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“Are you sure you would not rather go in?” Temeraire peered down at him, anxious. Though the blow he had taken was light, the surgeon had insisted on wrapping a bandage around Laurence’s head, as the wound had bled profusely. He was released after they had determined that he was not concussed, only bruised; he had ducked before the butt of the Frenchman’s pistol could catch him full on.
“I am quite fine out here, my dear; I only mean to rest my eyes a moment,” he replied; the both of them were too exhausted to read.
“Oh, but the weather has turned cold, and it will get colder the further into the evening it gets; I appreciate very much that you would like to stay with me, but the surgeon said you should not risk yourself,” Temeraire protested.
“Please, my dear, I will be more comfortable out here; I would rather spend a little time in your company right now,” he said, leaning back against the warm, scaly foreleg. Temeraire rumbled a little, but was evidently convinced; he drew his wings a little further up, tucked his head beneath them, and shortly fell sound asleep.
In truth, Laurence had omitted the stronger - and more selfish - reason for his staying outside. The attack on the patrol had taken them completely by surprise, and the entire formation was rattled, himself included. Nearly all of the formation members had sustained some light injuries, and Temeraire had been boarded. Though they’d escaped without casualties it had been a close call – the only reason the French lieutenant had been able to get within striking distance of Laurence to begin with was because he had knocked Granby out cold first. The surgeon had said he would recover, but he would not be flying for another week at least. As it was, he’d only woken briefly to take some water and a little gruel before falling back asleep, with barely five words out of his mouth.
It had been too long since Laurence had been in close combat; the experience had shaken him more than it had any right to. It was immensely frustrating to be forbidden from fighting alongside his crew; he recalled the wave of fear like cold water that had washed over him when he saw Granby dangling limply by his harness straps and the desperate instinct that had driven him to draw his sword and lunge at the French officer. Even now, a sense of guilt lingered, nagging him with questions of how he could have prevented it.
Laurence shook himself out of his ruminating; stewing in his own misery would do neither him nor Granby any good. Instead he assessed his own, milder injuries: his head was becoming increasingly sore, as was his throat - his speaking trumpet had been ripped away at some point during the fight, and while he could rely on his voice alone on a ship, the same was not true on dragonback.
No, it was better that he stayed out here for a bit; the sky was a blaze of color, and he had no appetite for either food or company. He would only rest for a while, just a bit; then he would seek out the others and a real bed.
“Is he awake?”
“How could he not be, what with all your stomping? Berkely, let us go, Temeraire will keep him perfectly safe -”
Laurence blinked, groggy, and tried to push himself up into a sitting position. The talking, which had been coming from somewhere to his right, stopped. He blinked again and his eyes finally cleared, though the now prominent throb in his head did not. He was still lying on Temeraire’s foreleg as he had been when he’d fallen asleep, though the sky was now dark and freckled with stars. Harcourt and Berkely were standing about ten feet away, looking sheepish, until Harcourt turned to glare at Berkely and said, “Oh look, now you’ve gone and done it.”
“ Me?!” he exploded. “I seem to recall that you were the one running her mouth off next to a resting man -”
“Excuse me,” Laurence said - or tried to say. He got past only the first syllable before his voice gave out. His throat felt like it was coated with sand; he coughed a little and tried again, and managed to get out a weak, “Is something the matter?”
“Well,” said Harcourt slowly. “Not exactly; it is only that you disappeared as soon as the surgeon got the bandages ‘round your head, and you seemed a little roughed up.”
Laurence lightly brushed one hand over his head and stifled a wince - he was quite sore, and though he could feel that the bleeding had stopped the scabs and skin felt fragile even through the cloth.
“I am quite fine, I assure y-” His voice betrayed him once again, and the odd lack of sound coming out of his mouth prompted a coughing fit. Berkely looked at him skeptically, then said, “Yes, I’m sure you’re right as rain, but you won’t be for long if you insist on staying out in the cold all night.”
