The Wolves of Midwinter

19

THE TERRACE PAVILION WAS ABLAZE with light and sound and streaming with people when they got out of the car. The orchestra was rehearsing with the boys’ choir in a positively magical blend of glorious sound. Phil was already there, standing with his arms folded, listening to the music in obvious awe, while reporters and photographers from the local papers took pictures, and groups of mummers in medieval costume—teenagers mostly—came up to greet them until Felix introduced himself and told them how pleased he was, and instructed them to take up a position in the nearby oaks.

Reuben hurried upstairs to change. He took the fastest shower in human history, and Lisa helped him dress, handling the studs on his boiled shirt for him, and tying his black silk tie. The jacket had been “perfectly measured” for him, she was right about that. And he was pleased that she’d arranged a black vest for him and not a cummerbund, which he hated. The shining patent-leather shoes were also a good fit.

He had to laugh when he saw Stuart, because Stuart looked so uncomfortable in his black-tie finery, but he looked pretty terrific at the same time, freckles and curly hair and all.

“You’re growing right before my eyes,” said Reuben. “You must be as tall as Sergei now.”

“Rampant cell division,” muttered Stuart. “There’s nothing quite like it.” He was anxious, uneasy. “I gotta find my friends, and the nuns from school, and the nurses. And my old girlfriend who threatened to kill herself when I came out of the closet.”

“You know what? This place is done up so beautifully and this is all going to be so much fun, you don’t have to do any heavy lifting. And your old girlfriend, she’s okay now, right?”

“Oh yes,” said Stuart. “She’s getting married in June. We’re e-mail buddies. I’m helping her to pick out her wedding dress. Maybe you’re right. This is going to be fun, isn’t it?”

“Well, let’s make it fun,” Reuben said.

The main floor was filled with people.

Caterers were rushing back and forth from dining room to kitchen. The table was laden from end to end with what appeared to be the first course—hot hors d’oeuvres of countless kinds, hot chafing dishes of meatballs in sauce, fondue, plates of crudités, nuts, wheels of French cheese, sugared dates, and a huge china tureen of pumpkin soup to be ladled into mugs for the asking by a stiff young attendant who waited with hands clasped behind his back.

The raw and beautiful sound of a string quartet suddenly broke through the murmuring of the crowd all around him, and Reuben caught the soft heartbreaking strains of the “Greensleeves” carol. The music drew him as much as the food—he drank down a mug of the thick soup immediately—but he wanted to see that orchestra outside. It had been too long since he’d seen a live orchestra of that size and he headed through the press in the front room to the door.

To Reuben’s surprise, Thibault appeared and explained that he was taking Reuben out to stand with Felix at the large east entrance of the pavilion.

“You will help him greet the guests, won’t you?” Thibault looked entirely comfortable in his formal clothes.

“But what about Laura?” Reuben whispered as they pushed through the crowd. “Why aren’t you with Laura?”

“Laura wants to be on her own tonight,” said Thibault. “And she will be all right, I assure you. I wouldn’t have left her if that were not the case.”

“But Thibault, you mean then the change has happened.”

Thibault nodded.

Reuben had come to a halt. Maybe he’d had some vain childish hope all along that Laura would never change, that the Chrism would somehow not work, that Laura would always be Laura! But it had happened. At last, it had happened! He was suddenly powerfully excited. He wanted to be with Laura.

Thibault embraced him just as a father might embrace him, and said, “She is doing exactly what she wants. And we must let her do things in her own way. Now come, Felix is hoping you’ll join him.”

They moved out into the crowded pavilion. Dozens of people were already milling, and the caterers were serving both coffee and drinks to those already seated at the tables.

Margon, his long brown hair tied back to the nape of his neck with a thin leather thong, was escorting Stuart’s petite mother, Buffy Longstreet, up to see the crèche. Buffy, in spike heels and a short white sleeveless silk turtleneck dress and diamonds, looked every bit the starlet, and not old enough to be the mother of Stuart, who was welcoming her with open arms. Frank Vandover was making her a stately bow, and turning on that Hollywood charm for her, and she was seemingly ecstatic.

