Salome fairly flew out of the infirmary, with Marianne trailing after her.
"Salome, you great ninny! You've been bit on th' shoulder, th' leg an' th' face! Come on, Sister Bethelle drives me mad, but you've got t' apologize t' her an' let her try t' treat th' itch or you'll claw yourself t' shreds!"
She overtook Salome, got hold of her paw, but the young ferret pulled free.
"Salome, Salome! Dont act that way. We might talk her out o' makin' trouble for th' Friar an' lockin' Muryet up, if we're nice."
Salome paid no heed to Marianne's remonstrations, but headed for the chamber that she shared with Samuel.
She seized the doorknob and twisted it, giving the door an inward push, but it did not budge. In her frustration, she tugged and twisted a few times, then released the knob and pounded so loudly that Samuel could not fail to hear her, though she regretted it a moment later, remembering all that had happened and the mood that he was likely to be in.
Still the door did not open. Salome slid to the floor, pressing her back against the wall.
"He's gone an' locked it."
Marianne came to sit beside her. She placed a paw upon her shoulder.
"Why did you 'ave t' go an' get mad at Sister Bethelle, Salome?" she asked, not ungently. "She's so old and has 'ardly anybeast t' talk to or who likes her, besides th' Mother Abbess. She don't mean 'alf th' things she says."
Salome stared at the door. "I'll bet she meant most o' what she said - an' she's right, about me, leastways. I oughtn't t' have thrown a fit an' stormed off like that. I'm always throwin' fits - that's why Muryet's ill now an' Samuel 'ad t' find her an' give away t' those beasts that we're at th' Abbey - 'cos I got mad that everybeast knows I'm daft an' dull an' - an' I 'ad t' go tryin' to show I was cleverer than everybeast, or, if I wasn't, least I was funny."
Marianne withdrew her paw from Salome, who avoided her eyes, afraid of what she might see there - shock, perhaps, or hurt, or, even worse, blankness, a look of forced expressionless.
"Samuel said I'm - I'm naught but a babe throwin' tantrums - just a big babe . . .an' he was right. An' now . . .now . . ."
Marianne gave her a little shake. Salome could tell that she was trying hard to sound comforting and confident at once.
"All right, Salome, maybe we're in a bit o' trouble - well, more than a bit, t' speak th' truth. An' it was my fault, partly - I ought t' have admitted t' Master Samuel that Muryet 'ad eaten what she shouldn't 'ave, but kept my mouth shut 'cos I was more responsible for Muryet than he was, an' I didn't want anyone besides you an' me t' know, lest I got shouted at . . . no, that ain't th' reason an' I ought t' stop fibbin' t' myself, makin' excuses. Yore brother's a good creature, even if he's a bit . . . rough, and Friar Jerome never shouted at me in 'is life. I was just afraid he'd hear of it and stop lettin' me go t' Muryet anymore. . .thought maybe with good fortune I could keep 'im from knowin' of it somehow. I was a selfish little goose."
Salome met Marianne's eyes, at last - those warm, earnest brown eyes - and managed a wan smile. Marianne gave her paw a squeeze.
"But what on earth's th' good in sittin' about, mopin' and pityin' ourselves? It's not goin' t' keep the horde or the fleas off. It will only make all the others cross."
Salome rose, drawing Marianne up with her.
"Well, what do you s'pose we SHOULD do? We can't neither of us fight - that's what th' Skipper's crew an' the squirrels are out there for. . .though it means they might get shot at, or knocked down, or get th' plague 'cos we're 'ere."
"Well, it can't be helped if we've got t' fight." Marianne had grown fierce, of a sudden. "I'll . . . I'll get shot at, too, if I've got to - but you're not goin' t' be sent out t' those scum - nor is Master Samuel. I won't let you, Salome - not as long as I live!"
Salome felt a great welling up of emotion within her, and, without a word, she threw her arms about Marianne, who returned the embrace, fairly crushing her.
"Don't be daft, Marianne," Salome whispered, "you - you bushtailed nutshell-'ead. Try tellin' that t' th' Abbess an' th' Redwallers. Nobeast with sense'd kill a score o' creatures just t' save one or two. Th' Chief wouldn't never do that - an' those scum are goin' t' kill anybeast they can. Those marks you see on my shoulder - they weren't all fleabites. They'd caught me in th' forest an' nearly killed me!"
Marianne broke the embrace.
"Salome, look at me."
Salome blinked, bemused. "I'm lookin' at you already. Somethin' wrong with you - were you bit?"
Marianne shook her head. "No, you goose. Now, suppose somebeast came t' demand we all 'and th' Mother Abbess over t' him an' could burn th' Abbey down if we said we wouldn't. Do you think we'd 'and her over?"