“I am quite well, really; and besides, I would not like to desert -” Another cough. “-Temeraire. Please, do not be -” Here he completely dissolved, his voice becoming a raspy wisp that burned his throat.
“You will do no one any good by staying out here all night, and I’m sure Temeraire will fret if he hears your voice as such; please, come inside, even if only for tea,” said Harcourt, looking increasingly anxious.
With some reluctance, Laurence sat up and slid off Temeraire’s forearm. He hit the ground hard and leaned against the scaly mass behind him for a moment, waiting for his vision to stop swimming. It cleared after a deep breath, and he followed the retreating figures of Berkely and Harcourt into the covert mess hall.
It was almost completely deserted at this hour, empty except for a pair of couriers hunched over some midnight coffee in one corner and a few servants who were changing out the candle stubs on the tables. One, a portly woman with flushed cheeks, glanced up upon their arrival.
“Tea or coffee for you, officers?” She asked, her attention remaining mostly on the blob of wax she was trying not to burn herself on. Berkely called for coffee, while Harcourt and Laurence ordered tea before taking a seat at the round officer’s table. The servant disappeared, leaving them quite nearly alone.
Coverts were rarely quiet places to be; there was nearly always some noise from formation drills, the ground crews’ forges, or off-duty crew chatter. At the moment, though, Laurence could hear nothing except the quiet murmur of conversation from the courier captains and the faint sound of crickets permeating through the windows.
Berkely let out a huff, breaking the stillness. “What that bloody patrol was doing there I haven’t the foggiest clue; the frogs are getting a little too lucky a little to often, ‘f you ask me.”
“Perhaps,” replied Harcourt. Her hands were loosely clasped in front of her on the table, and her gaze lay on them, unfocused. “I have heard - well, Choiseul has told me that he has no doubt of Bonaparte’s intent to invade; perhaps these are simply meant to hassle us, weaken what they can before the real attack.” She blinked, seeming to come back to herself, and straightened a little. “Let us hope he is wrong.”
She wore a brave face, but Laurence could perceive her anxiety; still, her courage was commendable. It struck him again how young she was, and how quickly she had been thrust into leadership; though his own promotion had been early, he had at least had the benefit of action, and lots of it. Harcourt had not, and though she fought as well as anyone could ask for she was still green when it came to real combat.
“If it is any comfort,” he said - softly, so as to put minimal strain on his voice. “I think it unlikely that Villenueve has already defeated Nelson. Their aerial forces are concentrated on the mainland, and I have received word from friends in the Navy recently; from their descriptions, Villeneuve has done nothing but run, and Bonaparte cannot cross the Channel without him.”
A little of the tension dissipated from the air, and Berkely chortled. “Right cowards, the lot of ‘em. Won’t even give us the satisfaction of a fight.”
“Not cowards, even,” said Harcourt, though already the corners of her mouth were twitching upwards into a smile. “Just poor seamen, by your accounts.” She glanced at Laurence.
“Undoubtedly.” Laurence felt his own mood lighten, and he added with a hint of pride, “There is not a naval force in the world that can compare to England’s.”
Footsteps, and then the clatter of a tray being set before them with two pots. The servant had disappeared before they even began to reach for their cups; Berkely poured himself some coffee and drank it straight, his cup half finished before Harcourt had finished filling theirs. Neither of them took sugar, only a little milk, and the three of them sat in a long and thoughtful silence with steam curling up from beneath their chins and warmth seeping into their fingers.
At last, Harcourt said, “I suppose you have experienced a great deal of society, Laurence, what with the Navy being more - well, civilized, I suppose,” with a slightly wistful air. Laurence looked at her in surprise: he had never sensed any longing from her or any of the other aviators for any company but that which they kept at the covert.