Quite suddenly the voices of the boys’ choir broke forth with the spirited lyrics of “The Holly and the Ivy,” drowning out the murmur everywhere of conversation. Reuben stopped just to savor the sound of it, vaguely conscious that others too were turning their heads to listen. The voices of the adult choir soon joined in, and the entire glorious wave of sound proceeded without the need of the waiting orchestra. At the far end very near the choir, Reuben could see Phil alone at a table clearly rapt as he’d been when Reuben first arrived.

But there was no time to go to Phil now.

Felix stood at the large eastern entrance of the pavilion greeting each and every person coming in, and Reuben quickly took his place beside him.

Felix was beaming, his eager dark eyes fixing every single face. “How do you do, Mrs. Malone, and welcome to the house. I’m so glad you could join us. This is Reuben Golding, our host, whom I’m sure you’ve already met. Do come in. The girls will show you to the coatroom.”

Reuben was soon clasping hands, repeating more or less the same welcome, and finding himself meaning it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sergei and Thibault stationed at the steps to the door of the house, also clasping hands, answering questions perhaps, welcoming. There was a remarkably tall and handsome woman right beside Sergei, a dark-haired woman in a striking red velvet gown, who gave Reuben a soft affectionate smile.

All the locals were streaming in, Johnny Cronin, the mayor, the three-person town council, and most of the merchants who’d been down in the village, all plainly curious and eager for the experience of the banquet. Soon there was a crush outside the entrance, and Thibault arrived along with Stuart at his side, to help speed things along.

People were enthusiastically announcing themselves and where they’d come from and thanking Reuben or Felix for the invitation. A whole group of the clergy came in, all in black clerics and Roman collars, having been invited from the Archdiocese of San Francisco, and dozens of people who had come from Mendocino on the coast, and other towns in the wine country.

The nurses from Stuart’s hospital arrived, and powerfully excited, Stuart embraced each and every one of them. Then came pretty Dr. Cutler, who’d treated him for his injuries, overjoyed to see him in such wonderful shape, and asking when Grace would arrive. There were five or six doctors with her, and other people from Santa Rosa. In came Catholic priests from Humboldt County, thanking Felix for including them, and there were ministers arriving too from churches up and down the coast, expressing the same ardent thanks.

Uniformed maids and teenage volunteers took heavy coats and wraps, and brought people to the waiting tables or invited them to go into the house, as the pavilion was filling rapidly. Other boys and girls were passing trays of hors d’oeuvres. Frank appeared and reappeared to escort guests to various destinations.

The pure and soaring voices of the choir were singing “Coventry Carol,” and there were moments when Reuben gave in to a sudden lock on the music, shamefully tuning out the introductions that he could hardly hear, but warmly shaking hands and urging the guests to be welcome.

Again and again, Felix drew his attention to this or that guest, “Judge Fleming, let me present Reuben Golding, our host,” and Reuben would gladly respond. The state senator he’d met in the village soon arrived, and other people from Sacramento. More clergymen arrived, and two rabbis, both with black beards and black yarmulkes. Frank obviously knew the rabbis, greeting them both by name, and he eagerly led them into the thick of the party.

The excitement was infectious, Reuben had to admit, and now when the orchestra began to play with the choir, he felt that this was perhaps one of the more exhilarating experiences he’d ever had.

People were in all manner of dress, from cocktail attire and black tie to business suits and even jeans and down jackets, kids in Sunday best, little girls in long dresses. Phil didn’t look at all out of place in his tweed jacket and open shirt collar. And there were plenty of women in hats, fantasy hats and vintage hats, and those little cocktail hats with veils that Jim had described.

The sheriff came along in a blue suit with his fashionably dressed wife and his good-looking college-age sons, and there were other deputies from his office, some in uniform and some in civilian dress with wives and children.

Suddenly the word came that dinner was being served in the dining room, and there was a shift in the crowd, as many sought to go into the house, while a long line came streaming out with plates laden with food to find tables.

At last Grace came, with Celeste and Mort, their faces radiant and curious and warm as though the party had already affected them as they’d waited to enter. Grace, in one of her typically handsome white cashmere sweater dresses, wore her red hair loose and down to her shoulders in a delightfully girlish manner.

“Good Lord,” she said. “This is just fabulous.” She was waving at a couple of doctors she knew, and rattling off their names. “And the archbishop is here, how incredible!”

