11th July, evening; A riverside bounty

She did not miss the hesitation, nor did she miss the answering flicker of concern in Paol's face, though both were quick to cover it up. "Yes," she agreed, as if nothing had happened, "It is very good for that." Glancing down at her own unsubstantial arms, she added ruefully, "Eventually."

"Oh!" she exclaimed a moment later, "Do you want your shirt back now? Or I can bring it tomorrow when it's dry?"

"Tomorrow," he replied, glad for the distraction. "Though I'm sure it'll need washing again before too long." Waiting till tomorrow would give him time to find a coin or two to pay for having the shirt washed.

Belatedly, he scooped Suie up and gave the kitten's ears a quick scratch. He was rewarded with a purr and a playful head-bop against his fingers.

"Alright," she said happily, "Hopefully Suie does not take a liking to anything else in your pack before then."

At that, he shook his head. "That shirt and my shako are his favourites. Fortunately, he is content to only pick holes in my shako."

~



He had laid out his shoes and stocking hat near the fire, so they could dry. His clothes would remain where they were, as it was completely improper to strip them off with company present. At least Stéphane was no stranger to being damp and cold.

It was becoming easier to ignore the others - or at least to stay on the outside of their notice - and he was quietly amusing himself by dangling the end of his plait just out of the smokey-furred kitten's reach and watching the little creature continuously attempt to catch the trailing ends of the ribbon.

She reached over to scratch Suie's cheek. "Little monster." It was, she knew, time for her to be getting back, but she lingered a few moments longer, watching the big man across the fire playing with Kazhig. He was a terribly strange fellow, but he seemed fond of the little, grey kitten and that, she supposed, made him alright.

"Maman will be wondering what's happened to me," she said at length, getting to her feet.

The dark kitten answered that with a purr and a head-bop, happy as ever to receive attention.

"You'll be all right going back?" Jérémie asked, before he could stop himself. "With the basket and all, I mean."

Mathilde hesitated, unable to shake a faint sense of puzzlement. From the way he'd asked it, she'd have sworn he meant something else, but perhaps not. "Aye, I'll be fine."

"S'pose I'd best be headed back as well," said Paol, starting to unfold himself and get to his feet. "You comin'?" he asked Blanchard.

Right. He knew as much. Asking had therefore been stupid. But that was the norm this evening, it seemed.

"Aye," he said, rising to his feet as well. He had only carried his musket with him earlier and he stooped briefly to retrieve the weapon - a slightly-awkward feat to accomplish with a purring kitten attempting to clamber up his arm.

~



They were going. It was virtually impossible not to feel relieved by that. Once they were gone, Stéphane could relax. He still felt keenly embarrassed by the incident from earlier. To be left alone, so he might try to make sense of that initial encounter, was suddenly all he wanted.

He tucked the end of his plait out of the smokey-grey kitten's reach and paid it no further attention, which quickly served its intended purpose. The little feline grew bored with him and went off in search of something more interesting to play with. Hopefully they would not forget to take the creature with them.

"Proulx?" he asked, scooping up the kitten and handing him to Mathilde.

"I will stay here," Stéphane answered, glancing up only briefly.

With a shrug, Paol turned back to the others. "You want me to carry that?" he asked Mathilde as they started back, nodding to the basket in her arms.

She smiled, but shook her head. "I can manage, thanks."

"Oh. Alright. I'll carry you, then?" he suggested, sweeping her up under one arm.

A faint squeal of surprise escaped her, but she managed to keep hold of the basket, half laughing, half scolding as she hung from his arm.

"No?" he laughed, "Alright."

Once on her feet again, Mathilde purposefully knocked into Paol -- the closest she could come to a shove with her hands full and equally ineffectual. "You will ruin all our hard work," she chided, doing her best to sound stern.

The exchange brought a proper smile to Jérémie's face. "It would be ruined only if you dropped it," he observed, following a little more slowly behind the others owing to the kitten perched on his shoulder. This was an unlikely outcome at that, he thought. Or at least it was more likely that the adventuresome Suie would somehow tumble off his shoulder than it was for Mathilde to drop her basket, especially considering the grip she had on it.

Mathilde made sound of mock exasperation. "You're on my side, aren't you Kazhig? Pah, only if there's something in it for you, you say. Little devil."

"At least he is not so bad as Suie," Jérémie said. He had been obliged to halt owing to his kitten's decision to attempt to wash the side of his face. The rough scrape of Suie's tongue tickled more than it was an annoyance but he didn't dare challenge the kitten's balance anymore than necessary.

Pausing to let Jérémie catch up, Mathilde had to stifle a giggle at the sight of Suie attempting to mother him. "He can ride in the basket, if you'd like?"

That was an excellent idea.

"I would." Jérémie reached up to carefully lift the kitten from his perch. He didn't mind the attention so much as the timing; but he'd already learned that Suie had no respect for situations or timing. Silly beast. "He may decide you need a wash too, however."

So saying, he settled the purring kitten atop the washing basket.

Mathilde grinned. "I'll put him to work as well, then."

Good. Now relieved of his burden - though Suie could hardly be a burden - Jérémie was able to catch up with the other two, slinging his musket from one shoulder as he did. Of course, the exertion of helping with the washing was catching up to him as well and he felt his various bruises begin to ache afresh. Damn it. This was going to make sleeping difficult, wasn't it?

"Will there be anything to eat once we're back?" He asked, more as a means of distracting himself than out of any true sense of hunger or interest.

"If Georges has not eaten it all," she replied ruefully. "Or Gilles. But Maman will have kept something by."

He mustered a grin. "Hopefully. I'll be round in a minute. Have to get my pack."

There was little point in waiting until morning to search through the pack for stray coins, when he could do it that evening and get it done with.

"Oh. Alright." She glanced at Paol but he seemed to be hanging back as well. "I'll see what I can find," she promised, and so saying hurried off towards the wagon.

Now, she supposed, swallowing a sigh, they would finally say whatever it was they had so deliberately not been saying the whole time she was there. As if it wasn't clear what half the story, or near enough, was already. She shook her head. Men.

It was a relief when she went off ahead, though that feeling vanished quickly enough when he realised her departure meant the safety net of her conversation was now gone. Jérémie sighed and hitched his musket a little higher on his shoulder.

"Good girl, that one," he muttered wearily. Not that this made sense, even to him, really.

"Aye," Paol agreed, watching her go.

An uncomfortable silence seemed to settle between them then as he fell in step with Blanchard, a silence which, he was painfully aware, was his fault. He had been turning the question over in his head almost since he had sat down at the fire. Asking would seemingly only make things worse, but he couldn't very well not say anything. There was probably a delicate way to go about it, but he was far to thick to manage it, so he simply blurted it out. "What happened?"

Later, he would probably be grateful for Paol's bluntness but now it made him sigh. It might have been to beat around the bush a little before coming to the point. Or maybe not. Jérémie didn't know. It probably didn't matter.

He drifted to a stop, realising that both hands had curled into fists. "Picquet duty. With Quentin," he said presently, with an attempt at an indifferent shrug. He wasn't sure even now if he should relate the story of the encounter. Unless he wanted it known how it had started and how badly he'd come off afterward - though the latter was probably obvious anyway.

Quentin. That figured. Though it still didn't answer the question. "And it's him what gave you that?" he pressed, meaning the mark on Blanchard's face.