“Why yes, I have; and the Navy is more formal, certainly, but I would hardly call the Aerial Corps barbarous,” he replied, only a little untruthfully; he had long since stopped being scandalized by the crews’ manners, or lack thereof. “There is no shame in the isolation aviators must take, no matter what some servicemen say.”
“Oh no, it is not that - of course we must be separate from the rest of England if we are to operate effectively. It is only that society sounds so pleasant, at times, but whenever I have tried to participate in it at operas or symphonies I have always felt myself an intruder,” said Harcourt, looking away as she took another sip.
Berkely nodded. “I don’t care for it much myself - too many niceties gettin’ in the way of things, ‘f you ask me - but I should like to go into cities more often, and visit my dear sister in London a little more.”
Laurence looked back and forth at the two of them, still bewildered. Some part of him had imagined that aviators indulged themselves in all the reckless fantasies other members of society did not allow themselves to, hidden away from the world as they were. Even now that he had long since discarded the notion as utterly false, its implications had remained entrenched in his mind. It dawned on him suddenly that it must be a very lonely existence, to be raised from the age of seven away from any family; and lonelier still for the girls, who could not even appear as officers before society. Without the dragons, he imagined, it would be wholly unbearable.
Harcourt seemed to perceive some of this revelation; she nudged him a little and said, “Oh, do not look so morose – we are all plenty busy anyways. But a girl does dream of the opera, from time to time, and wish that gentlemen were less inclined to stare.”
Laurence fidgeted with his cup for a moment, running his thumb back and forth along the edge of the handle; then he abruptly said, “Captain Harcourt, would you like me to accompany you? I might pose as your chaperone, for a night, and you may travel with less suspicion upon you; if you have any inclination to accompany us, Berkely, I would be happy to -”
But he did not get a chance to finish: Harcourt had already clasped his arm, her eyes shining.
“Oh, do you mean it? That would be so splendid - I should love nothing more than to hear an orchestra without fellows like Rankin sneering at me - oh, er, I should mean to say that - well -” She stuttered and looked at him anxiously; Laurence realized that by insulting Rankin so, it might also seem an insult to him, given their early companionship.
“I hold no love for men like him, captain. I find them too assured of their own superiority without any such credentials to merit such arrogance. He would do better to mind the manners he so often flaunts,” he said, and watched her shoulders sag in relief.
“Good God man, you needn’t curse his name so obscenely!” said Berkely, chortling.
“Really, that must be the strongest I have heard you say about a person; I do not know that I could not call him a bastard to his face,” said Harcourt, giggling. Berkley’s chortle turned into a guffaw, and Laurence felt himself smiling wider than he had in a long time.
“My, what a lively bunch we are at so early in the morning,” he said. “What ruffians we might be mistaken for.”
“Yes; we might even be taken for aviators, the horror,” said, Harcourt, prompting a fresh round of laughs.
Their cups were getting shallow and cool, and despite their exuberance they all seemed to be steadily drooping over with exhaustion. Berkely checked the coffee pot and grumbled when he found it empty; Laurence suspected the teapot was in a similar state. The world was still dark and quiet; even the couriers had departed.
Laurence drained his cup and glanced at the captains. “I think I might retire, and this time to a proper bed.” Berkely nodded, and Harcourt yawned in agreement. He rose, and they followed sleepily in suit. “Thank you both; I feel quite improved from when I awoke.”
“Ah, think nothing of it. Can’t have a captain that’s too tired to walk, now can we?” said Berkely.
“Nor a chaperone too tired to watch their charge,” added Harcourt. She was still fairly beaming; the sight brought a warmth to Laurence’s chest.
“Indeed. If Temeraire wakes and I have not yet risen, will you let him know as to my whereabouts?” he asked, suddenly feeling a pang of anxiety.
“No, we will simply allow him to tear down the building in a frantic search. Of course we will,” said Harcourt, smiling. She and Berkely paused at one of the corridors, evidently meaning to split off to their own rooms. “Good night, captain Laurence.”
“Good night, captains.”