On Parole in Lisbon

"I am certain," Stephen said with a smile. He pulled his jacket off, wincing at the pain in his wrenched shoulder. He lifted a hand to examine his neck - the swelling was more noticeable, so he would forgo a neckcloth in the morning. He sat on the paillasses to remove his shoes. "How is your arm feeling?"

Raoul considered this question. "The sash will protect it if I try to lie on it," he said, "and it is more comfortable than it was last night, despite being torn open." He smiled. "I am well, and you will feel better ..."

Stephen stuffed his stockings into his shoes, undid the buttons at the knees of his breeches and lay down with an audible sigh of relief, pulling the blanket up as he curled into a ball. "Good, so..."

Raoul smiled down at the bundle of blanket. "Good night, doctor," he said softly, removed his own stockings. There were red marks, already darkening, and a long graze with already dried blood on the shin. He brought his feet up, pulled up the covers and extinguished the candle.

Stephen mumbled something in response. He managed the Sign of the Cross, but already felt his consciousness ebbing at 'fiat voluntas Tua'. Forgive me, Father. Bless Diana. Bless Jack. Bless Sophie. Bless Sablières. Bless Padstowe. Bless... bless... a cure for insomnia at last, Maturin. Not since infancy - a pain still, but receding - and tomorrow, Dear, Dear, tomorrow - oh, yes, Blessed Mother, pray for us. Amen. The pain in his head abandoned him completely - for a long moment there was only comfort and relief, and then nothing at all.

Tuesday morning

Raoul had woken up to the sounds of early morning and light. He had been dreaming that he was at home, lying on the grass in the orchard. Adrienne had been in his dream, and Thierry - just as fearsome in appearance, but radiating safety and loyalty. As he moved to look up at him the dream broke up, and he had seen Dr Maturin. The smile the dream had brought to his face faded, only to return as he remembered the conversation in the sitting room. Whether such a depth of understanding could survive he did not know, but it would be something to cling to.

It had survived a breakfast served by a surly Mr Dawson. Afterwards they had walked together down to the alley where Maturin had been assaulted. Any attention that had been paid to the incident seemed to have faded - seen as a minor fight between rival gangs, perhaps. Blood, seeped into the cracks between cobbles, and making a hard brown mud at the foot of the wall, showed it had been no bad dream, but there was no sign of a body. They had walked up the alley, beyond the place where the fight had taken place, and found Dr Maturin's sword, hidden among the tall fronds of fennel and flax.

And now they had come to a blue door in a quiet street, and Dr Maturin was assuring him that Senhora Santana would of course welcome another visitor...

Stephen was by no means certain of Santana's welcome - she was a wonderfully kind woman, but she was Portuguese. He knew that Padstowe would be civil to des Sablières, but a little warmth from him would work wonders. He wondered if he had been worried about him; he was careful to attach no significance or emotion to the thought.

He patted his sword, unaware until last night what a comforting weight it had been. He had woken twice in the night - once he had dropped back to sleep immediately, but the other time had stared at the ceiling for nearly an hour, fretting, worrying about des Sablières and what they would do next and he still had the assassin to consider, for God's love, until he had worked himself into such a frenzy of worry and distress, his head throbbing and his breath coming shallow from his swollen throat, that he had taken a small dose of six hundred drops, and then had slept until the capitaine woke him, gently shaking his shoulder.

He felt better, though, for two solid meals and a true rest; more able to face the day. He knocked on the blue door.

Raoul clasped his hands behind him. He recognized that Dr Maturin was not totally sure that Senhora Santana would allow a Frenchman into her house, let alone to stay there. Here, he could not pretend to be English, to smooth the encounter. And he prepared himself for the sort of resentment and hatred that he had grown familiar with in Oporto.

[Raoul and Stephen's story continues here.]