Monk was weary. His bones were aching and his eyes were smarting each time he blinked, as if there were sand in them. Nevertheless, he knew he must go and tell Rathbone that he had seen the assassin, exactly as Melisande Ewart had described him, and that the killer had shot Scuff and escaped. At least Monk could attest to his existence and his nature.

Hester was exhausted, too, but she dared not sleep in case Scuff suddenly grew worse and she was not there to do all she could. Even so she was only half awake when he spoke to her.

" 'Oo are yer? Are yer Mr. Monk's wife?" His voice was surprisingly clear.

She opened her eyes, blinking. "Yes, I am. My name's Hester. How are you?"

He bit his lip. "I 'urt. I got shot. Did Mr. Monk tell yer?"

"Yes. I took the bullet out of your shoulder. That's why it hurts so much. But it looks as if it's getting better. Would you like something to drink?"

His eyes widened. "Yer looked? Din't yer faint, nor nuffink?"

"No. I was a nurse in the army. I don't faint."

He stared at her, then moved experimentally. Suddenly he saw the lace on his sleeve. "Wo's that? Wot yer done wi' me clothes?"

"It's one of my nightgowns," she replied. "Your own clothes were wet from the sewers, and pretty dirty."

He blushed scarlet, still staring at her.

"I've tended to soldiers before," she said matter-of-factly. "It's all the same, in battle. Not that I gave them my own nightgowns, of course. But I didn't have anything else for you, and no time to go and get anything. You needed to be warm and clean."

"Oh." He looked away, confused.

"Would you like something to drink?" she offered again.

He turned back to her slowly. "Wot yer got?"

"Tea with sugar and a little port wine," she replied.

"I don' mind if I do," he said, a trifle warily. He was obviously still turning over in his mind the fact that he was wearing her nightgown and he had no idea where his own trousers were.

Hester went down to the kitchen and made tea, then brought it up and added a few spoonfuls of port. She helped him drink it without any further conversation. His color was definitely better when he lay back.

"Yer looked arter soldiers?" he asked doubtfully.

"Yes."

"Wy d'yer do that? Din't Mr. Monk mind?"

"I didn't know him then."

"In't yer got no ma and pa ter look arter yer?" He frowned, as she evidently did not fit his picture of an orphan.

"Yes, I had then. They didn't like it a lot," she said frankly. "But quite a few young ladies, even very respectable ones, went out to help Florence Nightingale."

"Oh! Yer one of 'em?"

"Yes."

"Were yer scared?"