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“Let me help. I can’t sit here and watch you do all the work.”

Elena looked him up and down, assessing whether he would be more of a hindrance than a help. Eventually, she nodded her head. They both headed into the room and took everything out into the hallway. The smoke was now black as they went back and forth. She worried her bottom lip. Did they think they were still here, as Tomas suspected? Was that why they burned the fort?

Once everything was out of the room, they sat on the stairs and watched the smoke dissipate into the air. Straining their ears to listen for the telltale signs, they knew the roof was about to cave in behind them. Elena thought she heard horses’ hooves at one point, but she could not be sure. Wishful thinking, perhaps. So, they sat for what felt like hours, eating oranges. What else could they do? The fort was built of stern stuff, but it was not infallible. Slowly, the smoke disappeared, and the sun became a hazy spot on the skyline. The room felt unchanged when they entered. Could they be this lucky?

“Shall we at least bring in the beds?” Tomas asked.

She nodded, distracted by the events of the day and what it would mean if the bastardos had actually gone for good.

Elena planned to wait until the captain was asleep, then she would go up there and have a look around. If the French had left, then soon they would be able to leave too. They would travel to Tomas’s rendezvous point, wherever that was, and once he was in safe hands, she would go on to her mother’s village. It was her hope they would take her in or at least would be in need of a healer.

After a meal of bread and cheese, she doused the candle and settled to wait until she heard Tomas’s even breathing.

“Don’t go,” he said, and she turned her head his way even though she could not see his face in the darkness. “Don’t go up there, not tonight,” he said. “Wait until tomorrow. They may have laid traps, and you wouldn’t see them in the dark.”

Damn the man for knowing her thoughts. She conceded he was right, which also burned. “I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

She looked up through the darkness towards the ceiling. He was right. Tomas knew how the French thought when it came to things like this. Sighing, she said, “Fine.”

“Promise me.”

“Promesa.”

It had been quite a day, and she found her eyelids growing heavy, despite her resolve to always let sleep come only after he was asleep first.

*

Thomas rose early. Looking over at the other pallet, he saw that Elena was still sleeping. In slumber, she resembled a young woman of maybe ten and nine, but surely she was older than that. She really was rather pretty, not in an English rose kind of way, but in a sun-kissed, confident way. He admired and respected her. Her cleverness made him want to see what else she was capable of. He limped out of the room as quietly as he could, for she needed her sleep.

Last night had been the first without the chills and the nausea, and he hoped it meant that the damn opium was now out of his system. The headache remained, but he was sure Elena would have something to ease it. He started a small fire and put water on to boil. The day promised to be a warm one, and he took advantage, now that he could walk without a stick, to nose about the sheltered area at the bottom of the stairs. He checked the boxes. All empty. Some would be good for firewood.

There were two metal boxes, one worthless and one still locked. They looked like they were ammunition boxes, or even storage for small cannonballs. He did not have his picking tools, taken by the French when they captured him. Maybe if Elena had a hairpin or two, he may be able to open it. He wanted to pick it up, but there were no handles. It was most likely empty, so he would worry about it later. Thomas nosed about a bit more, but there was nothing of interest. Elena’s brother and his friends had no doubt emptied the fort of any useful things years ago. Still, it had eased his boredom for a while.

The small barrel she had put at the bottom of the stairs was now full of water. He cursed his broken arm. He sized up the barrel and decided he could get his good arm around it and lift it under his arm if it wasn’t too heavy. It took considerable effort, but he got it up the stairs without losing all the water. He put it on top of a box. It felt good to know he had done something for her for a change.

As his strength came back to him slowly, it gave him time to contemplate not just his past but his future as well. He was not usually a man who made life plans. His occupation made future life plans superfluous. Maybe cheating death had given him a slightly different view of life, his life and what he wanted from it.

He stoked the small fire. She liked her tea, and he often found her looking off into the distance when drinking it. What was she thinking about? What her life might be like once she was free of him, perhaps? Pondering his various injuries? When next he might get the sweats from the opium? Now that his mind was clearer, he couldn’t blame her for giving it to him. She had done it to help him, and even if she had asked for his permission, he likely would have said yes.

He heard her as she shuffled to the door. She looked at him and then at the water, which was now boiling happily.

“You got the fire going?”

“I may be a cripple, Elena, but I do know how to boil water.”

“You look tired. Did you not sleep well?”

“I have a headache, that is all.”

She gave him a wary look as she moved closer to the fire. Grabbing her jar of herbs, she spooned some into a chipped cup. “I will make you some tea. It is good for you and will ease the ache in your head.”

“I’m not sure you can call that tea if it does not come from India.”

“India? Hmm, such a long way to go.”

“It is a long way to go, but tea is imported to England so we do not have to go there for it.”