5th August, Afternoon visitation

Manuela was there by the fountain, getting ready to do some final washing before Sunday.  She was thinking about the servants and hoping fervently that they would come back as soon as all the soldiers left, and then she heard a door opening.  She looked up with a smile to see Martita emerging from the house with an armload of toys, followed by - Paolo?  Manuela dropped her laundry basket and rushed over to them.

"Martita, what are you doing?  You shouldn't take Paolo into your house!  Your papa will be so angry!"  Her words faded away as she noticed the Frenchman's red eyes.  Had he been crying?  "Oh no, what's wrong?"  Her first frightened thought was that someone had died.  Dominic?  But no one simply died of blindness.  Unless they tripped and fell down a well, which Dominic was certainly capable of, but not in this courtyard. Had he heard bad news from the lame officer?  "Martita, what's wrong with Paolo?  Is he sad?  Did he get hurt?"

"Papa said they could come inside," Martita protested. "They wanted to see the officer's leg. And Domingo was writing a letter -- or no, the officer was writing a letter. And Paolo was standing outside in the hallway. I think he is sick and will go blind. That is why his eyes always look funny and dark."

Manuela looked sharply at the Frenchman's eyes. Going blind? No, surely that was just Martita's imagining. "Well let's bring him over to the fountain so he can wash his face. Do you want to see if you can find him a ripe fig to eat? Come here, Paolo, and sit down." She guided him to the fountain and sat, beckoning for him to sit as well. "What's wrong?" she asked again, quietly.

Paol sank down on the fountain wall beside her. This was wrong; he needed to get back to the house. He had made enough of a mess of things already without dragging Manuela into it. But it was too late for that, wasn't it? He raised his head and felt his throat tighten at the gentle concern in her face. He knew what she was asking, but not how to answer her.

With Martita it had been easy to pretend that everything was fine, she did not understand enough to know better. But it was different with Manuela. He did not think he could convince her that things were alright now, anymore than he could convince himself.

He lowered his gaze, staring blindly at the stones at his feet. Then, despite the fact that she would not be able to understand him, or perhaps because of it, or because her kindness had stripped away what few pieces of armor he had left, he told her.

"Dominic is going to try to kill himself," he said, his voice hoarse and faltering. He didn't know if he'd meant to say more than that or not, he felt half dazed, but the words kept struggling out, "He's up there now writing a letter to his family. He's writing it because he knows he'll never see them again." He paused, swallowing hard. "I'm supposed to be looking after him, but... I can't. I never should have let it get this far. But everything happened so fast. I was so worried about keeping him alive, I never thought... And now my arm--" A convulsive, shuddering breath escaped him. Mother of God... "And you'll have to turn us out soon. And--and you should. But then--Christ." The curse was little more than a soft exhalation. He shook his head. "I don't know what to do."

She listened intently, watching his face as he spoke in the hopes of gleaning additional clues from it.  Dominic was writing a letter to his family, that much she was able to understand.  Martita had already said something like that.  Was Paolo missing his own family?  Everything was a jumble, too rapid to pick out anything at all.  Alive?  Was Paolo's family no longer alive?

"Poor thing," she murmured.

He was so sad, so pitiable, and she felt so helpless to comfort him.  Without even thinking, she put her hand on his good arm, just as she might have done to one of her young male friends.  She withdrew her hand almost immediately, and hid her embarrassment by searching for a handkerchief in her laundry basket.  Where was the one with fruit stains?  She found it and handed it to him.

"It's clean, mostly. It's just cherry juice."

Paol went perfectly still at her touch, but all too quickly she withdrew her hand and when he looked up she was busy rummaging in her basket. She produced a handkerchief and offered it to him, and suddenly all he wanted to do was take her hand. And that was wrong for so many reasons, but he still hesitated before accepting the cloth.

"Gracias," he murmured, staring at it for a moment as if unsure what to do with it. It was bloodstained, or perhaps not. Bloodstains were part of his world; here an innocent explanation was still possible. The thought was unexpectedly painful and he wiped fiercely at his eyes. What was wrong with him?

"Thank you," he said again, handing it back. Weak and pathetic, he could almost hear his old sergeant now, but he was nearly too tired to care.

"Poor thing," she said again. "I'm sorry. It will be all right! Here." She plunged the handkerchief in the water and wrung it out so it was damp but not dripping. "Wipe your face with that. And stay here. Martita? I'm just going inside for a minute. Will you watch over Paolo?"

"What? No, I--" He broke off, staring after her in confusion. He looked down at the damp rag in his hand as if it held some clue, then shut his eyes with a low, fervent curse.

There was a rustle of branches and the patter of bare feet and he looked up to find Martita standing in front of him. She had a half eaten fig in her hand. "I wasn't sure if it was ripe," she admitted guiltily. "I was looking for another one!" She regarded him critically for a moment then, almost reluctantly held out the piece of fruit.

A breath that was almost a laugh escaped him and he shook his head. "Keep it. But thank you."

Martita seemed uncertain, but after a moment she sat down on the stones in front of him and began to nibble at the fig, watching him carefully all the while.

Then because he did not know what else to do, he scrubbed the damp handkerchief against his face. It was faintly cool still and brought some little relief.

