11th July, evening; A riverside bounty

To call this a river was overly generous, Stéphane thought in disgust. It was more of a large stream. An unappealing muddy disgrace of a stream at that. All the same, it was moving water and that meant fish. This made it far too tempting for him to resist. As soon as the company was dismissed for the night, Stéphane had gone straight for the river. Those plodding fools could keep their stale bread and leather-hard pork. He'd catch something worth eating and enjoy every second of eating it.

Fortunately, he had planned for occasions like this one and some weeks ago fashioned a hook from an old nail. Between that and a carefully-woven fishing net, he was prepared. All he needed was a fresh worm to bait the hook. Dinner would follow shortly enough. Most of the time, anyway. His luck had not been good on his last attempt but this time would be different. He'd get a fish or two. Patience was vital to a fisherman and Stéphane could be unflinching patient when he was fishing.

Tonight, he was going to be lucky. Within half an hour he had landed a small shad with the line and had netted a second of a larger size. Both were cleaned, gutted, and ready for cooking in short order. It was not a bad result. Stéphane spread his fishing gear so it could dry and got down to the business of cooking. This was a prime haul and entirely unfit for sharing.

Mathilde picked her way down the sandy trail leading to the river, a basket of washing balanced awkwardly on her slender hips. Kazhig, the grey kitten, crouched on top, his ears and tail switching in furtive curiosity. Normally she would not have brought him, but Gilles had been restless and Kazhig was always less adept than the others at avoiding trouble. In that respect, she thought ruefully, he was very much Paol's cat.

She could smell woodsmoke, but there was nothing unusual in that, being still fairly close to camp as she was. It was not until she heard the nearby crackle of a fire that she checked, her heart leaping fearfully within her chest. Who would have build a fire so much removed from the others? Spanish? Deserters? She dared several steps closer, peeking cautiously out from behind the scrub which clung to the sloping bank.

What she saw was not entirely reassuring. The man at the fire was French, from Rosy and Paol's company, even. It was the big, cross-looking sailor who had come with them from Oporto. And as was the case with most big, cross-looking men, Mathilde was more than a little frightened of him.

She bit her lip. Her first impulse was to sneak quietly away, but she couldn't go back, not when her mother was actually trusting her to do this on her own. Her mother wouldn't run away. Madame Bellot certainly wouldn't. And going upstream would only take her farther and farther away from the camp, and in the end, she was more afraid of that than she was of the sailor-soldier.

With slow, quiet steps, she slipped into the open, crossing the narrow spit of sand to the water's edge. She set down her basket, her eyes glued to her work as though lack of eye-contact could somehow render her invisible.

The faint rustle of clothing nearby caused Stéphane to freeze, one hand on his bayonet, which was doing duty as a roasting spit. He had been in the process of turning it when his ears had caught the noise of something moving. Someone moving, to be precise.

He was not stupid enough to call out, though. Instead, he stared, frowning, into the gathering dark. The flickering glow from his fire made it difficult to see who was out there. It was somebody obviously not wanting to be spotted, which meant a probable thread. Stéphane's free hand slipped casually toward his musket, which lay nearby. He'd defend himself and his little space, if needs be.

The man hadn't shouted at her yet. Maybe that was a good sign? Stroking Kazhig's head to make him settle back down in the basket, Mathilde drew out one of the shirts. She plunged it into the water, kneading it for several moments against a rock before attacking it with her washing bat.

The wet slap as she struck the fabric sounded startlingly loud in the stillness, and a whispered curse escaped her. So much for going unnoticed.

The noise brought an immediate halt to his movements, one hand now firmly on his musket. He could think of only one reason for a sound like that and an icy chill trickled down his spine. Keeping still and barely breathing was suddenly the most vital thing in the world. It was not often Stéphane felt unease or even fear, but he could think of no other words to describe the heaviness settling into his gut at that moment.