Celeste looked breathtakingly pretty in black sequined silk. She seemed actually happy as she and Mort made their way into the crowd.

Indeed the splendor of the pavilion swept people right through the entrance and into the swim of things.

Immediately, Rosie, the family housekeeper arrived, looking very pretty and girlish in a bright red dress with her full dark hair combed free. Husband Isaac and their four girls were with her. Reuben hugged Rosie. There were few people in the world he loved as much as Rosie. He was dying to show her the entire house, but watched her disappear into the party with Grace and Celeste.

Reuben’s Hillsborough cousins flooded in suddenly with squeals and hugs and breathless questions about the house. “Did you really see this Man Wolf thing!” Cousin Shelby whispered into Reuben’s ear, but when he stiffened she immediately apologized. “Just had to ask!” she confessed.

Reuben said he didn’t mind. And he didn’t. He’d always loved Shelby. She was his uncle Tim’s oldest daughter, and a redhead like Tim and Grace, and used to babysit Reuben when he was a kid. Reuben loved Shelby’s eleven-year-old son, redheaded Clifford, born out of wedlock when Shelby was still in high school. Clifford, a handsome and solemn little boy, was beaming now at Reuben, clearly impressed with the scope of the party. Reuben had always admired Shelby for bringing up Clifford, though she’d never identified the boy’s father to anyone. Grandfather Spangler had been furious about it at the time, and Grace’s brother, Tim, a recent widower, had been brokenhearted. Shelby had become a model mother to Clifford. And of course they’d all come to adore him, especially Grandfather Spangler. Grace doubled back at once to take Shelby and Clifford and the other cousins in hand. And then when Phil’s gray-haired sister, Josie, arrived, in her wheelchair with a very sweet elderly nurse to take care of her, Phil came to collect her and bring her up to where she might better hear the choir.

Finally Felix said they had been greeting people for an hour and a half now, and they could break to have supper themselves.

People were now moving back and forth through the entrance freely. And some people, especially those who had worked at the daylong fair, were even headed home.

Reuben wanted more than anything in the world to wander off in the oaks and see what that was like for the guests, but he was also starving.

Thibault and Frank took over at the door.

Several exceptionally beautiful women were coming in, clearly friends of Frank’s. Hmmm. Friends of Thibault’s as well. Dressed in impressive and revealing gowns and full-length evening coats, they had the sheen of film actresses, or models, but Reuben had no real idea who they were. Maybe one of these beauties was Frank’s wife.

All over the library, the main room, and the conservatory people were eating, many with the aid of little folding tray tables covered with white Battenberg place mats, and the young catering staff refilled wine, and cleared away old glasses and coffee cups. The fires were blazing in every fireplace.

Of course there were furtive whispers of “the Man Wolf,” and “the window” as here and there people pointed to the library window through which the notorious Man Wolf had jumped the night he’d appeared at this house and slaughtered two mysterious and unsavory Russian doctors. But few were asking about the Man Wolf out loud, and Reuben was grateful for that.

Reuben could hear the thunder of feet on the old oak staircase, and the low rumble of those walking overhead.

He grabbed a plate full of turkey, ham, and roast goose, raisin dressing, and mashed potatoes, and moved to the dining room windows to look out on the wonderland forest.

It was just as he had imagined it would be, with families following the pathways, and a band of musicians playing just below him on the gravel drive.

The medieval mummers were making a snaking dance through the crowd. How remarkable they were, their green costumes covered in ivy and leaves; one wore a horse’s head, another a skull mask, and yet another the mask of a demon. One man wore an actual wolf skin cloak, with the wolf’s head on top of his head. Another wore the skin and head of a bear. Two played fiddles and one was piping on a flute, and the “demon” was playing a concertina. The others played tambourines and little drums attached to their waists. The last in line was giving out what appeared to be large gold coins—perhaps some sort of party favor.

Other costumed men and women were passing out cups of mulled wine; and a tall white-haired St. Nicholas figure, or a Father Christmas, in streaming green velvet robes, moved about, handing out little wooden toys to the children. These appeared to be little wooden boats and horses and locomotives, small enough to go in a parent’s pocket. But from his big green velvet sack, he also took tiny little books, and little porcelain dolls with flopping arms and legs. The children were charmed and delighted as they crowded around him, and the adults were clearly pleased as well. There was that blond woman he’d glimpsed in the village, with all her crowd of youngsters, but she no longer wore her pretty green flowered hat. Could that be Jim’s Lorraine? Reuben was not about to ask. He’d never find Jim in time to ask anyway. There must have been a thousand people milling around the house and the woods.

