If Manuela had been there, she likely would have just sent them back upstairs. Or laughed at him for trying to bring a bucket full of water out.

Not that he would have minded that, if it meant seeing her laugh again, he thought, then shook his head sharply. What the hell was wrong with him?

"This way," he told Charcot, fighting to refocus on the matter at hand. At the door, he had to pause again, setting the bucket down so that he could fumble with the latch, and then they were stepping out into the warm, heavy shade of the courtyard.

Charcot could hear the water trickling in the fountain, just as Paol had described. There was the sound of a slight breeze in trees, the warm green smell of vegetation, and a sort of echo of an enclosed space. He could picture the courtyard in his mind, but he could scarcely believe it was real.

But then there was something else. A sound across the garden, repeating in a pattern - a saw on wood. It stopped a moment later. "Someone's there," Charcot whispered to Paol. And whoever he was, he had probably seen them.

Paol had seen him, only an instant before he saw them, and by then it was too late. For a moment all he could see was an enemy, an armed enemy. He'd been wrong: it wasn't safe outside. That he'd thought otherwise was so appallingly stupid it defied belief, even for him. And now he'd given away their position, and there was nothing to stop the bastard from breaking into their room and cutting them all to pieces like--

Stop. Paol dragged in a breath, fighting down unexpected rush of panic. Just stop. He wasn't thinking straight, that they were outside in the first place was testament to that, but so was going chalk white at the mere sight of a Spanish civilian, probably the same one who had a prisoner quartered in his own house. Jesus.

"Aye," he said, trying to sound calm and managing only to sound weary, "It's just one of the neighbors. He won't hurt us." Christ, he hoped that was true. "Here, sit down. I'm just going to fetch water."

The man looked at Paol, looked at the bucket, looked at Charcot. Their mission was obvious and he had been forewarned by the girl of the house. He knew from his daughter that there was a giant who was her slave, and from Manuela that there was also a harmless blind young fellow and another one she disliked who had a bandage around his ribs, so it was easy to tell which two these were. Giving the big fellow a wary frown, he nodded his head at the fountain and resumed his work.

The man seemed to accept their presence; more than that, he did not appear to object to their use of the fountain. Paol was not sure how to interpret that; perhaps the fellow thought they were fetching water for the women.

Without taking his eyes off the Spaniard for more than a moment at a time, he moved to the fountain, awkwardly emptying the bucket and refilling it. The water felt wonderful and cool and he longed to thrust his head and shoulders under the stream, but that would doubtless be an even graver faux pas than emptying bloody water out the window, so he simply cupped a handful of water and splashed it over his face.

He returned to where he'd left Charcot, set the bucket on the ground between them and sank down onto the warm stones. Still watching their companion across the way, he took the small white bundle from his left hand, unwrapped the fig and nudged Charcot's hand with it. "Here, they gave us a whole handful of them earlier."

"They did?" Charcot replied incredulously, discovering that it was another fig. He was about to pop it into his mouth when he heard the sawing sound stop once again. "What's he doing, the man over there?" he whispered. It was unnerving to know that he was being watched. He was always being watched except in the little room. He ought to be used to it by now, but he still found it unnerving.

"You don't have to whisper," he told him gently, though he kept his own voice low. "He's making something. I think it might be a crutch." Very gradually, interest was beginning to take the place of fear, so that his attention began to be drawn to the man's hands and his tools, more so than his face and movements.

And indeed he was.  The man made some adjustments and stood up, measuring them against himself, but he appeared to be a bit uncertain.  After a skeptical moment, he began walking toward the Frenchmen, bringing the crutches with him.

Paol stood, careful not to move too quickly, careful to unclench his fist, careful to keep the sudden tension out of his voice. "He's coming over. Just to talk," he told Charcot. His gaze slipped to the bucket on the ground beside him -- that would be enough of a weapon if he needed it -- then back to the Spaniard. He was drawing close now and Paol nodded a stiff greeting, trying to read his intent in his face.

The carpenter watched carefully as the big Frenchman stood up.  He was big.  Both Manuela and Martita had said he was fairly amiable, but they weren't necessarily the best judges of character.  Men knew how to be charming with girls when they wanted to be.  

He nodded at the shorter fellow seated on the little stone wall.  "Tell him to stand up for a minute, Frenchman," he said, speaking and gesturing at the big fellow.

"Why?" he asked, his tone flat and wary.

That was a French word he'd heard often enough to recognize.  "I want to see how tall he is and if these crutches will fit him.  I'm too tall, see?"  He put the crutch under his arm, showing the gap.  The crutches were meant for a shorter man.  "But him, he's shorter.  Like the man I'm making these for.  The man in that house over there.  He's shorter than me."

Charcot was as still and silent as a fawn left hidden by its mother in the grass. The world was invisible to him, and he almost felt like he might make himself invisible as well. He kept his head low so the man would not even be able to try to meet his eyes.