5th August, early morning

Paol leaned forward, one hand sinking into the soft ash that covered the hearth as he blew a soft stream of air over the fledgling coals. Ash scattered into the air, but the embers glowed brighter, lengthening their fingers of flame until the wood above ignited.

There. Rocking back on his heels, he wiped his ash blackened hand on his trousers and got to his feet. He needed to do what he'd come for, and get back upstairs before either of the women ventured down. Arguably he should not have stopped to light the fire -- he could not risk more questions like those of yesterday -- but it had not taken long and he had wanted to do something for her. It wasn't as though he could talk to he properly; even if they'd shared a common language, he was rubbish with words. He talked better with his hands.

He picked up the water bucket and moved quietly to the door, slipping out into the grey morning of the courtyard. The shady stones were cool under his bare feet as he padded across the space to the fountain, but the sky was beginning to lighten and he could hear birdsong; he would have to be quick.

It took only a moment to fill the bucket, but rather than turning back to the house he found himself sinking irresistibly onto the fountain wall. He was tired, so desperately tired. For some moments he watched the splashing stream of water, then on impulse thrust his head under it. Whatever inhibition had checked him the day before was gone, broken down by pain and exhaustion.

For a moment all he could hear was the running water, even his thoughts seemed to quiet as his mind tried to decide if it was safe to breathe or not, and the water was wonderfully cool on his fever flushed face. It was almost peaceful.

He leaned back, mopping his face with his sleeve. It was time to get back inside.

Manuela had awakened early, but apparently someone had been even earlier. It was her job to stir the fire back to life in the morning, but she came into the kitchen to find it blazing away quite steadily in its grate. Was her aunt up already? Surely not; Manuela would have heard her. Then she smiled at the realization that it must be the big Frenchman, remembering the day before when he had brought back to life the fire that she had let go out. But why was she smiling? He had frightened her then.

There was no sign of him downstairs. Outside then. He seemed to like going out to the courtyard. There he was, alone. She stood in the doorway and watched him silently as he sat by the fountain and washed his face. And she suddenly felt pity for him. As soon as the army came back, they would take him to some miserable prison. He ought to be in his home, lighting fires and playing with children. How had such a man ever become a soldier?

Reluctantly, Paol got to his feet, scooped up the now full bucket and started towards the house. His mind, however, was elsewhere and he was halfway to the door before he realized someone was standing there. He came to a clumsy halt, feeling a trespasser, but it was Manuela and she did not seem angry with him, just watchful. He wondered how long she'd been standing there.

Then, despite himself, despite everything, he smiled. Remaining unnoticed seemed somehow less important now; he was glad to see her.

Crossing the remaining distance, he greeted her with a soft, if awkward, "Buenos dias, señorita."

It was good to see him smile. Reassuring. She smiled and returned the greeting. "Good morning. You lit the fire?" She pointed towards the kitchen.

His brows drew together. "Fuego?" he repeated slowly, "Is that like fire? Uh...si?"

She nodded, smiling. "Fire, yes. Thank you." She began to withdraw into the house, leaving the doorway clear for him to come in. "Are you hungry? Do you want some food?" She gestured to her mouth.

"Eat? Food? Oh." He followed her into the kitchen, no less bewildered by the offer than he had been the day before. "I...uh, I mean...Please? Yes. Si. Thank you." Idiot.

She smiled again.  Poor thing, he seemed to have such trouble understanding anything.  She walked to the kitchen, looking over her shoulder to see if he was following.  She pulled out a chair for him at the little table, the same table where she had set him yesterday when she feared he had the fever.  He looked better now, though perhaps it was because the water had cooled him.  Still, Don Augustin had not wanted food when he had been suffering from fever, so Paolo's appetite was a good sign.  Wasn't it?

She had already put a pot over the fire to heat water for coffee, but that would take a little more time.  Meanwhile, she produced a loaf of brown bread and cut two slices, one for him and one for herself.  

But if he was feverish, he ought to have some fruit.  An orange?  But his poor injured arm, like Senor Kaufmann's; he would not be able to peel it.  She would cut it into slices for him.  And in fetching a knife, she discovered the strange knife where she had left it.  His knife from yesterday.  It was not a good idea to let a French prisoner have a knife.  She pushed it into a drawer and found another, then sliced the orange and presented it to him on a plate with the bread.  

"Some food for you.  Bread, and an orange."

He stared from the plate to Manuela with a mixture of amazement and confusion. She was being so terribly kind. Was he taking advantage of her? Should he have declined the food? He wasn't truly hungry, but he knew he needed to eat and, if he was entirely honest, he had wanted an excuse to stay.

