Eve stared for a second.

'I can't put that on my feet,' she said.

Harker grinned at her. 'Can you play it?'

'I ... I'm a bit out of practice.'

'Found it in the 33rd's stores,' he said. 'Probably get used for firewood if no one can find a use for it.'

A stab of feeling caught Eve at the thought of destroying a musical instrument, even one as shabby as this. 'Needs tuning,' she said distantly.

'You can tell by looking at it?'

'Yeah. One of the strings is loose. Might not be any good.'

'Well, maybe we can replace it. Be a shame to let it burn. What're guitar strings made of?'

'Nylon and steel,' Eve said.

'Oh. Well, it's yours if you want it.'

He held it out, and Eve took it. Rested it across her thigh. Ran her hand over its waist, where the wood was smooth, almost silky. The guitar was small, slim, built like a Spanish guitar but with a wider fretboard.

She used to have a Martin like this, and a bigger Gibson with steel strings. Had borrowed the session musicians' instruments, getting a feel for them, learning how to play a guitar with six or twelve strings, memorising chords until she could play them blindfolded, sitting in her hotel room playing softly into the night, calming herself, while the others were out at parties and nightclubs.

Unconsciously, she ran her fingers over the strings and winced.

Blimey, it was out of tune. She turned the pegs, bit by bit pulling the sound into shape, until she could strum her fingers over the strings and get a chord that didn't make her flinch.

'Could use a new top E,' she muttered, 'but you'll do. Yes, you will.'

Her fingers formed a D minor, a D minor 7th, a B flat, an F ... familiar chords, chords she'd played dozens, hundreds of times before, sitting alone in her damp poky flat playing on the guitar she'd bought for a fiver in a pawn shop.

'That song,' Harker said softly from beside her. She hadn't even noticed he was there. 'You played that before. On the piano. What did you say it was called?'

'Yesterday.'

'It's beautiful.'

'Yes, it is.' She reached the chorus, those quick chords in succession, a work of genius. 'Apparently it came fully formed into his mind, he woke up humming it. Kept asking the others if they knew the song, and he eventually realised he'd written it in his sleep.'

'Very impressive.'

'Well, he's Paul McCartney. He's a genius.'

'He is if he wrote that song.'

Eve played the song out, not singing, just listening to the chords. That strain again, it had a dying fall. She used to wish she could write a song that was as good as just one of those chord changes. But the songs never came. She had nothing to sing about.

She played a few more chords absently, a few more McCartney strokes of brilliance. Then some Harrison, her fingers moving into While My Guitar Gently Weeps before her brain had entirely caught up.

She didn't sing, just played. Old songs, new songs, favourites and some too obscure for anyone to know. Although none of her current audience seemed to recognise any of them at all. Some of them chatted quietly as she played, some of them listened. After a little while Martindale came off guard and was replaced by Charlie. Eventually Tallulah, yawning, stumbled off to bed. Before long the rest followed, and Eve realised she'd been playing for an hour, and her breath was clouding in front of her face. Her fingers were frozen, but she hadn't really noticed.

Harker stayed beside her, leaning back against the ditch wall, saying nothing.

'I should stop,' she said, mid-chord. 'I I'll keep them awake.'

'Haven't you ever heard of a lullaby?' Harker said.

Eve made to put the guitar down, but Harker's hand covered hers, and she went still.

'You can keep on playing if you want,' he said. 'I'll stay up with you.'

And she realised. Her eyes met his and she realised. He hadn't just brought the guitar along on a whim. The wagon was small and guitars were large, not to mention rubbish material for firewood.

How did he know how much music brought her out, soothed her, calmed her? For the first time today, she didn't feel disconnected.

'Wow, you're good,' she murmured.

'What?'

She stood up. 'I think it's time I got some sleep,' she said. 'I'll see you in the morning.'

He nodded, standing also, and watched her carefully fit the guitar back into the wagon and cover it over while he banked the fire.

As he brushed past her, she reached out and grabbed his arm. He glanced at her, surprised. 'You won't,' she began, licking her lips nervously.

'Won't what?'

'Please don't, um, tell anyone about ...' About me trying to kiss you. About me clinging to you like a life raft. About the way you looked at me. 'About ... what happened after the ... at the Fen Causeway.'

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

'About me having a bit of a breakdown and ...' Oh God, please don't make me say it.

His hand rested briefly on her shoulder. 'About me fetching you from the hospital and bringing you back to the camp without incident?' he said softly.

Eve nodded gratefully.

He gave her a tired, faded, and above all kind smile. 'Not a word,' he said, and turned away.

Just before he went into his tent, she said, 'Will?' and he turned, barely visible in the darkness under the trees.

'Thank you,' she said, and his silhouette nodded, then disappeared.

Harker let them sleep in the next morning, and travel a while in the wagon. They'd walked a long way yesterday, but he'd wanted to get off the fens before they made camp, and he was damned if he would let them sit in the wagon and sink the bloody thing.

He could have detoured west and taken Ermine Street, which was much steadier for a wagon, but was also currently lousy with army patrols and barricades every few miles. According to Colonel Wilson, the 17th was marching down to help the 33rd retake Peterborough, and Harker preferred to stay well away from that. He didn't need any more delays, wasted days and traumatised men.

Not that Eve was one of his men. But she was no good to him in the zombified state she'd been wandering around in yesterday.

