30 July, evening; Convalescing

"Sole knife," she said, picking it up and looking at it closely as though trying to fix it in her memory. Then taking the shoe, she traced one of the seams with her finger. "Along here?"

He looked to see where she was indicating, and nodded. "Aye. Get the tip of the knife underneath the edge and work it carefully through the nearest stitch, until the thread parts. Then just go along the seam with the blade till the piece comes free."

Mathilde eased the tip in to cut the first stitch and then carefully slid the knife along the seam. She was nearly through when a distant, but nonetheless piercing wail reached her ears and she let out a soft curse, setting the shoe and knife down and scrambling to the back of the wagon to peer out. It was not difficult to spot the source of the sound.

"It's Philippe," she told Jérémie with a sigh, "And Gilles. I'll be right back." And so saying she climbed out, poking her head back in as an afterthought to grab a blanket, for even at that distance, Philippe's clothing appeared to be hanging like it was soaking wet.

And so it was, she found out, when she reached them. "What happened?" she demanded of Gilles, wrapping the blanket around the crying Philippe and scooping him into her arms.

"What?" he retorted a bit sullenly, but at the look she gave him, offered, "We was playing like it was the fight at the bridge. And Philippe was the English," he added, as though this explained everything.

Oh, for God's sake! Mathilde made a sound of exasperation and quickened her pace, whisking Philippe over to their fire where she rubbed him down briskly with the blanket. His wailing had turned to sniffling by then and the flailing blanket actually succeeded in making him laugh.

Smiling with relief, Mathilde gave him a few extra scrubs and then pulled the cloth over his head, pretending to be taken entirely by surprise when he yanked it off, which made him laugh even harder.

"I'm hungry," declared Gilles.

"No," she snapped, turning to find him poised over the pot with a spoon in hand. "It's not ready."

"When will it be ready?"

"An hour," she lied; she wasn't actually sure, but admitting as much she knew from experience would only invite further argument.

"But I'm hungry."

"There's some bread left. Have that."

"Where?"

"Where it always is!"

Looking somewhat aggrieved at her tone, he went to look for the bread, and Mathilde, seeing that Philippe was still amusing himself with the blanket, took advantage of the moment to slip back into the wagon.

"Sorry," she murmured, sinking to her knees again beside Jérémie and picking up the sole knife.

Her return brought a halt to his attempts to remove the buckle from the shoe they were about to take apart. It was clearly a task needing two hands, he thought with a trace of resignation. More was the pity.

"Are they all right, except for being wet?"

Mathilde shook her head in exasperation. "Yes. They are fine. And you?" she asked, taking the shoe back and regarding him with concern. "Maybe you should rest?"

He made himself shake his head. "No. I'm fine."

"Alright. But just until the soup is ready," she told him, cutting through the last of the vamp's seams. "Then you need to rest."

Setting down the knife, she held the shoe out for him to examine. "What next? The toe box?"

That would not take very long, he guessed, which was perhaps unfortunate. He'd just have to be sure to get as much done now as possible, then.

"Aye. Separating the two pieces from the sole will be a little more difficult but not impossible." Jérémie indicated the bottom of the shoe. "It's important to avoid damaging the sole. Replacing that is possible but it would take some time."

Oh dear. That sounded complicated. Or rather it sounded like something she could easily make a mistake on. "Like this?" she asked, pretending to slide the knife between the toe box and sole.

He nodded. "Aye. I'm not too worried if the toe box is damaged, since it's coming off anyway. The sole is made from a different sort of leather than the rest of the shoe, you see."

Biting her lip, Mathilde worked the tip of the knife in between the two pieces of leather and very slowly and carefully began to cut, at first just around the edge and then deeper with each consecutive pass. When she'd gone as far as she dared, she offered it again to Jérémie. "Like that? Or should I go a bit farther?"

He slipped his fingers beneath the loose flap of leather, then nodded. "A little more and it'll be done. You'll be better at it than I am before long."

Mathilde ducked her head, her cheeks flushing pink. "I will never be as good as you," she countered, unable to suppress a shy smile as she bent her attention once more over the work.

"Oh," Jérémie said with a shrug, "I know little enough. My education was ended sooner than planned. But this is something I learned early enough on, so I know it best."

"Why did it end?" she asked, working the knife through the last little bit. "Was it the war?"

His breath caught in his throat and he had to swallow against a sudden lump. "Aye. The war interrupted a lot of things."

Mathilde was silent a moment, her hand tightening unconsciously on the handle of the knife. Then she said, low and fierce, "I hate it." The interior of the wagon blurred and she found herself struggling to keep back tears.

He agreed with that wholeheartedly, but he wasn't sure if it was wise to say as much. After a moment's hesitation, Jérémie reached for the knife with his good hand and used the other to give her free hand a squeeze.

She returned the squeeze, all at once horribly grateful for both the gesture and his silence. She thought she'd been doing better, but now it seemed that nothing had really changed and if she didn't pull herself together she'd end up breaking down completely like she had the other day.

Blinking rapidly, she shook her head. "I'm sorry," she sniffed, picking up the shoe and looking at it determinedly. "What do we do next?"

"Take the vamp and the toe box off," he replied after a moment. Once that was done, the more delicate work would begin. It was probably best to go straight into it, lest either of them have a chance to be too distracted by other things. "After that, new leather needs to be measured and cut."

Mathilde nodded and, under Jérémie's watchful eye, set to work removing the two pieces. She was nearly finished when Gilles' voice called, "Is it done yet?"

"No!" she shouted back.

"When will it be done?"

"Soon."

"When is soon?"

Mathilde sighed. "How much is left?"

There was silence and then two hands appeared above back of the wagon, one above the other, spaced deliberately apart. "This much," he declared, and a moment later his head came into view as he scrambled up to peer inside.

"Oh! Hullo, Rosy! What are you doing? What's that? Is that a knife? Is that yours, Rosy? What's it for? Is it sharp? Could you kill someone with it?"

Despite himself, Jérémie grinned. How like siblings to have such an exchange.

"We are repairing a shoe. The knife helps, because it cuts thread and leather." He chose not to answer all of Gilles' questions, particularly the last one, but perhaps partial responses would be enough.

The arrival of a newcomer was enough to draw Suie's attention away from his careful kneading of Jérémie's trouser leg. With a mewl of greeting, the dark-furred kitten ambled over to Gilles, purring to show he would welcome a scratching.

Gilles mewed back at the kitten and swiping down a hand, scooped it up and onto his shoulder. "See, he's hungry too," he informed Mathilde, whose sympathetic response was to role her eyes.

"Go stir the soup. It will cook faster," she told him, "I'll be there in a moment."

This seemed to do the trick because both boy and kitten disappeared almost instantly. "Don't splash it!" she called after him.

Shaking her head, she finished working the toe-box free and set it beside the vamp. "There." She looked up at Jérémie with a faintly rueful smile. "I had better go and see, before Suie ends up in a stew after all."

Not that even Gilles would deliberately do such a thing, but then she doubted he'd deliberately half drowned Philippe.

"Good luck," Jérémie said. He wasn't sure Suie would tolerate any attempt to put him into a stew.

For a moment or two after Mathilde had gone, he remained still, until he felt reasonable certain she would be at least a few minutes. Then he reached for his pack. The temporary pause, so to speak, might allow him to measure the new leather pieces properly. He just needed the material, the cutting knife, and his personal last.

If he could manage the task with only one hand, anyway.