Harper was in the armchair, Joana asleep across his lap. The Irishman turned at the creak of the hinges. "All quiet, sir," he whispered.

"You should have woken me."

"Why? Nothing's stirring."

"Captain Vicente?"

"He crept out, sir. Went to see what was happening. Promised he wouldn't go far."

"I'll make some tea," Sharpe said, and he closed the door.

There was a basket of kindling beside the stove and a box of small logs. He worked as quietly as possible, but heard Sarah stir and turned to see her looking up at him from the jumble of bedclothes. "You're right," she said, "the army is an education."

Sharpe leaned against the stove. She sat up, clutching Harper's greatcoat to her breasts, and he stared at her, she stared back and neither spoke until she suddenly scratched at her thigh. "When you were in India," she asked unexpectedly, "did you meet people who believed that after death they came back as another person?"

"Not that I know about," Sharpe said.

"I'm told they believe that," Sarah said solemnly.

"They believe all sorts of rubbish. Couldn't keep up with it."

"When I come back," Sarah said, tilting her head to rest against the wall, "I think I'll come back as a man."

"Bit of a waste," Sharpe said.

"Because you're free," she said, gazing up at the dried herbs hanging from the beams.

"I'm not free," Sharpe said. "I've got the army all over me. Like fleas." He watched her scratch again.

"What we did last night," Sarah said, and blushed very slightly and it was plain she had to force herself to speak of what had happened so naturally in the darkness, "doesn't leave you changed. You're the same person. I'm not."

Sharpe heard Vicente's voice in the parlor and, a heartbeat later, there was a knock on the kitchen door. "In a minute, Jorge," Sharpe called out. He looked into Sarah's eyes. "Should I feel guilty?"

"No, no," Sarah said quickly. "It's just that everything's changed. For a woman," she looked up at the herbs again, "it's not a small thing. For a man, I think, it is."

"I won't let you be alone," Sharpe said.

"I wasn't worried about that," Sarah said, though she was. "It's just that everything's new now. I'm not who I was yesterday. And that means tomorrow is different as well." She half smiled at him. "Do you understand?"

"You'll probably have to talk to me some more," Sharpe said, "when I'm awake. But for the moment, love, I have to let Jorge have his say, and I need some bloody tea." He leaned over and kissed her, then scooped up his clothes.

Sarah lifted her torn dress from the tangled bedding. She was about to pull it over her head, then shuddered. "It stinks," she said in distaste.

"Wear this," Sharpe said, tossing her his shirt, then he pulled on the overalls, shrugged the straps over his bare shoulders and tugged on the boots. "We'll have a make and mend day," he said. "Wash everything. I doubt the bloody French will leave today and we seem safe enough here." He waited until she had buttoned the shirt, then opened the door. "Sorry, Jorge, just making a fire."

"The French aren't leaving," Vicente reported from the door. He was in shirtsleeves and had made a sling for his left arm. "I couldn't go far, but I could see downhill and they're not making any preparations."

"They're catching their breath," Sharpe said, "and they'll probably march tomorrow." He twisted to look at Sarah. "See if Patrick's fire is going, will you? Tell him I need a flame for this one."

Sarah slipped past Vicente who stood aside to let her pass, then he looked from Sarah to Joana, both girls bare-legged and dressed in grubby shirts. He came into the kitchen and frowned at Sharpe. "It looks like a brothel in there," he said reprovingly.

"Greenjackets always were lucky, Jorge. And they're both volunteers."

"Does that justify it?"

Sharpe pushed more kindling into the stove. "Doesn't have to be justified, Jorge. It's life."

"Which is why we have religion," Vicente said, "to raise us above life."

"I was always lucky," Sharpe said, "in escaping law and religion."

Vicente looked miserable with that reply, but then saw the pencil portrait of Sharpe that Sarah had propped on a shelf and his face brightened. "That's good! It's just like you!"

"It's a picture, Jorge, of a people's anger let loose on a corrupt world."

"It is?"

"That's what the fellow who drew it said, something like that."

"Miss Fry didn't do it?"

"It was a Frog officer, Jorge. Did it last night while you were sleeping. Step aside, fire coming." He and Vicente made way for Sarah who was carrying a burning scrap of wood that she pushed into the stove, then watched to make sure the fire caught. "What we're going to do," Sharpe said as Sarah blew on the small flames, "is boil up some water, wash our clothes and pick off the fleas."

"Fleas?" Sarah sounded alarmed.

"Why do you think you're scratching, darling? You've probably got worse than fleas, but we've got all day to clean up. We'll wait for the Crapauds to go, which will be tomorrow at the earliest."

"They won't go today?" Sarah asked.

"That drunken lot? Their officers will never get them in march order today. Tomorrow if they're lucky. And tonight we'll have a look at the streets, but I doubt we can get out tonight. They're bound to have patrols. Best to wait till they've gone, then cross the bridge and head south."

Sarah thought for a second, then frowned as she scratched at her waist. "You just follow the French?" she asked. "How do you get past them?"

"The safest way," Vicente said, "would be to head for the Tagus. We must cross some high hills to reach the river, but once there we might find a boat. Something to take us downstream to Lisbon."

"But before that," Sharpe said, "there's another job to do. Look for Ferragus."

Vicente frowned. "Why?"

"Because he owes us, Jorge," Sharpe said, "or at least he owes Sarah. He stole her money, the bastard, so we have to get it back."

Vicente was plainly unhappy at the idea of prolonging the feud with Ferragus, but he did not voice any objections. "And what if a patrol comes here today?" he asked instead. "They'll be searching the town for their own troops, won't they?"

"You speak Frog?"

"Not well, but I speak some."

"So tell them you're an Italian, a Dutchman, anything you like, and promise we'll rejoin our unit. Which we will, if we can get out of here."

They made tea, shared a breakfast of biscuit, salt beef and cheese, then Sharpe and Vicente stood guard while Harper helped the two women do the laundry. They boiled the clothes to get the stench of the sewer out of the cloth and, when everything was dry, which took most of the day, Sharpe used a heated poker to kill the lice in the seams. Harper had torn down some curtains from the bedroom, washed them, torn them into long strips, and now insisted on bandaging Sharpe's ribs that were still bruised and painful. Sarah saw the scars on his back.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I was flogged," Sharpe explained.

"For what?"

"Something I didn't do," Sharpe said.

"It must have hurt."

"Life hurts," Sharpe said. "Wrap it tight, Pat."

His ribs were still painful, but he could take a deep breath without wincing, which surely meant things were mending. They were mending in the city too, for Coimbra was quieter today, though the plume of smoke, thinner now, still drifted up from the warehouse. Sharpe suspected the French would have rescued some supplies from the blaze, but not nearly enough to release them from the hunger that Lord Wellington had deployed to defeat their invasion. At midday Sharpe crept to the end of the tortuous alley and saw, as he had suspected, patrols of French soldiers rooting men out of houses, and he and Harper then filled the alley with garden rubbish to suggest that it was not worth exploring, and the ruse must have worked, for no patrol bothered to explore the narrow passage. At nightfall there were the sounds of hooves and iron-rimmed wheels on the nearby streets and when it was fully dark Sharpe negotiated the obstacles in the alley and saw that two batteries of artillery were parked in the street. A half-dozen sentries guarded the vehicles and one, more alert than the others, saw Sharpe's shadow in the alley's entrance and shouted a challenge. Sharpe crouched. The man called again and, receiving no answer, shot into the blackness. The ball ricocheted above Sharpe's head as he crept backwards. "Un chien," another sentry called. The first man peered down the alley, saw nothing and agreed it must have been a dog in the night.