The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

“Bless us!” said Stuart with a groan. “That might be the death of innocence for both you and me. And it might be our literal death from boredom. Add to that I sometimes break out in a fatal allergic rash when people start telling one lie after another.”

“Let me make a guess with you, Thibault,” ventured Reuben. “Is that fair?”

“Of course, by all means,” Thibault answered.

“Nineteenth century, that was your time, and the place of the birth was England.”

“Off by only a little,” said Thibault with a knowing smile. “But I wasn’t born a Morphenkind in England. I was traveling in the Alps at the time.” He broke off as if this had sparked some deep and not-too-pleasant thought in him. He sat very still, then seemed to wake from it, and he picked up his coffee and drank it.

Sergei rattled off a long quote, sounding suspiciously like poetry, but it was Latin. And Thibault smiled and nodded.

“Here he goes again, the scholar who eats with his hands,” said Stuart. “I can tell you right now, I won’t be happy unless I grow to be as tall as you, Sergei.”

“You will,” said Sergei. “You’re a Wonder Pup, as Frank always says. Be patient.”

“But why can’t you speak of where and when you were born in a casual way,” said Stuart, “the way anyone would do it?”

“Because it isn’t spoken of!” said Sergei sharply. “And when it is spoken of in a casual way, it sounds ridiculous!”

“Well, Margon of course had the decency to answer our questions immediately.”

“Margon told you an old myth,” said Thibault, “which he claims is true, because you needed a myth, you needed to know where we come from.”

“What, you’re saying it was all a lie?” asked Stuart.

“Indeed not,” said Thibault. “How would I know if it was? But the teacher loves to tell stories. And the stories change from time to time. We aren’t gifted with perfect memory. Stories have a life of their own, especially Margon’s life stories.”

“Oh, no, please, don’t tell me this,” said Stuart. He seemed genuinely upset by the idea, his blue eyes flashing almost angrily. “Margon’s the only stabilizing influence in my new existence.”

“And we do need stabilizing influences,” said Reuben under his breath. “Especially stabilizing influences that tell us things.”

“You’re both in excellent hands,” said Thibault quietly. “And I’m teasing you about your mentor.”

“What he told us about the Morphenkinder,” said Stuart. “That was all true, wasn’t it?”

“How many times have you asked us that?” asked Sergei. His voice was a richer baritone than Thibault’s voice and a little rougher. “What he told you was true to what he knows. What more do you want? Do I come from the tribe he described? I don’t know whether I do or not. How can I? There are Morphenkinder all over the world. But I will say this. I’ve never found one that didn’t revere Margon the Godless.”

That mollified Stuart.

“Margon’s a legend among immortals,” Sergei went on. “There are immortals everywhere who would like nothing better than to sit at Margon’s feet for half a day. You’ll find out. You’ll see soon enough. Don’t take Margon for granted.”

“This is no time for all this,” said Thibault with a little sarcasm. “We have too many things to do, practical things, small things, the things of life that actually matter.”

“Like folding thousands of napkins,” said Stuart. “And polishing demitasse spoons, and hanging ornaments and calling my mother.”

Thibault laughed under his breath. “What would the world be without napkins? What would Western civilization be without napkins? Can the West function without napkins? And what would you be, Stuart, without your mother?”

Sergei gave a great loud laugh.

“Well, I know I can exist without napkins,” he said, and he licked his fingers. “And the evolution of the napkin leads from linen to paper, and I know the West cannot exist without paper. That is a sheer impossibility. And you, Stuart, are far too young to try existing without your mother. I like your mother.”

Sergei pushed back his chair, drank his beer down in one long pull, and headed out to find Frank and “get those tables out under the oak trees.”

Thibault said it was time to return to work, and rose to lead the way. But neither Reuben nor Stuart moved. Stuart winked at Reuben. And Reuben glanced meaningfully in the direction of Lisa, who stood over his shoulder.

Thibault hesitated, and then shrugged and went on without them.

“Lisa, better give us a minute now,” said Reuben, glancing up at her.

With a faint reproving smile, she left, closing the conservatory doors behind her.

Immediately Stuart let fly. “What the hell is going on! Why’s Margon in a rage? He and Felix aren’t even speaking. And what’s with this Lisa, what’s happening around here?”

“I don’t know where to begin,” said Reuben. “If I don’t get to talk to Felix before tonight, I’m going to go crazy. But what do you mean about Lisa, what have you noticed about her?”

“Are you kidding? That’s not a woman, that’s a man,” Stuart said. “Look at the way ‘she’ walks and moves.”

“Oh, so that’s it,” said Reuben. “Of course.”

“That’s fine with me, of course,” said Stuart. “Who am I to criticize her, if she wants to wear a ball gown around here. I’m g*y; I’m a defender of human rights. If she wants to be Albert Nobbs, why not? But there are other weird things about her too and Heddy and Jean Pierre. They’re not …” He stopped.

“Say it!”

“They don’t use pot holders to touch hot things,” said Stuart whispering now though it wasn’t necessary. “They scald themselves when they’re making coffee and tea, you know, let the boiling water splash or run over their fingers, and they don’t get burned. And nobody bothers to be discreet when they’re around about anything. Margon says we’ll understand all this in time. How much time? And something else is going on in this house. I don’t know how to describe it. But there’re noises, like people are in the house who aren’t visible. Don’t think I’m insane.”