Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

I glanced up in surprise. Somehow Michael's voice didn't sound as if he were suffering keen disappointment at missing the chance to extract me from my stays. Then again, we'd had a long day.

"They'll give the stays back, eventually," I said. "I can wear them to the next regimental event."

No reaction.

"Test your theory about my needing help getting out of them."

A faint smile. It was too late for this, and I was too tired.

"Michael," I said. "Is something wrong?"

"We need to talk."

I sensed this was going to be one of those "serious discussions" that occur at key stages of a relationship. Usually, in my relationships, at moments when I have neither the energy nor the patience to cope with them. I was opening my mouth to reply, still trying to figure out exactly what I was supposed to say, when I heard a voice through the canvas behind me.

"Do you have to talk right now?" the voice asked. "We've all got an early day tomorrow."

"Oh, hush up," came another voice, from behind Michael. "It was just getting interesting."

I poked my head out of the tent flap. No one was crouched with ears glued to the canvas wall of the tent. All the surrounding tents were dark.

"Maybe it's interesting to you," came the first voice, from the tent to my left. "Some of us need our sleep."

"So buy yourself some earplugs," came the second voice, from the tent to my right.

"Hey!" came a voice from across the way. "Ya'U having a party over there? I've got some beer on ice."

"We need to talk someplace else," I said.

"Definitely," Michael agreed.

We put our shoes back on and began walking through the camp.

I had to admit, the canvas tents did have their charm. From the outside. Looking out over a sea of them, with scattered ones here and there glowing golden from a lamp or a flickering lantern within, you could almost imagine yourself really walking through Washington's camp.

And on a more practical note, the white color made it a lot harder to bump into them in the dark. I wished the same could be said for the astonishing variety of shin-bruising junk people left lying around in front of their tents.

A few yards down from ours, we passed Tad's and Faulk's tent. It looked just like all the other tents, of course, especially in the dark. But I could hear their voices. I couldn't make out more than one word in ten, but I could tell from the tone that they were quarrelling.

"I'd suggest sticking my head in to interrupt that and find out if Tad and Faulk have heard about the murder," I said, in a low voice. "But since you still seem to resent Faulk for some obscure and irrational reason – "

"I don't resent Faulk," Michael said. "Not him particularly, anyway."

"Then why do you frown every time you see him or hear his name."

"He's a symbol right now. Of the whole other side of your life."

"You mean my career?"

"Your career, and everything else that keeps us from spending time together," he said. "Take this weekend. We come down here together, but you spend so much time taking care of your family and your friends that we hardly see each other."

"Michael we've already – "

"I know. We've already talked about this weekend," he said. "And you're right, it isn't a good example. But what about that week we were going to spend together at the Outer Banks?"

"Also not a good example," I said. "You were the one who canceled that, when you had to go to Vancouver to film that part on your friend's TV series."

"I didn't cancel, I rescheduled," he said.

"From a week I'd kept open on my calendar for months, specifically for the Outer Banks trip, to a week when I had a show scheduled," I said. "A very prestigious show that I've been trying to crack for ten years, not to mention the fact that I'd paid a stiff, nonrefundable registration fee."

"I can't believe you're still mad about the TV part," Michael said.

"I'm not mad," I said. "I'm looking forward to seeing the show. I only brought it up because you brought up canceling the Outer Banks – "

"Could you keep it down out there?" someone asked, from a nearby tent.

"Sorry," we both murmured.

We strolled in silence, until we reached the highway that divided the battlefield in two – and apparently marked the northern boundary of the encampment.

"Weren't there tents above the road?" I said, frowning. "I could have sworn there were people setting up over there this morning, and now – damn!"

I jumped, as the cannon went off, sounding much louder than it did at the craft fair. Though, curiously, it didn't seem to shake the ground any more. Perhaps I was getting used to it.

"The cannon's right over there somewhere," Michael said, pointing off to our left.

"That's right. I suppose they're aiming at the redoubts."

"The what?"

"The redoubts – that's the technical term for those forts on the battlefield. You know, the earth embankments with the wooden stakes sticking out the sides and ditches all around them?"

"Oh, so that's what a redoubt is," Michael said. "My regiment's been talking for weeks about how we're going to storm one this weekend, and I've been too embarrassed to admit I didn't know what a redoubt was. I should have asked you ages ago."

"Redoubt Nine, probably; the French forces actually did storm that a few days before the end of the siege."

I jumped as the cannon boomed again.

"I can guess what happened to the people who used to have their tents over here," I said.

"Yeah, looks like they all moved farther from the artillery. That's why the rest of the camp is so crowded."

"I can't believe they're really going to keep doing that all night," I fumed. "Come on, let's go talk to them."

"Meg, I thought we – "

"Michael, I know you want to have a serious conversation," I called over my shoulder, as I strode over the battlefield toward where the artillery squad had camped. "But I'm half-asleep and cranky and preoccupied with everything that's happened tonight. Having a serious talk right now would stack the deck in favor of an argument I don't want to have. But if you help me talk those beastly gunners into shutting the hell up for the rest of the night, not only is that a subject that I mink we can both agree on, but I will probably be grateful enough to – awk!"

I found myself lying facedown on the ground.

"Halt! Who goes there!"

"Oh, for the love of – " I muttered.

"Meg!" Michael called. "What happened?"

"I tripped over something," I said, levering myself up.

"I said, Halt! Who goes there!"

"Gatinois chasseurs," Michael called out to the invisible sentry. "Are you all right?" he said to me.

"Did I ever tell you that there are cactus on the battlefields?"

"Cactus?"

"Approach and be recognized, Gatinois chasseurs," the sentry called.

"Hang on a moment, will you?" Michael called.

"Yes, cactus," I repeated. "Tiny little cactus, only a few inches tall."

"Meg, did you hit your head when you fell?"

"As kids, we all learned not to go barefoot on the battlefield, because of the cactus," I said. "The barbs are so fine you can't even pick them out with tweezers. Have to wait till they work their way out."

"But you're not barefoot now, are you?"

"No," I said, getting to my feet. "But I landed with my face in a clump of cactus. I do hope I didn't trip over something those miserable cannoneers strung up around their camp. We've already had one homicide tonight."

"Maybe we should talk to them later," Michael suggested.

I strode on toward the artillery crew's camp – we were close enough now to see a fire, flickering faintly in the middle of a block of tents.

I heard Michael, behind me, talking to someone. The sentry, I supposed. I'd managed to bypass him, and found myself standing in front of something.

I peered closer and realized I was staring down the mouth of the cannon.