Reuben didn’t have long to gobble his food, which was what he was doing. Several old friends from Berkeley had found him and were full of questions about this house and what in the world had happened to him. They talked around the Man Wolf as best they could without ever directly mentioning him. Reuben was vague, reassuring but not very forthcoming.

He led the gang back to the table, this time for more roast goose, roast partridge, and big sweet yams, and kept eating no matter who said what. Actually he was glad to see his friends, and to see them having such a great time, and it wasn’t hard at all to deflect their questions by asking questions of his own.

At one point, he heard Frank at his side, and Frank whispered, “Don’t forget to look around, Wonder Pup. Don’t forget to enjoy it.” He himself seemed marvelously alive, as though he’d been born for events such as this. Surely he was the twentieth-century Morphenkind; but then Thibault had described himself as the neophyte, hadn’t he? Ah, it was impossible to figure them all out. And he had plenty of time to do it, that was the strange thing. He had not yet begun to think of time as something that would extend beyond a normal life span.

But speaking of time, was he taking the time to enjoy what was happening all around him?

He had been looking down the long length of the massive table dazzled by the array of sauced vegetables, and the big boar’s head in the center. Again and again the caterers refilled dishes of cream peas, Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, mounded rice and bread-crumb dressings, and platters of freshly carved turkey, beef, pork. There were steaming bowls of red and golden fruit sauce, and even fresh orange slices sparkling on lettuce, and an egregious whipped-cream ambrosia filled with all manner of chopped fruit. Every kind of rice dish imaginable was offered, and heaps of raw carrots, broccoli, and tomatoes, which the health conscious were eagerly piling on their plates.

The masked mummers were now in the house, winding through the dining room, in fact, and Reuben put out his hand for one of the golden coins they were distributing. He could see now that the wolf skin and bear skin were clever fakes, and that the demon was the German Christmas devil, Krampurs, with his wild goat’s horns. They weren’t singing now, merely playing their little drums and tambourines, and taking special delight in amusing the children. There were so many children.

The gold coin was of course not gold at all, but a large imitation of a coin, light, and inscribed in old-fashioned scrollwork with the words YULETIDE AT NIDECK POINT on one side, and an impressive image of the house on the other with the date beneath it. Where had Reuben seen trinkets like this before? He couldn’t think, but it was a marvelous souvenir. Surely Felix had thought of everything.

Off to one side stood Jean Pierre, of all people, explaining to a small group that in Old Europe people has often “donned the skins of wild beasts” at Yuletide.

To the left, Reuben’s mother and Dr. Cutler were talking tête-à-tête, and just beyond them he could see Celeste, her condition beautifully disguised in her flowing black dress, in fast conversation with one of the Sacramento politicians. Quite suddenly, Grace’s brother, Tim, appeared with his new Brazilian wife, Helen.

Grace burst into tears. Reuben went at once to greet his uncle. It was always a bit unnerving to see Tim because Tim seemed the twin of his mother, with the very same red hair and the same rather fierce blue eyes. It was like seeing his mother in a man’s body, and he didn’t entirely like it but he could never look away from it, either, and Tim was also a doctor and a surgeon and he had that same hard and direct stare that Grace had, and this fascinated and repelled Reuben at the same time. Tim had a way of demanding, “What are you doing with your life?” But this time he did not. All he talked about was the house. “And I have heard all those crazy stories,” he confided. “But this is no time for that. Look at this place.” His Brazilian wife, Helen, was petite and sparkling with generous enthusiasm. Reuben had never seen her before. Yes, he’d seen Shelby and Clifford, said Tim, and yes, they were staying in Hillsborough with the family there through Christmas.

Mort commandeered Reuben to tell him in anxious whispers how happy he was for him with the baby coming, but his face said he was anxious, and Reuben told him that everybody would do everything possible between heaven and earth to make Celeste comfortable.

“Well, she says she can’t wait to hand over that baby to Grace, but I just don’t know if she’s being realistic,” Mort said, “but I can tell you, this is a great place for that little boy to grow up, just a great place.”

