Page 8 of The Unknown Birds

They nodded.

“How old are you both?”

“Eighteen,” Ash admitted.

“Nineteen, sir,” Tom replied puffing out his chest just a little knowing he wasn’t quite the youngest of the lot.

“Of course you are,” the captain muttered as someone knocked at the door. “Come!”

The soldier who had led them to the captain’s quarters poked his head in, hair so blonde it was practically white and skin so pale he almost seemed translucent.

“Is this whole God-forsaken regiment still waiting for their balls to drop, Grey?” Davies asked him.

The soldier smiled, apparently accustomed to his captain’s moods. “No, sir. Private Rook is here. Transfer from the Cast Iron Sixth. I believe he’s twenty.”

The captain’s eyebrows lifted with interest, and he waved for Grey to bring the new man in.

“Private Alex Rook,” Grey repeated, handing over his papers.

Rook wasn’t as tall as Tom, but he had a large presence, with his grizzled demeanor, unruly black hair, and at least a day’s growth of stubble on his sharp chin. Like the captain, he seemed both young and old as he strode in with the weariness of a man who’d never known a single day’s rest.

He slid a disinterested glance over Ash and Tom, long, dark lashes shrouding sad, grey eyes, and Ashley’s stomach did a somersault despite his very fine lips pressing together in annoyance.

She caught herself licking her own lips and glanced hurriedly away, eyes forward just like Tom, trying to ignore Private Rook, who had stopped right next to her. Trying to ignore the way every hair on her arm stood at attention. He clasped his hands behind his back, and the very air felt somehow warmer than it had just moments before.

Ash took a breath, determined not to salivate over the first handsome bloke she met, not to draw attention to herself, not to give the ruse away. Could they hear the drumbeats as her heart tried to pound out of its cage to go and meet him? She couldn’t name it exactly, not then, but something in her pilgrim soul perceived the same in his.

“You were a sniper with the London Rifles?” Captain Davies was asking, looking over Rook’s transfer papers.

“Yes, sir,” Rook answered.

“I’m sorry to pull you away from that battalion.”

“Needs must, sir,” Rook replied with a studied coldness that suggested he too was very sorry about the transfer.

“Needs must,” the captain echoed. “Where did you receive your training?”

“Watford, mostly. And the First Army School of Sniping.”

Captain Davies tilted his head to the side, looking quite impressed. “Hekseth-Prichard’s school?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Very good. And you were at Loos?”

A muscle in the soldier’s jaw ticked before he answered. “And Ypres. I’ve just come from Souchez.”

“Near to where the mine exploded last month?”

“Near enough.”

Davies grunted. “Terrible business.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain nodded. “Right, I’ll pair you up with…” Davies paused as though he’d forgotten the other soldier’s name. “Someone,” he finished.

“No need, sir. I prefer to work alone.”