After a few minutes, Manuela returned, her aunt following her closely. Doña Castillo wore a frown on her face, but there was a touch of motherly concern about it as she approached the forlorn young man at the fountain. She sat down heavily on the little stone surround and scrutinized him carefully. Then she reached out and took his face in her hands, feeling his cheeks and forehead and muttering all the while. But she was gentle, and her tone was sympathetic.

Finally she spoke to him directly. "You feel hot. Are you hot?"

The sudden motherly attention was as shattering as it was unexpected, and Paol curled his hands into fists, his gaze locked on the ground, trying desperately to hold himself together. "Si," he said quietly. It seemed pointless to deny it now.

"It's all right," she said mildly, patting him on the shoulder. She had dealt with enough feverish boys in her time. Most recently Don Augustin himself. But she suspected that this might have a different cause. "Is your arm hot?"

He looked up then, fear creeping into his expression. If she knew it was his arm...What if she called a doctor? He'd want to cut it off. And if he was English he'd find out about Bright. And if he was Spanish... he might do God knows what to them. He shook his head. Maybe she would believe him. Maybe she would leave it alone.

"No? Let me see it then." The old woman was no fool.

"No. Please. It's alright." He braced his hand on the stone wall and tried to push to his feet. "It's fine. I'm fine. I-I-I'm just tired."

"Fine?" That at least was a word the old woman could understand. "You can barely stand up. Manuela, did you make up the bed again in Pablito's room?" The girl nodded, watching in fascination. "We'll put him there. He has a fever, that's all. Probably from his arm. What happened to your arm, soldier? What's his name?"

"Paolo."

"Paolo. What happened to your arm? Was it burned? A fire?"

"Fuego?" he stammered," My arm?" He hesitated, but it hardly mattered what his injury was; there was no denying he was injured with his arm wrapped in bandages. Christ, what he wouldn't give to still have his coat. "Si. Fuego. The...the grass caught fire on the battlefield." He blinked and shook his head, mentally shying away from the memory. Why the devil was he telling her that?

Manuela tried to persuade him. "Let her take a look. She knows how to treat burns. See, one time I burned myself on the kettle and she made it better." She pointed at a tiny scar on the back of her hand. "Fire. Don't be scared."

She looked at her aunt. "Could he really get a fever from burning his arm?"

"Yes, if it gets infection."

"And then what would happen?"

"They'll have to cut his arm off," the old woman answered, chopping her hand across her own arm. "Like Don Boothby's leg."

Manuela looked back at him in alarm. "Let her see your arm! You don't want it cut off, do you?"

The blood drained from Paol's face at the old woman's gesture and he took a step back, shaking his head. It wasn't that bad. It couldn't be that bad. Not yet. He looked at Manuela, helpless to explain himself. "Please. Please just leave it." At least for a few more days. In a few more days it wouldn't make any difference if they took his arm or not.

The old woman shrugged. "Maybe the surgeon can look at it next time he comes to visit Don Boothby. Manuela, take him inside and I'll go and ask Doña Pollonia when the surgeon is coming."

The old woman, at least, seemed to have relented, and Paol sagged with relief. Maybe he hadn't knocked everything to pieces yet. Maybe he still had a few more days. "I...I should find Dominic," he said. "Martita? Can you take me to him? To see Dominic?"

Martita frowned at him, then glanced questioningly at Doña Castillo and Manuela.

The old woman frowned in confusion. Manuela explained. "The blind one is with Don Augustin's French officer, writing a letter to his family. Don Augustin is there too," she added quickly, lest her aunt somehow blame her for letting the prisoners go wandering freely through the neighbors' houses. She did not know the exact circumstances, but Martita had said that her father at least knew about it.

But that was not the only reason for her aunt's frown. "He's calling her Martita now. He's very familiar with our neighbors, this Frenchman!" She thought for a moment. It would be better to simply let Don Augustin bring the blind boy back, but being blind, the boy would probably take fright. He had already disturbed the household with his nightmares. "Very well. I'll go with him, Manuela. You go and make some orange juice."

He followed the old woman into the house with Martita trailing behind, her toys hugged to her chest. The door to the officer's room, when they reached it, was a few inches ajar, just as he'd left it and after an uncertain glance at the his guide, he knocked softly and, at the answering call, ducked inside.

"Sir. Dominic, everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine, soldat. Charcot, I'll see that this gets passed along with my own letters. You must come again, any time, and keep me company." Never mind that it was not his own house or that the carpenter might have something to say about it.

"Papa?" The call came from below, soft but with a note of urgency in it, then a light, hurried tread on the stairs and a young woman appeared in the hallway. At the sight of the two soldiers emerging from the officer's room, she froze, her face paling . Then darting forward, she snatched at her sister's hand. "Oh, señora! Have they come already?" she gasped, clutching at the old woman's arm and holding a squirming Martita protectively against herself.

"What? Has who come?" Doña Castillo asked.

The carpenter emerged from the French officer's room, and he stopped in surprise at the look on his daughter's face. "What's wrong, Maria Dolores?"

"Is that my Maria?" the officer called in Spanish. "Come, Maria, come to me! I want to see you!"