The Wolves of Midwinter (The Wolf Gift Chronicles 2)

A number of times Reuben had roamed down to talk to him, but finding him typing away furiously on the computer, he’d stood outside for a while and then wandered back up the slope. Towards the end of the week, Sergei or Felix might be found visiting with Phil, in fast conversation about some matter of history or the history of poetry or drama. Felix borrowed Phil’s two-volume Mediaeval Stage by E. K. Chambers and sat for hours in the library poring over it, marveling at Phil’s carefully written notes.

It was all going to work out, that was the point, and Felix cautioned Reuben not to worry about it for a single moment more.

The fact was, the Distinguished Gentlemen all loved Phil and were obviously glad of the one night he did come to the big table for the evening meal.

Lisa had all but dragged Phil to it, and the conversation had been great, having to do with the peculiarities of Shakespeare that people mistakenly took as representative of the way people had written in Shakespeare’s time, but were not at all typical, and rather a bit mysterious—as Phil so loved to explore. Margon knew vast blocks of Shakespeare by heart and they had fun going back and forth with chapter and verse of Othello. But it was King Lear that fascinated Phil above all.

“I should be mad and raving on the heath,” said Phil. “By all rights, that’s exactly where I should be, but I’m not. I’m here, and I’m happier than I’ve been in years.”

Of course Stuart threw out the schoolboy questions about the play. Wasn’t the king crazy? And if he was, how could it be a tragedy? And why had he been such a fool as to give all his property to his kids?

Phil laughed and laughed, and never really gave a direct answer, saying finally, “Well, maybe the genius of the play, son, is that all that’s true, but we don’t care.”

Each and every one of the Distinguished Gentlemen, and even Stuart, told Reuben individually how much they liked Phil and how much they wished he’d come to dinner every night, Stuart summing it up with “You know, Reuben, you are so lucky, I mean even your dad is completely exceptionally cool.”

What a far cry from the house on Russian Hill where no one paid the slightest attention to Phil, and Celeste had so often secretly remarked that he was almost unendurable. I feel so sorry for your mother.

There was evidence that certain other mysterious people also loved Phil. On Friday evening, Phil had wandered into the cottage, badly stung by bees on his face and on his hand. Reuben had immediately been alarmed and called Lisa in the main house for Benadryl. But Phil waved it all away. Could have been so much worse than it was.

“They were in a hollowed-out oak,” he said, “and I tripped and fell against it. They were swarming, but fortunately for me, your friends came along, those forest people, you know the ones who were at the fair and the party.”

“Right. Which people exactly?” asked Felix.

“Oh, you know, the green-eyed man with the dark skin, that amazing man—Elthram. That’s his name, Elthram. I tell you the fellow is strong. He carried me away from those bees, just picked me up and carried me. This could have been a lot worse. They got me three times here, and he laid his hands on it, and I’m telling you he has some gift. It was really swelling. Not hurting now at all.”

“Better take the Benadryl anyway,” said Reuben.

“Well, you know, those are nice people, those people. Where do they live, exactly?”

“All through the forest, sort of,” said Reuben.

“No, but I mean where do they live?” asked Phil. “Where’s their home? They were the nicest. I’d like to invite them in for coffee. I’d love to have them as company.”

Lisa came rushing in.

Reuben already had a glass of water ready.

“You need to stay out of that area,” she said. “Those were African killer bees, and they’re very aggressive.”

Phil laughed. “Well, how on earth do you know where I was roaming, Lisa?”

“Because Elthram told me,” she said. “Good thing he was looking out for you.”

“I was just saying to Reuben that they are the nicest people, that family. He and that beautiful redheaded Mara.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met Mara,” said Reuben, struggling to say this in a normal believable voice.

“Well, she was at the fair in the town,” said Phil. “Don’t know that she came to the party. Beautiful red hair, and clear skin, like your mother.”

“Well, stay out of that part of the woods, Philip,” said Lisa sharply. “And take these pills now before you get a fever.”

On Saturday Reuben went into San Francisco to pick up his gifts for family and for friends. Everything had been purchased by phone or online through a rare-book dealer, and Reuben inspected each selection personally before having each wrapped with the appropriate card. For Grace, he’d found a nineteenth-century memoir by an obscure doctor who described a long and heroic life in medicine on the frontier. For Laura, the Duino Elegies and the Sonnets to Orpheus of Rilke in a first edition. For Margon he had an early special edition of T. E. Lawrence’s autobiography, and for Felix, Thibault, and Stuart fine and early hardcovers of several English ghost-story writers—Amelia Edwards, Sheridan Le Fanu, and Algernon Blackwood—whom Reuben especially treasured. He had vintage travelers’ memoirs for Sergei and for Frank, and Lisa; and books of English and French poetry for Heddy and Jean Pierre. For Celeste, he had a special leather-bound copy of the autobiography of Clarence Darrow; and for Mort a vintage edition of Hawthorne’s The House of the Seven Gables, which he knew Mort loved.

For Jim, he had books on filmmakers Robert Bresson and Luis Buñuel and a first edition of Lord Acton’s essays. For Stuart, a couple of great books on J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and the Inklings, as well as a new verse translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

Lastly for Phil, he had managed at last to score all the small individual hardcover volumes of Shakespeare’s plays edited by George Lyman Kittredge—the little Ginn and Company books which Phil had so loved in his student days. This was a crate of books, all clean of markings and in excellent condition, on good paper and with good print.

After that, he rounded up some newer books to be added to the mix—books by Teilhard de Chardin, Sam Keen, Brian Greene, and others—and then he shopped for some personal gifts for his beloved housekeeper Rosie—perfume, a purse, some pretty things. For Lisa he had found a particularly fine cameo in a San Francisco shop, and for Jean Pierre and Heddy cashmere scarves. And finally he called it quits.