to lift him when he wakes.' He did not say if, but they all knew he meant it.
'Just… wait?' Monk wanted to do more than that. There must be something.
'Tea,' Crow said with a bleak smile.
Monk poured it, and they sat down to endure the long night.
Scuff tossed and turned. By midnight he was feverish. Monk fetched a bowl of cool water from the kitchen, and Hester kept sponging him down. By half past one Scuff was more settled, breathing shallowly but not thrashing around, and no longer covered with sweat.
Crow took off the bandage and repacked the wound. It looked clean, but it was still bleeding slowly. He tried to give Scuff a teaspoonful of wine, but the boy would not take it.
Monk dozed a little in the chair, then changed places with Hester by the bed, watching and waiting.
Outside the rain turned to sleet, then to snow.
At five o'clock Scuff opened his eyes, but he was only half awake. He did not speak, and it seemed as if he had little idea where he was. Hester lifted him very slightly and gave him a teaspoonful of wine. He choked on it, but she gave him some more, and the second time he smiled very faintly. Almost immediately he slipped back into unconsciousness, but his breathing was a little steadier.
Monk went down to build the stove up again and boil more water for tea.
A little after seven Scuff spoke.
'Mr. Crow? That you?'
'Yes, it's me,' Crow said quickly.
'Yer came…'
'Of course I did. Did you think I wouldn't?'
'Nah… I knowed. I done it.' He smiled weakly. 'Told yer.'
'What did you do?' Crow asked him.
'I found the feller fer Mr. Monk. I 'elped 'im.'
'Yes, I know,' Crow agreed. 'He told me.'
'Did 'e?' Scuff frowned. He gave a deep sigh and fell back to sleep again, smiling.
'Is he going to be all right?' Monk demanded, his voice hoarse.
'Looks better' was all Crow would say.
At eight o'clock Crow left, needing to see his other patients. There was no more he could do for Scuff now, and his manner more than his words said that he trusted Hester's ability as much as his own. He promised to return in the evening.
Monk was weary. His bones were aching and his eyes were smarting each time he blinked, as if there were sand in them. Nevertheless, he knew he must go and tell Rathbone that he had seen the assassin, exactly as Melisande Ewart had described him, and that the killer had shot Scuff and escaped. At least Monk could attest to his existence and his nature.
Hester was exhausted, too, but she dared not sleep in case Scuff suddenly grew worse and she was not there to do all she could. Even so she was only half awake when he spoke to her.
' 'Oo are yer? Are yer Mr. Monk's wife?' His voice was surprisingly clear.
She opened her eyes, blinking. 'Yes, I am. My name's Hester. How are you?'
He bit his lip. 'I 'urt. I got shot. Did Mr. Monk tell yer?'
'Yes. I took the bullet out of your shoulder. That's why it hurts so much. But it looks as if it's getting better. Would you like something to drink?'
His eyes widened. 'Yer looked? Din't yer faint, nor nuffink?'
'No. I was a nurse in the army. I don't faint.'
He stared at her, then moved experimentally. Suddenly he saw the lace on his sleeve. 'Wo's that? Wot yer done wi' me clothes?'
'It's one of my nightgowns,' she replied. 'Your own clothes were wet from the sewers, and pretty dirty.'
He blushed scarlet, still staring at her.
'I've tended to soldiers before,' she said matter-of-factly. 'It's all the same, in battle. Not that I gave them my own nightgowns, of course. But I didn't have anything else for you, and no time to go and get anything. You needed to be warm and clean.'
'Oh.' He looked away, confused.
'Would you like something to drink?' she offered again.
He turned back to her slowly. 'Wot yer got?'
'Tea with sugar and a little port wine,' she replied.
'I don' mind if I do,' he said, a trifle warily. He was obviously still turning over in his mind the fact that he was wearing her nightgown and he had no idea where his own trousers were.
Hester went down to the kitchen and made tea, then brought it up and added a few spoonfuls of port. She helped him drink it without any further conversation. His color was definitely better when he lay back.
'Yer looked arter soldiers?' he asked doubtfully.
'Yes.'
'Wy d'yer do that? Din't Mr. Monk mind?'
'I didn't know him then.'
'In't yer got no ma and pa ter look arter yer?' He frowned, as she evidently did not fit his picture of an orphan.
'Yes, I had then. They didn't like it a lot,' she said frankly. 'But quite a few young ladies, even very respectable ones, went out to help Florence Nightingale.'
'Oh! Yer one of 'em?'
'Yes.'
'Were yer scared?'
'Sometimes. But when things are at their worst you don't think of yourself so much-more of the men who are wounded, and if you can help them.'
'Oh.' He thought for a moment. 'I don't need no 'elp. Least, not most o' the time. I 'elp Mr. Monk. 'E don't know much 'bout the river. Not that 'e in't clever, an' brave, like,' he added quickly. ' 'E s just…'
'Ignorant,' she supplied for him with a smile.
'Yeah,' he agreed. 'If yer knowed that, why'd yer let 'im go?'
'Because if you love someone, you can't stop them doing what they believe they have to.'
He looked at her more seriously, with the beginning of something that could even have been respect. 'Is that why yer pa let yer go inter the army?'
'Something like that.'
'Wots it like?'
She told him, fairly factually, what the troop ship had been like crossing the Mediterranean, and her first sight of Scutari. She was describing the hospital when she realized he was asleep. His breathing was even, his brow cool, his skin dry.
She lay down on Monk's side of the bed and, in spite of her intention not to fall asleep, almost immediately drifted off too.
When she woke Scuff was awake, looking uncomfortable. He had been lying close to her, perhaps afraid to move in case he disturbed her. Yet he remained there now when he did not have to, his eyes wary, waiting for her to say something, perhaps make some kind of demand.
She knew better. He might have been frightened, lonely, and hungry for affection, but if she offered it too soon he would reject it instantly. He needed his independence to survive, and he knew it.
'How are you?' she asked quite casually. 'I fell asleep,' she added unnecessarily.
'It 'urts,' he said, then instantly seemed ashamed of himself. 'I'm better, ta. I can go 'ome soon.'
It was not the time to argue with him. He needed to feel some part of his fate was in his own hands. He was afraid of losing his freedom, of becoming dependent, of coming to like warmth and soft beds, hot food- even belonging.
'Yes, of course,' she agreed. 'As soon as you are a little better. I am going to get something to eat. Would you like something, too?'
He was silent, uncertain whether to accept or not. In his world, food was life. One never took it or gave it
