Blouse opened his eyes, saw her, and then turned and frantically scrabbled by the bed.
"Here they are, sir," said Polly, handing him his spectacles.
"Ah, Perks, thank you," said the lieutenant, sitting up. "Midnight, is it?"
"A bit after, sir."
"Oh, dear! Then we must hurry! Quick, pass me my breeches! Have the men had a good night?"
"We were attacked by Zlobenian troops, sir. First Heavy Dragoons. We took them prisoner, sir. No casualties, sir."
...because they didn't expect us to fight. They wanted to take us alive! And they walked in on Carborundum and Maladict and... me.
It had been hard, very hard, to force herself to swing that cudgel. But once she had done it, it had been easy. And then she'd felt embarrassed about being caught in a petticoat, even though she had her breeches on underneath. She'd gone from boy to girl just by thinking it, and it had been so... easy.
She needed some time to consider this. She needed time to think about a lot of things. She suspected that time was going to be in short supply.
Blouse was still sitting there with his breeches half on, staring at her.
"Run that past me again one more time, will you, Perks?" he said. "You have captured some of the enemy?"
"Not just me, sir, I only got two of 'em," said Polly. "We all, er, piled in, sir."
"Heavy Dragoons?"
"Yessir."
"That's the Prince's personal regiment! They've invaded?"
"I think it was more of a patrol, sir. Seven men."
"And none of you are hurt?"
"Nosir."
"Pass me my shirt! Oh, blast!"
It was then that Polly noticed the bandage around his right hand. It was red with blood. He saw her expression.
"Bit of a self-inflicted wound, Perks," he said nervously. "'Brushing up' on my sword drill after supper. Nothing serious. Just a bit 'rusty', you know. Can't quite manage buttons. If you would be so good..."
Polly helped the lieutenant struggle into the rest of his clothes, and threw his few other possessions in a bag. It took a special kind of man, she reflected, to cut his sword hand with his own sword.
"I should pay my bill..." the lieutenant muttered, as they hurried down the darkened stairs.
"Can't, sir. Everyone's fled, sir."
"Perhaps I should leave them a note, do you think? I wouldn't like them to think that I had 'done a runner' without - "
"They've all gone, sir!" said Polly, pushing him towards the front door. She stopped outside the barracks, straightened his coat and stared at his face. "Did you wash last night, sir?"
"There was no - " Blouse began.
The response was automatic. Even though she was fifteen months younger, she'd been mothering Paul for too long.
"Handkerchief!" she demanded. And, since some things get programmed into the brain at an early age, one was obediently produced.
"Spit!" Polly commanded. Then she used the damp hanky to wipe a mark off Blouse's face and realized, as she was doing it, that she was doing it. There was no going back. The only way out was ahead.