Chapter 17

Bates had been getting tired more often and his leg hurt. He hadn't wanted to say so but Mary knew it did. And Henderson had noticed it too.

It was mid-day. Running a run that was more of a trod, and with his blond hair upright with sweat and dirt, Leigh excitedly called for Mary Graves when she was on her way up from the dig site.

"By which way?" She asked him. He passed her a towel.

"He came by the west road. I pointed him to Bates's."

At least he didn't get entangled with the insurgents, Mary thought. At least we're spared of that.

"Have you been drinking enough?" Mary eyed the kid. His forehead was burned.

"I have."

"Jackson is going to need help to get his friend up."

"Sure, Ma'am."

"And get out of the sun."

Mary watched the young man go down and then got the dirt from her neck and hands, and went towards camp.

Bates had dropped his boots on the floor, then lain back on the bed. The tent was stale. Joseph Bates's paraphernalia stood stacked in boxes one way, and clothes the other way. The sheets were all in one corner of the bed. There was an unfinished game of cards on the table, and under the bed, hidden in the shadow, stood bottles; empty and full. By the bed, next to Bates, stood Charles Graves.

"Have you been out in a sandstorm?" Bates grunted. Charles Graves looked ruffled, and dishevelled, and he had not taken the time to change after the long road.

"Kuzi. No sense to it." Charles's voice had a slight croak from either heat or exhaustion. Bates made a low inarticulate sound as Charles put his bag down. "Let me see your knee. Take off your pants. I want to see what kind of a job you did with my handiwork."

Bates huffed, took off his breeches and pulled off the knee-brace. Charles went to wash his hands under the bidon and returned. He bent the knee gently back and forth. Running his finger along the scar, he put his thumbs together over the kneecap and rocked the knee gently with his fingers.

Neither man remarked on Mary Graves's presence in the passageway.

"Is that all the articulation you have?" Charles did not look up from the knee.

"Sure."

"It's a crime. You ought to get complete range of motion."

"It's a lot better than it was. I was stiff as a board."

"Did you use what I gave you?"

Bates grimaced at Charles's movement. "Followed the whole damn thing to the letter."

Charles regarded his wife. It took Mary with a start. His eyes were warm and inquiring, and amused, and Mary found she could not break their gaze. Her hands tightened around themselves behind her back. She saw something change in Charles's face. What it was, she could not name, but his features softened and a youthfulness came to his face.

How strange it was. Four years. Charles had grown broad and his hair had greyed since Trujillo —and yet some things had not changed at all. The colours and shadows were still aligned in the spots she remembered them. Besides the dark circles under his eyes looking more severe, it was the same face Mary kept folded in her memory.

Mary nodded. "It was the strain of going up and down the ladders."

Charles bent the leg more. Mary Graves watched his hands. Strong and gentle, with a gentle reliance to them. The delicate self-conscious tension between husband and wife did not seem to affect Bates, and if it did, the old man did not seem eager nor desire to react upon it. Mary was not convinced whether the change was a favourable one. She carefully responded to the movement of Charles's handling, the motions unfamiliar compared to what had once been their usual interactions.

Charles bent the knee too far.

"Doc!" Bates warned.

"You ought to stay away from work." Charles said.

"It is better than it was."

"Sure." Charles stood and returned to the bidon. "The knee itself is still stable." He was through with the leg. "Though you're going to continue with the cane. For how much longer do you have left?" He nodded at the paper package serving as a paperweight in one corner.

"Two days."

Mary hummed. She stood, with crossed arms by the table, hip against the edge. "I'll have McBryne talk to Tendaji when the food comes in."

"Morphine's father." Came from Bates. Charles handed him his brace.

"Morpheus is his name."

❧

The tent was small, but high, and one could walk three paces in each direction before having to bow their head. It was also light, and far enough from the dig site that Charles would not be bothered by the noise. It held a bed, and a cabinet; a small lightwood writing desk that was no more but a palette on two low cabinets, which held two drawers.

It was strange, seeing Charles here. And even now, a shiver ran through Mary, followed by breathless shock when Charles's hands cupped her face. Familiar, warm eyes searched her face.

"You look tired." He said. "What's going on with you?"

"Nothing," Mary said. "What's going on with you?"

Charles Graves huffed a breath, and for a moment, she was convinced Charles would avoid answering, would sidestep and disappear, delaying the conversation, perhaps permanently. Then he dropped himself back against the desk and regarded her, still close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. Her eyes travelled from his shoulders to his face, and those damned eyes of his were filled with something that almost resembled acquiescence. Mary Graves focused on the darkness that lay below his eyes. Charles remained still under her scrutiny, and at last confessed: "The uprising. It's eating at me."

"Yes. I can see you've been having a fine time. Tell me."

"All month I've operated. I work all the time. I do everybody's work."

"Hadebe?"

"At Kalacha."

"That sounds better."

"I never think. No, by God, I don't think; I operate."

"And now?"

"I don't operate now and I feel like hell. Something terrible's brewing. Were you there when it got worse?"

"No. I haven't been anywhere."

"Henderson told me of the fights."

"There's been several."

"You heard of the Darlington family?"

"We did."

"Children and all. Never stood a chance." He whispered and looked away. "How are those kids dealing with it?"

"I keep them busy. Wilson's scared to go out at dark though. Leigh too, but he puts up less of a front."

"Why do you suppose they're afraid of the dark?"

"I don't know," Mary said. "Weren't you?"

"I don't think so."

"I was."

Charles's agitation shifted to a small smile. He chuckled, the sound low and intimate, his breath warm against Mary's skin. "Not when we met. You turned up any and everywhere at night," he murmured, his eyes wicked but his voice soft. Mary ignored the warm feeling it gave her.

"A city at night can hardly be called a night any more." She murmured.

The usual sarcasm was there, only she wasn't fully behind it like normally. The days had been long, and tense. Sleep came harder than usual. And Charles looked... calm, leaning against the desk with his shoulders relaxed and his feet crossed and his hands beside him on the desk. His hair was less tousled than when he'd arrived. The soft light inside the tent cast his profile in a faint glow, and if Mary Graves were at all sentimental, she'd say he looked like something out of a dream.

Mary looked down at her hands. "People are afraid."

"They have good reason to. Should I be afraid?"

She smiled at him. "Don't act smart."

His lips twitched. "I should be, shouldn't I?"

"No."

"I stole something from you. Not really, you left it at the clinic."

"What is it?"

"Not important. I just wanted something that was yours."

"Well, put it back."

"You'll get it when you come back."

"Will I?"

"When are you coming back?"

"Not yet."

"Well," he said. "You got something to read?"

"I have Melville."

"Which?"

"You know."

"I never liked the end," Charles Graves said, his voice hoarse.

"I don't think any of us do, really," Mary said. "But there's always an end."