“Chaffre, what are you doing here?” I asked.
“Guess.” He looked unhappy. He’d pulled guard duty with Martel, the brute who’d hated him since our training days. “Did you eat that soup?”
“I forgot.”
“You also forgot your helmet again.”
I shrugged. “I could use a bath.”
Martel snorted. “Is he your maman, Crépet? Or maybe your girlfriend?”
“Fuck off,” I said, but my face burned. Chaffre never did his fussing in front of others.
“I dunno. You’ve always jumped to defend him.” He took his cigarette out and spit. “Like some damsel-in-distress.”
I started for him, but Chaffre stepped between us. “It’s nothing.” In the moonlight his eyes were pleading.
I stopped, but Martel chuckled and strolled away for a piss.
Chaffre lifted his helmet and wiped his brow. “He’s a bastard.”
“He is. But, hey, don’t rag on me all the time.” I regretted it the moment I said it.
His eyes flickered. “I’m looking out for you. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing out here?”
I forced a smile. “Sure.”
Something clattered onto the ground and I bent to pick it up. Chaffre’s little lead Madonna, the one he carried everywhere. For him to be holding it, out here in the rain, to be worrying and praying, something must still be nagging at him.
“It’ll feel like summer again someday,” I said, and held it out.
He pushed the little figure into his pocket. “Someday.” He shifted his rifle. “So what are you doing here? If I were you, I would be sleeping instead.”
“Delivering writing materials to the prisoners.” I kept my book covered with my hand. “I have orders.”
I didn’t tell him that the orders were nothing more than a plea from an old friend. I couldn’t explain, not even to Chaffre.
“Your own paper? You’re wasting it on them?”
I hated lying to him. “Yeah,” I said, glad it was dark.
He hesitated. Rain pinged off his helmet. “Okay, but make it quick. I think they’re asleep.”
They were, but it was a wary doze that ended when I opened the door and let in a sweep of windy rain down the cellar steps. I couldn’t see more than the splash of moonlight let me, but one of the figures got heavily to his feet. “Crépet, you came back.”
I picked my way down the steps. “For a minute. I brought what you asked.” I fumbled for the book inside my greatcoat. “I can’t stay. I shouldn’t even be here.”
His reply was in English, low and guarded, almost private. “Thank you for helping me.”
Gratitude, I didn’t expect. Not from Bauer. Not now. He’d never thanked anyone in all the years I knew him. I dropped the pencil. “It’s nothing.”
He moved closer, just a little bit. I couldn’t see more than a shadow of his face. “It’s more than you know.” His eyes glittered in the dark.
I bent and felt along the floor. Rain beat against the stairs from the open door. Outside, Chaffre paced, sending his shadow across the floor. Bauer stepped nearer. I wished I hadn’t come.
“Do you remember some of the tricks we’d pull on the court?” he asked, squatting by me.
I edged back. This sudden nearness, this gratitude, this nostalgic remember-when. “You were always much more serious about the game than I was.” From outside, Chaffre cleared his throat loudly. “You always wanted to win.” My fingers connected with the pencil and I straightened.
Bauer stood, and as he did, the others did, too. I took a step back, my heels against the stairs, realizing that I’d dropped the pencil again.
“It’s really not so different these days, is it?” he said. “We all want to win.” He clapped a hand on my left shoulder.
“The game ended long ago.” I twisted my body away from his hand.
But I’d forgotten about Bauer’s drop shot. I’d forgotten that he always knew how to set me up to lose.
Clare had told me not to trust him. I wished I had listened.
When he put his hand on my shoulder and I twisted away, I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t realize I’d left my hip open. Bauer lunged and metal grated. He swung up with my bayonet in his fist.
I swerved, I tried. I didn’t move as fast as he did. That same forehand that won him 299 games caught me full across the left side of my face.
The bayonet was long, edged to the hilt, with a curved quillon. He held it thrust-down when he swung, the way he’d pulled it from the scabbard. The quillon slammed into my nose, snapping my head to the side. The blade hissed cold through my cheek.
I caught myself against the wall, against slime-slick rocks.
“You’ve never understood ‘enemy,’ Crépet,” Bauer said, leaning in close. “You have always trusted too much.”
