II
A year later, the work doesn't cease or diminish, but even more volunteers have arrived, and sometimes an afternoon off presents itself like a gift under the Christmas tree. Elizabeth has taken to going out into the woods with her pointe shoes, and practising over and over to keep the steps as burned into her memory as she possibly can. There's something so peaceful about practising, about the routine she always falls into – warming up holding onto the side of a tree, stretching her legs and arms, and then practising variations, adagios, allegros over and over again.
The dirty, leaf-strewn earth of the woods doesn't make a wonderful practise floor, but it's better than nothing.
On this particular afternoon, when the sun burns through the dark pine needles in streaks of burnished rose-gold, she is just rising up onto the tips of her toes, taking tiny little steps before pulling her leg into an arabesque when there is a click, and her supporting leg wobbles. She stumbles, catching herself on a nearby tree and muttering a very unladylike word under her breath.
Of all the times for this to happen, it had to be now.
Her left knee has always been a little bit weaker than the right knee, ever since she fell over during practise when she was only twelve, and sometimes it gives out like this, usually for no particular reason.
Well, practise is evidently over for today. She sits down and takes off her point shoes, stowing them in their little bag that could so easily be passed off as a bag in which to carry a book, and stands. By the time her next free afternoon rolls around, it'll be back to normal.
But it doesn't.
Three days later, she is still limping and her knee throbs with pain whenever she tries to touch it. She doesn't tell anyone, but she knows that Kitty and Rosalie have noticed. It has to go away, it will go away. There's nothing to worry about.
That afternoon, she is walking between the wards, still loathe to put weight on her left leg when someone comes up behind her. Him. Miles, as he's insisted that she calls him. There sight of him resonates hollowly in her gut – ever since her arrival, his smile still has the power to make butterflies spin around her head, and what-ifs to haunt her dreaming hours. At first, she tried to avoid him – because she knows that willpower is enough to overcome anything - but it was hopeless.
Now, she is just resigned to seeing him about the place and keeping a lid on her feelings, because if she lets go of the leash, she knows that she'll make a fool of herself.
"Miss Whitmore, could I have a word?" he asks, taking her arm and steering her into a new, empty ward that is waiting with baited breath for tonight's convoy.
Warmth burns in her skin from his touch, and she pulls her arm away. "Yes – but make it quick. I'm expected on the wards."
"Kitty has told me that you're limping, and that she's worried about you," he says, plainly, and Elizabeth holds onto the rail of the bed behind her as a reflex. Kitty knows how she feels about him, why did she have to do this?
"I was wondering if you'd let me take a look," he continues.
Her knee throbs then, as if reminding her that it's there. "Yes, alright," Elizabeth says, sitting down on the bed.
He smiles. "I'll leave the flap open to ensure your honour."
"Thank you," she replies dryly, pulling up her skirt to show him where her knee is swelling against its stocking. Any other woman would be embarrassed by showing so much leg to a man, but Elizabeth has spent most of her life living in a theatre and that somehow allows one to have less inhibitions.
"This looks nasty," he says, gently probing it with feather-light touches. "How did you do it?"
"I fell over." Her reply is quick – too quick – and he gives her a look for a second.
"If it's bandaged up, then it should stop you limping," he tells her. "Get Kitty to do it when she has a free moment."
"Thank you," she says, pulling the safety of her skirt back over her injured leg.
"My pleasure. Don't go falling over again," he says, and she nods, accepting his hand up. He looks at her, opens his mouth for a second, and then stops, turns away.
"I'd better get on," he says, and then he's out of the tent, and she's left staring into the empty air.
A/N Thank you to anon and Kate - Kate, you know where you search for a story? Click the down arrow, select forum, and then type in 'Of Poppies and Pairings.' It should come up, fingers crossed! I'm glad you're all enjoying this and here's the next chapter! :) N xx