Again, those exceptional women caught Reuben’s eye. A pair of them—ravishing in their exquisitely draped dresses—were embracing Margon, who had a rather cold cynical smile on his face, and another, olive-skinned woman with jet-black hair and enormous breasts was still with Thibault, who had greeted her when she arrived.

The woman’s eyes were large and black and almost tender. She smiled generously at Reuben, and when Thibault turned to glance at Reuben, he blushed and moved away.

Well, of course the Distinguished Gentlemen had women friends, did they not? But were they Morphenkinder? The very idea gave him chills. He didn’t want to stare, but then everyone was more or less looking them over. They were robust, extremely well shaped, and were elaborately dressed and decked with jewels precisely to draw admiration. So why not?

Margon beckoned to Reuben and quickly presented him to his mysterious companions—Catrin and Fiona.

Up close, they were perfumed and provocative—no scent but the usual human scent smothered in artificial sweetness. Reuben tried not to stare at their half-naked breasts but it was difficult. Their skimpy dresses were glorified nightgowns.

“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 nipples. 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.

He marveled as he listened to her. All his life he’d loved live music, and heard so little of it, existing as most of his friends did in a luxurious world of recordings of every type of music imaginable. This was heaven to him, hearing the soprano, and indeed just watching her, watching the expression on her face as she sang, and watching the graceful attitudes of the violinists as they played.

Wandering off half reluctantly, he ran into his editor Billie Kale and the gang from the Observer. Billie apologized for their photographer snapping pictures everywhere. Reuben was fine with it. Felix was fine with it. There were fellow journalists from the Chronicle here too, and several television people who’d been down in the village earlier.

“Look, we need a picture of that library window,” said Billie. “I mean we have to say something about the Man Wolf having been here!”

“Yes, go right ahead,” said Reuben. “It’s the big east window. Take all the pictures you want.”

His mind was on other things.

What was it with those exceptional women? He saw another one, a dark-skinned beauty with a mass of raven hair and bare shoulders in fast conversation with Stuart. How intense she seemed, and how fascinated was Stuart, who took her off with him apparently to see the conservatory, disappearing in the crowd. Maybe Reuben was imagining things. There were a lot of beautiful women here, he reminded himself. What made those particular ladies shine out?

More people were taking their leave, what with the long day in the village and the long drive home. But it seemed others were just coming in. Reuben accepted thanks to the right and to the left for the party. He’d stopped long ago mumbling that Felix was responsible for it. And he realized that he didn’t have to make himself smile and shake hands. It was coming naturally to him, the happiness around him contagious.

There was that woman again, the one who’d worn the lovely hat in the village. She was seated on the couch beside a young girl who was crying. The girl looked about eleven or twelve. The woman was patting the little girl and whispering to her. A young boy sat on her other side, with his arms folded, rolling his eyes and staring at the ceiling with an air of mortification. Good heavens, what could be wrong with the little girl? Reuben started to make his way towards her but a couple of people interrupted with questions and thanks. Someone was telling him a long story about an old house remembered from childhood. He’d been turned around. Where was the woman with the little girl? She was gone.

Several old high school friends approached him, including an old girlfriend, Charlotte, who had been his first love. She already had two children. He found himself studying the fat-cheeked baby in her arms, a writhing mass of lively pink flesh that kept pushing and stretching and kicking to escape his mother’s patient arms as she took it in stride, her older girl, now three years old, clinging to her dress and staring up at Reuben in glum wonder.

And my son is coming, Reuben thought, and he’ll be like this, made of pink bubble gum with eyes like big opals. And he will grow up in this house, under this roof, wandering through this world and inevitably taking it for granted, and that will be a wonderful thing.

He couldn’t find his old high school love at all in Charlotte. But a song was nudging at him, what was it? Yes, that strange unearthly song “Take Me As I Am,” by the October Project. Mingled suddenly with memories of Charlotte were memories of that song seeping out of Marchent’s room from a spectral radio.

Again, he made his way to the eastern window, this time in the library, and though the window seat was occupied from end to end, he managed to look out again on the sparkling forest. Surely people were watching him, wondering about the Man Wolf, wanting to ask questions. He heard a faint whisper of those words behind him, and “right through that window.”

