Page 52 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“And yet here you are. Interrupting.” She studied me for a long moment, something calculating in her expression. “You are the one who has been escorting Arthur between huts.”

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Part of my duties, ma'am.”

“Ruth. Not ma'am. I am not old enough for ma'am, and I am certainly not British enough.” She glanced at Art, then back at me. “Sit down before you fall down. You are swaying.”

I hadn't noticed I was swaying. But now that she mentioned it, the world did seem slightly unsteady, the edges of my vision fuzzy in a way that probably meant I should have listened to Dr Hart about resting.

“I should get back to?—”

“Sit.” Ruth pointed at the bench. “Now.”

There was something in her voice that didn't allow for argument. The same commanding presence I'd seen in the best officers, the ones who led by sheer force of personality rather than rank. I sat.

Art hovered uncertainly, caught between wanting to come closer and whatever instinct told him to keep his distance in front of witnesses. Ruth solved the problem by shifting to make room, leaving a space on the bench between herself and me.

“Sit, Arthur. You are making me nervous with all that hovering.”

He sat. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him through our coats, far enough that no one could call it improper.

“So,” Noor said, leaning forward with undisguised curiosity. “You're the mysterious sergeant who's been taking such good care of our Arthur.”

“I wouldn't say mysterious.”

“I would. Art barely talks about anyone, and suddenly it's 'Tom said this' and 'Tom thinks that' and 'Tom brought me tea when I forgot to eat.'” She grinned. “We were starting to think he'd invented you.”

Art made a strangled sound. “I do not talk about him that much.”

“You do,” Ruth said. “You mentioned him four times yesterday. I counted.”

“That's... that's not...” Art's ears had gone pink. “There were legitimate work-related reasons for those mentions.”

“The comment about his hands was work-related?” Noor's grin widened. “What kind of work requires commentary on hand steadiness?”

“He was demonstrating rifle maintenance. It was an observation about technique.”

“Technique. Right.” Noor caught my eye and winked. “Don't worry, Sergeant. We approve. Anyone who can get Art to actually leave his desk is a miracle worker in our book.”

I didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to navigate this conversation that felt like an interrogation wrapped in friendly banter. These women knew Art, cared about Art, and they were taking my measure with the same precision they probably applied to enemy communications.

“He's easy to talk to,” I said finally. “Once you get past the long words.”

Ruth made a sound that might have been a laugh. “The long words are his armour. If he confuses you enough, you might leave him alone.”

“Doesn't work on me. I just nod and pretend I understand until he explains it in smaller words.”

“A sound strategy.” Ruth's expression had softened slightly. “He does not let many people close, Sergeant. The fact that he speaks of you at all is... significant.”

“Ruth,” Art said, a warning in his voice.

“I am merely making an observation. As is my right as your friend and colleague.” She turned back to me. “You were injured protecting this place. Protecting him, by extension. That earns you some measure of my respect. But respect is not the same as trust. Trust must be earned differently.”

“And how do I earn it?”

“By not hurting him.” Her voice had gone quiet, serious. “By being worthy of whatever he has decided to give you. Byremembering that there are people here who will notice if you are careless with what you have been entrusted.”

The words landed with unexpected weight. She knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not the specifics, but she knew enough to issue a warning dressed as friendly advice.

“I understand,” I said.