William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

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.”
    “Wot’s 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 lightly. All his surroundings were unfamiliar, and he was conscious enough now to be fully aware of that.
    She stood up, tidying back a few strands of hair and making a poor job of it. In spite of her determination not to care for the boy, she cared intensely. If he knew, he would resent it and feel trapped. She must not allow it to show. She went to the door without looking back, then forgetting at the last moment, she turned. He was lying in her place, white-faced, the skin pinched around his mouth, shadowed around his eyes. He looked very small. It was Monk’s opinion he cared about, not hers.
    “I’ll be back,” she said, feeling foolish, and went down the stairs.
    She returned half an hour later having made an egg custard, something at which she was not skilled. She had had to work hard to get it right. She had it now in two bowls on a tray. She set them down on the dresser and closed the door, then offered him one dish.
    He stared at it, no idea what it was, and raised his eyes to hers, uncertain.
    She put some on a spoon and held it to his lips.
    He ate it, tasting it slowly, carefully. He might never admit it, but it was clear in his expression that he liked it very much.
    Slowly she fed him the rest, then ate her own. She had a ridiculous feeling of success, as if she had won a great prize. She looked forward to making something else for him.
    “Is that wot yer feed soldiers when they’re ’urt?” he asked.
    “If we have the supplies, yes,” she replied. “Depends where we’re fighting. It can be hard to get things over great distances.”
    “Wot kind o’ things? Yer gotter ’ave food. D’yer ’ave guns an’ things too?”
    “Yes, and ammunition, and medical supplies, and more boots and clothes. All kinds of things.” Then she elaborated on army life, and he sat with his eyes never leaving hers. They were still talking when Monk came back in the late afternoon.
    He came up to the room quietly. He looked exhausted, but the moment he saw Scuff sitting up against the pillow he smiled.
    Hester rose, anxious for him now. It was already darkening outside, and he was spattered with rain even after having taken his coat off downstairs.
    “Are you hungry?” she asked gently, trying to read from his face what he needed most.
    “Yes,” he answered, as if surprised by it. “Rathbone thinks they may all be convicted, including Sixsmith.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely.
    “Navvies’ evidence,” he explained. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have started this, but it’s too late to undo it now.”
    “What about tomorrow?”
    “More navvies, clerks, people who probably had no idea of any of it,” he answered. “Let’s eat. I’ve done all I