The music had become noise, as the sounds from the dining room met with the great swell from the pavilion, and he felt that old familiar drowsiness come over him that so often did when he was at busy and crowded events.

But the forest did look fantastical.

The crowds were thicker than ever, even though a light rain was falling. And gradually Reuben realized there were people high in the trees everywhere. There were shaggy-haired men and women and pale lean little children in the trees, many of them smiling down on the people below and some of them talking to the people below, and these mysterious beings all, of course, wore the familiar soft chamois leather. And the guests, the innocent guests, thought them to be part of the tableau. For as far as he could see, the Forest Gentry were there, dusty, bedraggled with leaves, and even here and there clothed in ivy, sitting or standing on the heavy gray branches. The more he looked, the more detailed and bizarre and vivid they became. The myriad lights twinkled in the falling rain and he could almost hear the mingled laughter and voices as he looked out on them.

He shook himself all over and stared again. Why was he dizzy? Why was there a roaring in his ears? Nothing had changed in the scene. He did not see Elthram. He did not see Marchent. But he could see a constant shifting and reshuffling amongst the Forest Gentry because innumerable members of the tribe were disappearing and others appearing right before his dazzled eyes. He became fascinated with it, trying to catch this or that lean and feline figure as it vanished or burst into visible color, but he was making himself even more dizzy. He had to break the spell. This had to stop.

He turned and began to drift through the party as he’d drifted through the village fair. The music surged. Real voices played on his ears. Laughter, smiles. The sense of the bizarre, the horror of the bizarre, left him. Everywhere, he saw people in animated conversation, infused with the excitement of the party, and unusual meetings of locals with friends he knew. More than once he studied Celeste from afar and noted how much fun she was having, how often she laughed.

And again and again he marveled at the Distinguished Gentlemen and how they helped the party along. Sergei was introducing people to one another, and directing the orchestra musicians to the dining table, and answering questions and even accompanying people to the stairs.

Thibault and Frank were always in conversation and motion, with or without their women companions, and even Lisa, who was busy with the management of the feast on every level, took time to talk to the boy choristers and point out things to them about the house.

A young man approached her, whispering in her ear, to which she answered, “I do not know. No one told me where the woman died!” and she turned her back to the man.

How many were asking that very question, Reuben thought. Surely they were wondering. Where had Marchent fallen when she’d been stabbed? Where had Reuben been discovered after the attack?

A constant parade moved up the oak stairs to the upper floors. Standing at the foot Reuben could hear the young docents describing the William Morris wallpaper and the nineteenth-century Grand Rapids furnishings, and even such things as the kind of oak used in the floorboards and how it had been dried before construction, things Reuben knew nothing about himself. He caught a female voice saying, “Marchent Nideck, yes. This room.”

People smiled at Reuben as they made their way up.

“Yes, please, do go up,” he said earnestly.

And behind it all was the mastermind, the ever-charming Felix, who moved so rapidly that he seemed to be in two places at one time. Ever smiling, ever responding, he was on fire with goodwill.

At some point, Reuben realized, slowly realized, that the Forest Gentry were in the house as well. It was the children he noticed first of all, pale, thin little creatures in the same dusty leaf-strewn rustic dress as their elders, darting through the crowds this way and that as if they were playing some kind of personal game. Such hungry faces, dirt-streaked faces, urchin faces! It sent a stab into his heart. And then he saw the occasional man and woman, eyes aflame yet secretive, drifting about as he had been drifting about, studying the human guests as if they were the curious ones, indifferent to those who eyed them.

It unnerved him that these small emaciated children might be the earthbound dead. It positively made his heart quiver. It made him faintly sick. He couldn’t stand the thought of it suddenly that these towheaded boys laughing and smiling and dodging amongst the guests here and there were ghosts. Ghosts. He could not imagine what it signified, being this size and this shape forever. He couldn’t grasp how this could be desirable or inevitable. And all that he didn’t know about the new world around him frightened him. But it also tantalized him. He caught a glimpse of one of those unusual women, those strangely alluring women, bejeweled and sequined and passing through the crowd slowly with long lingering glances to her right and left. She seemed a goddess in some brutal yet indefinable way.

