She had moved as quietly as she could, but she had still woken Harper who rolled out of his makeshift bed and came bleary-eyed into the small parlor. "What time is it?"
"Nightfall," Sharpe said.
"All quiet?"
"Except for your snoring. And we had a visit from a Frog who chatted with Sarah about the state of the world."
"It's in a terrible state, so it is," Harper said, "a shame, really." He shook his head, then hefted the volley gun. "You should get some sleep, sir. Let me watch for a while." He turned and smiled as Joana came from the kitchen. She had taken off her torn dress and seemed to be wearing nothing except the Frenchman's shirt, which reached halfway down her thighs. She put her arms round Harper's waist, rested her dark head against his shoulder and smiled at Sharpe. "We'll both keep watch," Harper said.
"Is that what you call it?" Sharpe asked. He picked up his rifle. "Wake me when you're tired," he said. He reckoned he needed proper sleep more than he needed tea, but Harper, he knew, could probably drink a gallon. "You want to make some tea first? We were going to light the stove."
"I'll brew it on the hearth, sir." Harper nodded at the small fireplace where there was a three-legged saucepan designed to stand in the embers. "There's water in the garden," he added, nodding at a rain butt, "so the kitchen's all yours, sir. And sleep well, sir."
Sharpe ducked through the low door which he closed to find himself in almost pitch blackness. He groped to find the back door beyond which was a small enclosed yard eerily lit by moonlight filtered by the drifting smoke. There was a pump in the yard's corner and he worked the handle to splash water into a stone trough. He used a handful of straw to scrub the filth off his boots, then tugged them off and washed his hands. He unstrapped the sword belt and carried belt, boots and sword back into the kitchen. He closed the door, then knelt to find the bed in the darkness.
"Careful," Sarah said from somewhere in the tangle of blankets and greatcoat.
"What are you… " Sharpe began, then thought it was a stupid question and so did not finish it.
"I don't think I was really wanted out there," Sarah explained. "Not that Sergeant Harper was unwelcoming, he wasn't, but I had the distinct impression that the two of them could cope without me."
"That's probably true," Sharpe said.
"And I won't keep you awake," she promised.
But she did.
It was morning when Sharpe woke. The cat had somehow got into the kitchen and was sitting on the small shelf beside the stove where it was washing itself and occasionally looking at Sharpe with yellow eyes. Sarah's left arm was across Sharpe's chest and he marveled at how smooth and pale her skin was. She was asleep still, a strand of golden hair shivering at her open lips with every breath. Sharpe eased himself from beneath her embrace and, naked, edged open the kitchen door just far enough to see into the parlor.
Harper was in the armchair, Joana asleep across his lap. The Irishman turned at the creak of the hinges. "All quiet, sir," he whispered.
"You should have woken me."
"Why? Nothing's stirring."
"Captain Vicente?"
"He crept out, sir. Went to see what was happening. Promised he wouldn't go far."
"I'll make some tea," Sharpe said, and he closed the door.
There was a basket of kindling beside the stove and a box of small logs. He worked as quietly as possible, but heard Sarah stir and turned to see her looking up at him from the jumble of bedclothes. "You're right," she said, "the army is an education."
Sharpe leaned against the stove. She sat up, clutching Harper's greatcoat to her breasts, and he stared at her, she stared back and neither spoke until she suddenly scratched at her thigh. "When you were in India," she asked unexpectedly, "did you meet people who believed that after death they came back as another person?"
"Not that I know about," Sharpe said.
"I'm told they believe that," Sarah said solemnly.
"They believe all sorts of rubbish. Couldn't keep up with it."
"When I come back," Sarah said, tilting her head to rest against the wall, "I think I'll come back as a man."
"Bit of a waste," Sharpe said.
"Because you're free," she said, gazing up at the dried herbs hanging from the beams.
"I'm not free," Sharpe said. "I've got the army all over me. Like fleas." He watched her scratch again.
"What we did last night," Sarah said, and blushed very slightly and it was plain she had to force herself to speak of what had happened so naturally in the darkness, "doesn't leave you changed. You're the same person. I'm not."
Sharpe heard Vicente's voice in the parlor and, a heartbeat later, there was a knock on the kitchen door. "In a minute, Jorge," Sharpe called out. He looked into Sarah's eyes. "Should I feel guilty?"
"No, no," Sarah said quickly. "It's just that everything's changed. For a woman," she looked up at the herbs again, "it's not a small thing. For a man, I think, it is."
"I won't let you be alone," Sharpe said.
"I wasn't worried about that," Sarah said, though she was. "It's just that everything's new now. I'm not who I was yesterday. And that means tomorrow is different as well." She half smiled at him. "Do you understand?"
"You'll probably have to talk to me some more," Sharpe said, "when I'm awake. But for the moment, love, I have to let Jorge have his say, and I need some bloody tea." He leaned over and kissed her, then scooped up his clothes.
Sarah lifted her torn dress from the tangled bedding. She was about to pull it over her head, then shuddered. "It stinks," she said in distaste.
"Wear this," Sharpe said, tossing her his shirt, then he pulled on the overalls, shrugged the straps over his bare shoulders and tugged on the boots. "We'll have a make and mend day," he said. "Wash everything. I doubt the bloody French will leave today and we seem safe enough here." He waited until she had buttoned the shirt, then opened the door. "Sorry, Jorge, just making a fire."
"The French aren't leaving," Vicente reported from the door. He was in shirtsleeves and had made a sling for his left arm. "I couldn't go far, but I could see downhill and they're not making any preparations."
"They're catching their breath," Sharpe said, "and they'll probably march tomorrow." He twisted to look at Sarah. "See if Patrick's fire is going, will you? Tell him I need a flame for this one."
Sarah slipped past Vicente who stood aside to let her pass, then he looked from Sarah to Joana, both girls bare-legged and dressed in grubby shirts. He came into the kitchen and frowned at Sharpe. "It looks like a brothel in there," he said reprovingly.
"Greenjackets always were lucky, Jorge. And they're both volunteers."
"Does that justify it?"
Sharpe pushed more kindling into the stove. "Doesn't have to be justified, Jorge. It's life."
"Which is why we have religion," Vicente said, "to raise us above life."
"I was always lucky," Sharpe said, "in escaping law and religion."
Vicente looked miserable with that reply, but then saw the pencil portrait of Sharpe that Sarah had propped on a shelf and his face brightened. "That's good! It's just like you!"
"It's a picture, Jorge, of a people's anger let loose on a corrupt world."
"It is?"
"That's what the fellow who drew it said, something like that."
"Miss Fry didn't do it?"
"It was a Frog officer, Jorge. Did it last night while you were sleeping. Step aside, fire coming." He and Vicente made way for Sarah who was carrying a burning scrap of wood that she pushed into the stove, then watched to make sure the fire caught. "What we're going to do," Sharpe said as Sarah blew on the small flames, "is boil up some water, wash our clothes and pick off the fleas."