Among Wolves. Nancy Wallace K.

course, they haven’t,” LeBeau assured him. “But the dinner table was not the place to discuss them.”

      Devin inclined his head. “On that we agree.”

      “I hope you can forgive me,” LeBeau continued. “I have the utmost respect for both your brother and your father. I regret that you may have found my remarks offensive.”

      It was as though Devin could hear his father’s voice in his mind: Never decline an apology that is proffered publicly. If you do, you allow your opponent to become the injured party.

      “We all speak without thinking sometimes,” he remarked lightly. “This trip is almost over. Let’s put last night’s discussion behind us.”

      “Thank you,” LeBeau said with relief. “My invitation still stands. In spite of everything, I would still like to show you Treves.”

      “I’m sorry but our plans are not definite,” Devin answered diplomatically. “I have no idea when we will arrive in Arcadia, so it is impossible to commit to anything.”

      LeBeau retrieved an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ve written down my address for you with directions to my summer home, just south of the city. I’d consider it a favor if you’d take the time to stop for a visit.”

      When hell freezes over, Devin thought. “Thank you,” he replied, making a production of putting the envelope in his own pocket. “If we cannot take time to visit you, at least I am certain I will see you at the Académie next year.”

      LeBeau laid a hand on his arm. “I hope to see you before that.”

      Devin resisted the urge to shake off the offending hand, and smiled graciously. “Good night,” he murmured.

      LeBeau answered only with a bow. He turned and was gone. Bertrand St. Clair followed discreetly on his heels.

      Conversation started again as quickly as it had stopped and Marcus glanced at Devin.

      “That was well done,” he said under his breath.

      Devin shrugged. “My father would say it is bad form to call a man a liar in public but I was truly tempted.”

      The rough night made sleep nearly impossible as the ship tossed uneasily on stormy waters. Both Devin and Marcus were up and dressed before dawn. Up on the forecastle, they discovered a light coating of snow covering the deck. The rigging hung thick with ice. Every movement of the ropes or sails sent glass-like shards smashing onto the deck. Stray flurries still floated down from a leaden sky.

      They sailed into a harbor made ghostly with frosted spars and shrouds of mist, docking just as the sun struggled feebly to lighten the skies. They had said their goodbyes to the other passengers last night Devin had received an invitation from Dr. Rousseau to visit his home when he reached Treves. And Gustave Christophe was anxious that he stop in Tarente to meet the boy who swept his shop.

      Only Henri LeBeau and Bertrand St. Clair also planned to disembark at Pireé but they had yet to appear on deck when Devin, Gaspard, and Marcus left the ship. Devin’s first steps off the gangplank were awkward and halting. His legs had grown used to the roll of the ship, and solid ground felt surprisingly odd in comparison.

      The port of Pireé seemed strange and exotic. The first thing Devin noticed were the large signboards hanging in front of every shop. Instead of words, each bore a painted or carved likeness of the merchandise that was sold inside. The bright and unsophisticated images made him feel as though he had landed in some foreign port where he didn’t speak the language.

      Buildings rose three or four stories along narrow streets, the simple architecture adorned by colorful shutters which bracketed windows and doors. Central gardens showed the first leaves of peas and the bright green spikes of garlic poking through dirt still dusted with last night’s snowfall.

      “Where are the hotels?” Gaspard asked, looking rumpled and sleepy.

      “I would imagine they are toward the central part of the city,” Marcus said, pointing at the businesses around them. “These are only small neighborhood shops: the scissors indicate a seamstress, the cake – a bakery – the horseshoe – a blacksmith.”

      “And where would I find a cup of coffee and a croissant?” Gaspard asked hopefully.

      Marcus turned him to face a blue shuttered shop with a steaming cup on its sign. “There I would think.”

      “Thank God,” he murmured. “Do you mind if we stop?”

      Devin laughed. “You could have had breakfast on the ship, if you’d gotten up earlier.”

      “You and Marcus are lucky that the storm didn’t make you seasick,” Gaspard protested. “If you’d felt the way I did last night, you wouldn’t have been anxious to get up early for breakfast either.”

      “You weren’t alone,” Devin assured him. “Half the ship was sick.”

      “Let’s not talk about it anymore,” Gaspard pleaded, one hand held sympathetically to his stomach.

      A bell jangled when they opened the door. Four small tables filled the front of the shop. The smell of fresh brewed coffee and cinnamon wafted from behind the counter. Gaspard sighed and crumpled into a chair by the window.

      “I’ll have café au lait and two of whatever smells so heavenly.”

      Devin threw his knapsack on a chair. He rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated bow. “Yes, monsieur. Right away, monsieur.”

      Two of the other tables were occupied and several men had turned to stare at their entrance. Their eyes took in every detail of their luggage and their clothes.

      Devin smiled and said, “Good morning.” But only one man echoed his greeting, the rest merely nodded or sat silently watching as he walked to the counter.

      He paid for four cinnamon buns and three cups of coffee, ferrying the food back in two trips and setting it on the table. Just before he sat down, he glanced up to see Henri LeBeau talking to Bertrand St. Clair out on the street.

      “I see LeBeau has departed the ship,” Marcus commented. “And that he and St. Clair have struck up a friendship.”

      “It doesn’t look friendly to me,” Devin observed, as LeBeau gestured rudely at St. Clair. LeBeau’s face was flushed and angry. St. Clair made some final retort and stalked away.

      “Apparently, that man can’t get along with anyone,” Gaspard said through a mouthful of cinnamon bun. “These are wonderful, by the way.”

      “LeBeau actually apologized to me last night,” Devin said, “and invited me to visit him in Treves.”

      Gaspard made a disgusted sound in his throat. “I hope you told him what he could do with his invitation?”

      “Devin was actually very polite,” Marcus informed him.

      “Then you’re a better man than I am,” Gaspard said.

      Devin looked up and grinned. “That has never been in question has it?”

      Gaspard threw a piece of bun which hit Devin squarely in the chest – and bounced off – landing in his coffee cup. Coffee sprayed all over the table and the front of Devin’s jacket.

      Gaspard leaned back with a satisfied smile. “How clumsy of me! Please accept my apologies.”

      “Remind me never to buy you a cinnamon bun again,” Devin said. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief and pulled out LeBeau’s envelope, as well. He laid it on the table while he mopped at the brown liquid soaking into his jacket.

      Marcus tapped the envelope. “Is that LeBeau’s address?” he asked.

      Devin crumpled his wet handkerchief on the table. “I assume so.”

      He tore open the envelope and extracted the piece of