The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

“A pleasure to meet you at last,” said Fiona, a striking and obviously natural blond with long wavy hair to her shoulders and pale almost-white eyebrows. She looked Nordic, like Sergei, with large bones and exquisitely angular shoulders and hips but her voice was simple and contemporary. She wore the largest diamonds Reuben had ever seen on a woman, in a choker around her neck, and on her wrists and two of her fingers.

Reuben knew if he looked closely enough into her shapeless low-cut bodice he would see her ni**les. So he tried to focus on the diamonds. Her skin was so fair he could see the blue veins beneath it, but it was fresh and healthy, and her mouth was large and extremely pretty.

“We have heard so very much about you,” said the other, Catrin, who seemed a little less bold than Fiona, and did not extend her hand as Fiona did. Catrin’s long hair was brown, perfectly straight, strikingly simple. Like Fiona she was practically naked, with the tiniest straps holding up the dark beaded sack of a dress in which she appeared squeezable and devourable. She glanced at Fiona as she spoke, as if to watch her every reaction, but her brown eyes were warm and her smile almost girlish. She had a dimpled chin.

“Such an unusual and impressive house,” said Catrin, “and such a remote and beautiful spot. You must love it.”

“I do, I very much do,” said Reuben.

“And you’re as handsome as everyone said you were,” said Fiona in her more forthright manner. “I had thought surely they were exaggerating.” She spoke it like a criticism.

And what do I say now, Reuben thought, as always. One doesn’t return a compliment with a compliment, no, but what’s the proper response? He didn’t know any more now than he ever did.

“And we’ve met your father,” said Catrin suddenly, “and he is the most charming man. And what a name, Philip Emanuel Golding.”

“He told you his entire name?” asked Reuben. “I’m surprised. He doesn’t usually do that with people.”

“Well, I pressed him on it,” said Fiona. “He’s not like a lot of the people here. He has a remote and lonely look in his eye and he talks to himself and doesn’t care if people see it.”

Reuben laughed out loud. “Maybe he’s just singing along with the music.”

“Is it true he’s likely to remain living with you here?” Fiona asked. “Under this roof? That is your plan and his plan?”

This plainly startled Margon, who glanced at her sharply, but she merely kept her eyes on Reuben, who honestly didn’t know what to say and didn’t see why, really, he should say anything.

“I heard this man was coming here to live,” said Fiona again. “Is this true?”

“I like him,” said Catrin, stepping closer to Reuben. “I like you, too. You look like him, you know, but with the darker coloring. You must be very fond of him.”

“Thank you,” Reuben stammered. “I’m flattered—I mean, I’m pleased.” He felt awkward and stupid and just a little offended. What did these women know about Phil’s plans? Why should they care about this?

There was something positively dark in Margon’s expression, something distrustful, uneasy, unreadable to Reuben. Fiona’s eyes moved over Margon coldly, a bit dismissively, and then back to Reuben.

Suddenly Margon was spiriting the ladies away. He took Fiona’s arm almost roughly. Fiona flashed him a contemptuous look, but she followed him, or allowed him to pull her along.

Reuben tried not to stare at Fiona as she moved off, but he didn’t want to miss it entirely either, the way her hips and flanks moved in that skimpy dress. She put him off and yet she fascinated him.

There was Frank by the far window with another one of the striking women. Was that his wife? And was she too a Morphenkind? She looked remarkably like Frank with the same very glossy black hair and flawless skin. She wore a conservative velvet jacket and long skirt, with a lot of ruffled white lace, but she had the same presence as the others, and Frank was clearly talking intimately with her. Was Frank angry as he spoke to her, and was she begging him to be patient about something with little hand gestures and imploring eyes? Reuben was probably imagining it.

Suddenly Frank glanced at him, and before Reuben could turn away, Frank approached and presented Reuben to his companion. “My beloved Berenice,” he called her. They were so strikingly similar in appearance—same clear skin, and playful dark eyes, even something of the same gestures, though she was of course delicate and shapely, whereas Frank had the squared-off jaw and hairline of a film star. Off they went, as Berenice, with a soft almost affectionate backward glance, moved on to see more of the house, with Frank obviously eager to show it to her.

A wave of musicians and choristers came in for their dinner break, the boys looking proverbially angelic in their choir robes, and the musicians hastening to tell Reuben how much they were loving all this, and they’d be willing to come up from San Francisco anytime for events here.

Suddenly Grace accosted him and told him she’d had to take a plate out there to Phil, who wouldn’t move away from his privileged spot right by the choir for anything. “I think you know what’s happening, Baby Boy,” she said. “I think he’s brought his suitcases and won’t be driving back tonight.”

Reuben didn’t know what to say, but Grace was not unhappy. “I don’t want him to be a burden to you, that’s all, I really don’t think that’s fair to you and your friends here.”

“Mom, he’s no burden,” said Reuben, “but are you ready for him to come live here?”

“Oh, he won’t stay forever, Reuben. Though I have to warn you, he thinks he is. He’ll spend a few weeks, maybe worst case a few months, and then he’ll be back. He can’t live away from San Francisco. What would he do without his walks in North Beach? I just don’t want him to be a burden. I tried to talk with him about this but it’s useless. And having Celeste in the house doesn’t make it any easier. She tries to be nice to him but she can’t stand him.”

“I know,” said Reuben crossly. “Look, I’m glad he’s come to stay, as long as you’re okay with it.”

A small string orchestra had just come into the dining room, now that the crowds around the table had eased, and they began to play, along with a lovely female soprano who was singing a decidedly Elizabethan carol he’d never heard before, her voice purposely sad and plaintive.