"God, no! Are you mad?"
Marianne's voice softened. "No. I ain't mad."
She took Salome's paw once more. " Here at th' Abbey, Friar Jerome's always told me, every creature's as precious t' all th' other Redwallers as th' Abbess is. We all ought t' fight, he said, rather than t' 'and one beast over t' a hateful lowlife. An' I grew up t' understand it ain't about tradin' lives or bodies, really. It's about bein' loyal t' th' ones you love - an' t' th' spirit o' th' Abbey."
"Th' Spirit o' th' Abbey? You mean Martin's ghost? Is he 'anging about, lookin' out over us all, ready t' get cross with anybeast who don't fight t' save another Redwaller?"
"Well . . .not sure that was quite what I meant, but it's near enough."
Salome glanced down at the too-large, moss-green infirmary gown that she wore. "But, Marianne, we ain't Redwallers."
"Yore Redwallers now - and nobeast in th' Abbey will ever say anythin' different, 'ear? Now,I don't know about you, but I'm goin' t' go off an' think of SOMETHIN' t' do."
Salome hesitated. Her confidence had been badly shaken, and she was afraid, as she was certain that Marianne must be.
But when, at last, she smiled, Marianne mirrored the smile with even greater radiance.
"Yore right. It's both our faults - sort of - that th' Abbey's in this mess. But I bet we're old enough an' big enough - an' strong enough t' pull us all out o' th' mud we've made."

oooooOooooOOOOOooooooooooo

"Have ye both taken leave of your God-forsaken minds?" Friar Jerome roared, bringing a bread pan down upon the counter with a crash. "You ain't old enough, neither o' you, nor strong enough t' do battle!"
Well, Salome remarked to herself, so much for th' Friar's never shoutin' at Marianne.
Marianne held out her paws imploringly. "Friar Jerome, we ain't tryin' t' do battle. I was only sayin' we wanted t' shoot arrows or launch stones from th' walltops!"
"'Tis all the same!" the Friar snapped. Salome had never seen or heard him so irritable, or so flustered, save for when he had been quarreling with his brother. "An' ye must 'ave hit your head on somethin' hard, t' even think of mentionin' it."
He plucked a dishcloth from a nearby rack and tossed it to Marianne. "Here, missie - seein' as yore up an' well, you might as well start 'elpin' me. Th' same for you, Miz Salome."
"But, Friar Jerome -" Salome began to protest. The Friar silenced her with a look.
"Not another word."
Salome was poised to argue, but saw Marianne's face, thought better of it and closed her mouth. Both young maids obeyed Friar Jerome wordlessly, with downcast eyes, stacking dishes and rinsing vegetables.
After a while of silence, Friar Jerome spoke again, with less anger.
"Miz Marianne, you aint naught but fourteen seasons. Ye dont know a thing about war, or fightin'. Yore a kitchen assistant - that's wot you were brought up t' be an' that's wot yore business is. Th' Skipper's goin' about the business o' fightin' 'cos that's his business. Th' Abbey's been a madhouse of late, but it's 'igh time we all pulled ourselves together and got back into our roles."
Marianne made another meek effort at speaking. "But Matthias became Warrior an' he wasn't older than -"
"You ain't Matthias, missie." Friar Jerome's tone was curt with finality. He slammed the door of an oven shut.
Salome glanced up from her kneading, puzzled by the exchange. "Who's Matthias?"
Marianne gave a sullen little shrug. "Somebeast th' Friar says we ain't. Never mind it, Salome."
"Don't you start tryin' t' be impudent on th' sly, Miz Marianne - I 'eard that tone o' yours. Old as you are, an' with little Miz Salome bein' yore guest, I should think you'd been keen on settin' a better example for 'er." Marianne shrank a little. "Listen, you know I'm fond o' both o' you, but you've got int' more'n enough trouble for a season. From 'ere on, leave th' fightin' t' Skipper Johndam, an' th' mind doctorin' t' Sister Bethelle. If Miz Muryet ever gets free o' that infirmary an' decides t' shut herself up in th' gatehouse again, we're t' leave her there, feast or no feast, rain, sunshine or earthquake."
Salome and Marianne exchanged looks of dejected resignation. Salome, without knowing it, had begun to feel a little closer to the "queer" squirrelmaid of Redwall Abbey. The fear that she and Marianne had shared - one of the fears that had prevented Marianne, at least, from disclosing what Salome had done in the beginning - hadbeen realized.
"We all 'urt for her. But I've learned there's some beasts only th' Lord can cure, and, young 'uns, it may be time you both learned th' same thing."