"Thank you," he told her quietly.

He bit into one of the orange slices. It was good, better than good, and bright and sweet, more drink than food. He reached for another, then realized she had cut none for herself. He nudged his plate towards her. "Nara...narange?"

She smiled and shook her head, then rose to get another orange for herself. She sat and peeled it, watching him as he ate.

"Do you love Bonaparte?" she asked abruptly. She held her hand over her heart to demonstrate what she meant.

Bonaparte? He looked up, almost sharply, a worried frown settling between his brows as he tried to piece together her words. Ama? Like lover? Heart? She wanted to know if he loved Bonaparte? Bonaparte, the man whose wars had destroyed everything he cared for and left him fit for little else but dying.

"No," he said seriously, shaking his head. "No. I..." How could he explain it? Was there a Spanish word for conscript?

"I don't want to fight." But he did fight. He frowned, trying to find words for something he was not sure he even fully understood.

"I fight for my friends," he said at length, putting it as simply as he could, "I don't fight for Bonaparte." And now he'd made himself out to be some kind of innocent and that was anything but true. He thought of the Portuguese woman in the walled, hilltop village. She could not have been much older than Manuela. He should tell her about that. She would despise him then.

He dropped his gaze, staring at his plate without really seeing it, a half eaten orange wedge still in his hand. He must be out of his mind.

She could understand what "no" meant, of course, and she was glad though surprised.  She was not entirely sure about the rest.  "Your friends?"  At least she thought he had mentioned his friends.  She continued working her way around the orange peel.  "Your friends at home?  In France?  Or your soldier friends, like those two upstairs?"

"Soldiers. Si. Like Dominic."

"And your family?"

His family? What did his family have to do with the war in Spain? The Spanish were no threat to them. He supposed some men might fight for their families in the sense of fighting to return to them. Or, if they were married, to provide for them.

He shook his head slowly. "No."

"Why are you a soldier?"

"Conscript? Do you have a word like that?"

"Conscripto?" She had heard the word, but she was not entirely sure she knew what it meant. Then she smiled shyly. "Like a soldier slave?" She knew he understood that word by now.

The phrase took him by surprise and he laughed, the heaviness of a moment ago lifting just a little. "Aye, something like. Si."

She smiled at his laughter and began pulling her orange apart, thinking all the while. After eating a piece she spoke again. "Why don't you go now? Go all the way home? Go to France?" She pointed at the door.

He cocked his head, his expression thoughtful, if faintly puzzled. What she proposed was, to him, such an obvious impossibility that he wondered if perhaps he had misunderstood. But she was very young. And if she was lucky, she only knew one side of things.

"Across Spain?" He shook his head. "The partisans...Spanish would not let us get far." He made a cutting motion across his throat.

The gesture made her eyes widen. Really, the partisans would kill a lone Frenchman like him? She knew about the irregulars who fought against the French, but she thought they just took part in big battles like soldiers. And she knew that some of the boys her age did things like throw rotten vegetables and maybe even stones at French soldiers, but no one ever talked about it, at least not to her.

"But when the army comes back - the Spanish soldiers - they'll take you away to prison. Maybe you could hide?" She ducked and covered her head with her arm.

She didn't understand. As terrible as prison would be, they would be safer with the regulars. Even so, if they made it as far as the prison, they'd be lucky. He'd been over and over it so many times in his head, but there was nothing, no way out.

But how could he tell her that? She was so innocent and hopeful. He tried to smile. "Maybe."

She looked at him sympathetically. Poor man, he was trying to be optimistic, but he must know that prison would be terrible, and she didn't think he deserved that. Maybe the leering fellow upstairs, and the amorous officer at Maria's house deserved it, but this fellow and the young blind one were already broken. They were harmless, surely.

She smiled then, and said lightly, "You could stay here," pointing down at the table. "With us. We could say that you were my cousin or brother, someone in my family. And that you were Catalan or something." It would never happen, of course, but it was an amusing idea.

Aqui? Stay here? His heart gave a startled kick, but seeing her smile, he relaxed somewhat. She wasn't serious, she couldn't be; just gently playful and he was grateful for that.

There was another word she'd said that he recognized. Familia? Was she saying she would pass him off as family? A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he arched his brows. "Familia? Ah... buenos dias, señorita," he continued in his awkward Breton-French accent, deliberately exaggerating the pronunciation, "Higo esclavo agua si fuego?"