Skirting the circle of firelight, wary of the dancing shadows, a small, grey-furred form crept closer, drawn irresistibly by the smell of fish. The large human gave him pause, but the lure of food was stronger and he padded nearer still. He could see what it was now, the human was holding it in his hand, just above the creature's head. His large eyes flickered a luminous green as he rocked back on his haunches and batted impatiently at the skewered fish.

Get out of there. He had to get out of there. Even if it meant abandoning his half-cooked fish. Self-preservation trumped hunger by a large margin. Stéphane feared almost no man, but he was not stupid enough to tangle with Les Lavandières.

He glanced down to the spit he'd constructed, having decided against leaving his bayonet behind. The otherworldly glow of eyes peered back at him - eyes that had no body to go with them. Stéphane's reaction was immediate and purely instinctive. He lunged backward, away from the fire, leaving both the spit and his musket behind in his haste.

"Mon Dieu!" He burst out, swiftly crossing himself, even as he struggled to get to his feet so he could retreat properly.

Mathilde froze at the sound of the man's curse. Maudit, he was getting to his feet. She'd done it now!

Poised to snatch up her washing and flee, she reached into the basket, just to reassure herself of the kitten's presence, but her fingers met with nothing but rough linen. "Kazhig!" she gasped, scrambling to her feet, her eyes searching the darkness frantically, the lump of sodden clothing forgot. "Kazhig?" she called her voice hardly more than a whisper. Then, fearful but louder, "Kazh?"

If panic had not already taken hold, it would certainly have done when he heard the low, reedy voice calling out. Stéphane did not recognise the words but that didn't matter. He knew now he was in severe mortal danger and his only solution, other than a hasty, half-audible repetition of the Guardian Angel prayer, was to get out of there.

This would have been much more easily managed had he not inadvertently stumbled straight into the river.

Heedless of the distress he was causing, the grey kitten crouched beside his prize, his tiny, pink tongue exploring the slit in the creature's belly which had begun to swell open as it cooked.

A sharp crack and a shower of sparks from the fire drew a defiant hiss and, sinking his teeth into the fish, he struggled to drag it away from the blaze, his clumsy attempt further compromised by repeatedly treading on the bayonet.

***************



"Kazhig? Little one?" Mathilde pleaded. She couldn't have lost him! But already she was starting to despair. Rosy was going to hate her forever. And Paol -- "Oh, please come back..."

And the man -- at first all that concerned her was that he wasn't coming after her, but a far more terrible explanation soon presented itself. But surely he wouldn't-- Her tiny fist tightened around the handle of her bat and she scurried forward. "Wait!" she called, her voice timid despite all her intentions to the contrary. "Please!"

Stéphane's initial reaction when he hit the water was to curse. After that, he flailed half-wildly in an attempt to regain his balance. The water was cold and, worse, he had strayed into a surprisingly deep part of the river. At least it seemed that he could get back to the sandy bank without becoming completely soaked.

Then the reedy voice came again. It was following him. In the dim light, Stéphane distinctly saw one of the Lavandières approaching. The natural response to that was, again, retreat. Not that it was easy to run, being nearly waist-deep in water.

"Mon Dieu!" Stéphane said again, sweeping a hand through the water in a desperate bid to find something, anything, in the river bed that could be thrown. There was no telling. Maybe these demons could be chased away. Ah! A small, soggy branch. Stéphane dragged it to the surface and flung it clumsily at the devilry chasing him.

She couldn't see if he still held the kitten, but he showed no sign of stopping and in the deeper water she had no hope of following. Still, she splashed after him, but she had hardly gone two steps when something came hurtling towards her out of the darkness. With a terrified squeak, she fell backwards, landing painfully among the rocks that lined the river's edge. She was soaking wet, she'd made a mess of the washing, and Kazhig was lost, probably drowned, and it was all her fault. She burst in to tears.

