4th August, early morning; All is not well

Martita giggled. "He is too slow!" she insisted, stumping around the fig tree in imitation of the officer's hobbling attempts at movement.

Manuela grinned.  She turned to the Frenchman to explain.  "Martita's officer has a wounded foot.  Or ankle, or leg.  The tiger."

Paol nodded, his expression sobering. "Good."
 
"No talking, slave! Figs!"
 
A smile crept back into his eyes and he turned, picking one of the fruits and tossing it at Martita.
"Higo," he repeated carefully.

Manuela smiled, happy to see Martita being herself again.  "Oh, he's learning to talk proper.  What else does he need to learn?  Do you want to teach him to say your name?"

Martita circled round him, the half-eaten fig clutched in her hand. "Say 'Martita', slave," she told him imperiously.
 
"Martia?"
 
"MartiTA!"
 
"Oh. Marita?"
 
"No!" she cried with gleeful impatience, "MAR. TI. TA."
 
"Mar...ti...ta," he said, pronouncing it with such deliberate difficulty that she laughed at him.
 
"What else?" she asked Manuela.

"I don't know!" Manuela laughed.  "Maybe we -"

She was interrupted by Doña Castillo's voice from the kitchen.  "Manuela, aren't you finished yet?  Come in and clean the floor. I am going to market, if the soldiers have left us anything to buy."

Reality came down sharp and heavy, like being wrenched awake, leaving him dazed and bewildered, and mumbling an apology, Paol quickly dropped the last handful of figs into Martita's basket and stepped back. Martita herself had vanished again, doubtless hoping to escape further chastisement; though she would not have gone far without her figs.
 
Habit made him reach again for one of the fruits still hanging from the tree, but he checked himself, glancing at Manuela. "For the others?" he asked, holding up two fingers and then pointing toward their window.

She glanced at the door to make sure her aunt wasnt watching.  After complaining about Doña Pollonia's over abundant harvesting of the figs, she might not look kindly on sharing the fruit with French soldiers.  But she wasn't at the door.  Manuela nodded, holding up three fingers instead.  Then while he was picking the figs, she produced a handkerchief to wrap them in so they would be less visible if her aunt were to spot him.

"Martita, your figs are by the fountain," she called.  "Don't forget them."  She picked up the other basket and walked back to the door.

Paol followed her inside, the three figs wrapped in the handkerchief closed in his left hand. It was a small kindness, but it meant a great deal just then, even if he did not fully understand it.


At the stairs he started to turn, but caught himself and kept moving, up the stairs and along the hall. He paused at the door to the room, listening, then slipped quietly inside.

Charcot had not moved since Paol left the room, though he was not asleep.  He lay there with his eyes open as if he was staring at the wall, though of course he could not see anything.  He did not stir when Paol came in.

Placing one of the figs in the basket near Bright, Paol shifted back across the room and lowered himself carefully onto Charcot's bed. His friend's eyes were open, but he'd not stirred when Paol entered the room.

He felt thoroughly selfish all of the sudden. He should not have stayed outside so long. He should have let her show him the fountain and come straight back, not...what? He could not explain what had happened any more than he could explain the hollow ache in his chest when he thought about it.

Shaking his head, he tried to push those thoughts away. "You hungry?" he asked Charcot quietly.

"No," he answered in a dull voice.

Hunching forward over his knees, Paol shut his eyes. "They've got a courtyard on this side of the house," he said slowly, fighting to keep his tone light. "There's gardens and a fig tree and a fountain... We can go down there to get water. There's even shade when the sun ain't straight above. One of the houses... a few of 'em share the courtyard, but there's a little girl, Martita, lives in one. You'd like her," he trailed off awkwardly. He'd never been any good at this sort of thing.

Charcot frowned slightly.  "What are you talking about?"  If Paol was making up fairy tales to cheer him up, it was an awfully odd choice of subject matter.

"I was outside, is all. Not in the street. Just the courtyard. Ma--the girl showed me where the fountain is so we can get water when we want it."

Charcot continued frowning. "We can get water when we want? And go outside?" That made no sense at all.

"Aye," he said, still keeping his voice low, "Long as we're quiet like."

"Aren't there soldiers?" Though he supposed most of them must have left, or were in the process of leaving. "Or... Irregulars or something?" He could not imagine it could possibly safe. Maybe if he left his coat in the room. If that was allowed.

"No. Just the folks what live around it. It's closed in and all. Safe as staying in here, anyway. There's an officer, one of ours, in the little girl's house even." He was not sure how that was supposed to be reassuring exactly, particularly given his own opinion of the man, but it was something. Maybe.

He had Charcot's attention now. "One of our officers? Did you meet him? Does he know what's going on?"

"No, I didn't meet him. He's got an injured foot. Or leg." Why was that relevant? He shook his head. "Anyway, I don't reckon he knows much more'n us. Spanish are leaving. English too, if they can."

"Can you see his house from our window?" Though what difference would that make? Would they set up a semaphore to communicate?

Paol frowned, trying to remember. He hadn't actually seen Martita enter or leave one of the houses, but he thought the shouting had come from the building opposite them. "I think so. Why?"

"I dunno. Doesn't matter anyway."

Paol swallowed a sigh. There did not seem to be anything more to say. Setting the figs on the ground beneath the bed, he resumed his study of the floor. It was almost as though he had never left; the scene in the courtyard might have been a dream, and indeed, save for the figs, he could almost have believed it. Questions crowded into his head once more, the endless circling of doubts and scenarios.

He had to do something for Charcot. Before things got any worse. But there was nothing; he had established that last night. He could not fix this. Someone else might, but who the hell was he expecting? They had no one. Maybe....There was a hospital, wasn't there? Maybe someone there could help. But that meant venturing onto the streets. And Jacques had said Charcot needed rest, and surely he would rest better here, in a house, surrounded my normal, everyday things. But Charcot was only getting worse. Look at last night, for Christ's sake! But they'd barely been there a full day and maybe with the English soldiers gone things would be quieter in the house. Maybe it just needed time--

They didn't have time. Even if the irregulars did not come after them right away, they could not stay in the house indefinitely. The money the Spaniard had given the old woman would not last very long, and when it was gone, they would have to go as well. And then what? They'd be dead or worse before the first day was out.

What about the hospital? They might be able to claim some kind of sanctuary there. They'd take Charcot, surely. And Bright, his injury was still bad enough, and he could pass as English if he needed to.

He wondered what happened to the dead bodies from the hospital. Maybe Bright could steal an English coat. And then be hanged as a spy because he couldn't keep his mouth shut? No, that wouldn't work.

Would they even hang someone for that once the soldiers were gone? Would anyone notice? Or care? But if some of the soldiers were staying...

What if they could somehow pay to stay in the house? He could make himself useful somewhere. With one arm? But that would heal. No, it wouldn't. If anything it was getting worse. No, it wasn't. It was fine. He was fine.

His mind pulled away sharply, landing in the middle of some other thought. The city. It was empty. And that was important, because...? Because it couldn't stand empty for long. The Spanish or the English would have to come back, wouldn't they? Or the French...

He blinked slowly, heavily. It was growing increasingly difficult to concentrate, and his thoughts kept straying back to the courtyard, to the little girl's antics, to Manuela laughing. She was awfully beautiful when she laughed...