He watched her carefully as they broke camp. She seemed brighter, more like herself again.

Harker had been given some communique from Colonel Wilson to take to the 17th's temporary camp at Coningsby. He wasn't intending to stay there, but he figured if they drove the wagon at a fair pace, he could save some time and swap horses when they got there. North of Coningsby, it was another fifty or so miles to Hatfield Chase, the house on the edge of the Wolds where Wheeler had arranged for them to stay. If they'd been able to go closer to Lincoln, it would have been a much shorter journey, but the Coalitionists were apparently making a move on that city, and he didn't really want to risk it.

As it was, they'd have to cross Ermine Street, and part of the reason for going to Coningsby was to find out where the barricades were so they could cross there and minimise their chances of getting shot by their own side.

He drove the length of the disused canal where they'd spent the night, and when it veered off course, set the squad to marching the last ten miles. Once more Eve marched uncomplainingly and he gave the reins to Daz and marched behind her, just in case she had a relapse.

Not to watch her move. Not at all. They'd been going an hour or so when he became aware of someone humming.

'Eve?'

Her steps faltered. 'Sorry.'

'What's that tune?' He didn't recognise it, but he was happy she was humming. Yesterday's silence had been far too loud for his liking.

'Oh ... an old show tune.'

'Show? What show?'

'It's called Les Miserables. It's about' She broke off and sighed. 'About something that probably never happened.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Well, since according to your history books France has won every war she's ever been involved in and been a powerhouse of finance and industry for as long as anyone can remember, I doubt there was much call for a student revolt in 1832.'

And just when he thought she was becoming more normal, she went and said something crazy again.

'What do you mean, "your history books"? What other kind are there?'

'The ones ... the ones I remember. It doesn't matter. I'm crazy, take no notice of me.'

Beside him, Charlie shot him a warning look, but Harker pressed on. Do you really believe she's mad? 'Tell me about this revolt?'

'I don't really know a lot about it. The script doesn't go into detail. But basically the students in Paris stage a revolt against the government because of the way the poor are treated. It fails terribly and nearly all of them die.'

'That sounds like a fun show,' Charlie said dryly.

'Er, yes,' Harker said. 'What was the song you were humming? Does it have words?'

After a few silent paces, Eve started to sing. Her words had a definite rhythm, as if they were intended to be marched to, and were about the songs of angry men.

Charlie shot him a look, and he knew what she meant. It sounded like a marching song, but not one the army might use. She was even singing about barricades.

Harker winced. She must be mad, because no spy would sing like that.

'All right, that's enough,' he said, when Eve had exhorted them all to join in the fight that would give them the right to be free.

Eve stopped, and Harker felt like hell. Her voice had been gaining in confidence, singing made her happy, and she'd been so Bang.

'What the hell was that?'

Tallulah flinched. Charlie went for her gun.

'Sounded like a shell, sir.'

'Halt!' Harker yelled, and the squad did so, the wagon rattling to a stop slightly belatedly behind them.

They all listened. Another shell exploded.

'Hell,' Harker swore, 'bloody blast and damn.' He fumbled inside his coat for his map. Coningsby was supposed to be a small camp, little in the way of defence. Were they under attack?

Or were they, as Harker suspected, the ones attacking? Sitting in trenches, taking pot shots at the Coalitionists, who were no doubt sitting in trenches taking pot shots back, as they waited for an opportunity to move on Lincoln.

As the aural smash of another shell boomed in their ears, the squad turned to look north.

'Another battle?' Eve said, her voice a little ragged. Beside her, Banks flicked off the safety catch on his gun.

'I don't bloody need this,' Harker said. 'Right. Eve, you're back in the wagon. Rest of you, dump your packs, get your guns out, I'm going to try and avoid this but it might not be possible. Quick march!'

The camp at Coningsby had begun as little more than a base for the newly formed 17th. Now, what had once been a small village had turned into a huge, sprawling camp for what looked like half the army. Harker, bullying his way into the stone keep overlooking the camp, ascertained that it was now a base for several battalions, who had indeed dug trenches. But they weren't shelling an opposing line of dugouts. They were shelling Lincoln.

The Coalitionists had taken the city, and now the army was having to attack to get it back.

The enemy was advancing all over the north. West of the Pennines there were entirely separate battles being fought to keep them away from Liverpool and the other ports, but over in the east, they were spreading fast.

The problem wasn't just that they were marching from city to city. They didn't always have a damn army on the move. They just sort of formed one right under everyone's noses, and the next thing you knew, they'd popped up like a mole from underground and taken a city.

Harker gathered intelligence and supplies from the camp at Coningsby, and tried not to let his men see how rattled he was. Every time he looked at a map, there were more red splotches on it. Like the sort of rash that came with the plague. Death usually followed.

Time was running out.

Chapter Twelve.

Taking a wide route to avoid the trenches, and any shells that fell wide of the mark, Harker led the squad east before going north, riding partway and marching the rest, annoyed because this new attack meant he was having to take a far wider route around Lincoln than he'd planned.

At least they were out of the damn fens and they could walk without fear of falling into a bog, which, since the mist was coming in low and thick, Harker was grateful for. Once the noises of the Battle of Lincoln had faded behind them, muffled by the creeping mist, some of his tension faded.

Things weren't as bad as they seemed. Hell, they couldn't be.

'Hey, Eve,' he said, walking up alongside her. 'How about a little marching music?'