It took several seconds before Stéphane realised he was no longer being pursued. He had waded into shallower water, striving to get back to the bank so he could escape properly. That short bit of wood had done it. Still, he pressed doggedly on until he was within reach of the bank again before pausing to reassure himself that it was indeed safe to be on dry land again.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, then his ears detected the quiet sound of somebody crying. Somebody fairly close by. Stéphane tensed. Was it a trick? Or a hint of something happening far away? The heavy feeling of unease in his stomach seemed to harden. Thoughts were coming to him now that he did not like at all. This all was much too unsettling.

"Thérèse?"

He was splashing towards her now and her distressed mind could only attribute one motive to this. He was going to drown her now like he'd drowned Kazhig. With a gasping sob, she struggled to her feet, backing away. "Please, no! I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry!"

He stopped in his tracks, as much out of bewilderment as a dawning realisation that he was not at all sure what was going on here. Was this real? Was it an event from the future that he was somehow part of?

Stéphane didn't dare speak, not even to utter his sister's name again. It almost seemed that doing so might have further negative consequences, for there was no mistaking the sound of tearful fright now.

Mathilde took several more steps back, but when the man made no further move to follow her, she stopped, the panic of a moment before changing gradually to despair. She couldn't bear the thought of going back without Kazhig, but she had nowhere else to go. Still she hesitated. The silence between them dragged on for what felt like minutes until finally, her voice tearful and subdued, she asked, "What do you want?"

That was not a question he would have expected, but it made him wary. What did he want? Did that mean there was somehow a choice in whose death was to come? That seemed... impossible, though this entire encounter was impossible.

Stéphane shivered, then sank down to his knees, heedless of the water and the sand and rocks on the bank. What did he want? He wanted this to be over, to wake up in front of his fire, having dozed carelessly off. He could not help but liken that voice to Thérèse, which only made his sense of foreboding stronger.

"I want not to die," he answered eventually, conscious that his wishes might not matter, for all they had been solicited.

He wanted not to die? Mathilde didn't understand. He was not even standing anymore, but had dropped to his knees in the rocky shallows. Was it some kind of trick? "You...You're not angry?"

Despite himself, Stéphane shivered. Him, angry? Anger was the last emotion he felt capable of just then. Unless the question meant that he would be spared if he was not angry.

"No, Madame Lavandière," he replied, his voice faintly pleading.

"Oh." Mathilde felt rather silly now. His strangely formal address and even stranger tone of voice brought a flush of embarrassment to her cheeks. Had she really imagined it all?

But then why hadn't he responded to her at first? And why had he thrown the branch at her? And why was he behaving so oddly now? Could he simply want to be left alone so very badly? Mathilde, of all people, could understand that -- the need to hide, to get away -- though it was hard for her to imagine a big, powerful man like this one feeling the way she so often did.

Staring down at her toes, she struggled to muster the courage to speak again. If he truly hadn't been angry with her, then perhaps... "Have you seen a little cat?"

Stéphane blinked, uncomprehending. A cat? Maybe that was what those detached, glowing eyes had belonged to. It was not such a leap of imagination to accept that this shadowy apparition would have a feline companion.

"I... do not know," Stéphane confessed. He could not, after all, be sure what sort of body had been around those glinting eyes. Please God, let that not be a wrong answer.

"Oh," she said again, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. "He's only a little one," she pressed plaintively, "Not much more than a baby. With grey fur. We call him Kazhig, but that just..." she trailed off, flushing even darker. A long, awkward pause followed, and then, "Why are you kneeling in the water?"

Despite the lingering uncertainty of the situation, Stéphane felt his fear beginning to fade. It was gradually being replaced first by disbelief, then a sickening sense of embarrassed awareness. God in Heaven. He recognised that voice now. He knew to whom it belonged. And a feeling of deep mortification - and not a little self-disgust - swept over him.

"It would seem I have offended God," was his slightly halting reply. What other explanation was there for all of this happening, other than a mild Heavenly rebuke for some as-yet unrealised transgression. "And I have been humbled as punishment."

It made complete sense to him, of course.

"Do you have to stay there long?" she asked, still puzzled and faintly concerned. What if the Spanish came? Or the army left without him?

That was a question to which he had no answer. Shrugging, he said, "I do not know."