His anxieties suddenly collected around him, crowding him, dimming the radiance of the party, and making him aware of how sharp and unusual the emotions and experiences of his new life actually were. What had he ever known of worry before? What had the Sunshine Boy ever known of dread?

But all he had to do, he thought, was not look at the Forest Gentry. Not look at that strange woman. Not speculate. Look instead at the very real and substantial people of this world who were everywhere having such a remarkably good time. He was desperate suddenly to do that, to not see the unearthly guests.

But he was doing something else. He was searching. He was searching now from left to right and straight ahead for the one figure he most dreaded in all the world, the figure of Marchent.

Did someone behind him just say, “Yes, in the kitchen, that’s where they found her”?

He moved past the giant Christmas tree towards the open doors of the conservatory, which was as crowded as every other room. Under countless Christmas bulbs and golden floods the huge masses of tropical foliage here looked almost grotesque; guests were everywhere among the trellises and pots, but where was she?

There was a slender woman near the round marble-top table before the fountain where Reuben and Laura had so often taken their meals. His skin was pringling and singing as he moved towards this slim blond-haired figure, this delicate figure, but quite suddenly as he stood beneath the arching branches of the orchid trees, the woman turned and smiled at him, flesh and blood like countless others, another nameless happy guest.

“Such a beautiful house,” she said. “You’d never think anything terrible happened here.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he said.

So many words seemed on the tip of her tongue, but she said only it was a great joy to be here, and she moved on.

Lifting his eyes, he looked up into the purple blossoms of the trees. The noise pressed in around him, but he felt remote and alone. He was hearing Marchent’s voice when they’d talked of orchid trees, beautiful orchid trees, and it was Marchent who’d ordered these trees for this house and for him. These trees had been brought over hundreds and hundreds of miles on account of the living Marchent, and they were alive now and bent low with shivering blossoms and Marchent was dead.

Someone had approached, and he ought to turn around, he knew it, and acknowledge the greeting or the good-bye. A couple was here, with plates and glasses in hand, obviously hoping to commandeer the table, of course, and why not?

And just as he did turn, he saw far across the giant room the person for whom he’d been searching, the unmistakable Marchent, almost invisible in the shadows against the dark and shining glass panes of the wall.

Her face was marvelously realized, however, and her pale eyes were fastened on him just as they’d been in the village when she’d stood there in semi-profile listening to the smiling Elthram who’d stood at her side. An unnatural light seemed to pick her out of the artificial twilight, subtle but sourceless, and in that light he saw the sheen of her smooth forehead, the gleam of her eyes, the luster of the pearls around her neck.

He opened his mouth to call her name and no sound came out. As his heart shook, the figure appeared to grow brighter, to shimmer, and then to fade completely away. A volley of raindrops hit the glass roof overhead. Silver rain slid down the many panes all around him, and the very walls shimmered everywhere that he looked. Marchent. The grief and the longing felt like a pain through his temples.

His heart stopped.

There had been no misery, no tears, no desperate reaching in her face. But what had the expression in those serious eyes, those thoughtful eyes, actually meant? What do the dead know? What do the dead feel?

He put his hands up to his head. He shivered. His skin was hot under his clothes, terribly hot, and his heart would not stop skipping. Someone asked him if he was okay.

Oh, yes, thank you, he answered and he turned and left the room.

The air in the main room was cooler, and sweet with the scent of pine needles. Soft swelling music came from the orchestra beyond the open windows. His pulse was returning to normal. His skin was cooling. A glistening gaggle of teenage girls passed him, giggling and laughing and then rushing into the dining room, obviously on a mission to explore.

Frank appeared, the ever-genial Frank with his high Cary Grant polish, and without a word put a glass of white wine in Reuben’s hand. “Want something stronger?” Frank asked, eyebrows raised. Reuben shook his head. Gratefully Reuben drank the wine, good Riesling, cold, delicious, and found himself alone by the fire.

Why had he gone to look for her? Why had he done that? Why had he sought her out in the very midst of all this gaiety? Why? Did he want for her to be here? And if he retreated now to some sealed-off room, presuming he could find one, would she come at his bidding? Would they sit together and talk?

At some point, he saw his father through the crowd. It was Phil, all right, that old gentleman in the tweed jacket and gray pants. How much older than Grace he looked. He was not heavy, no, and he wasn’t frail. But his face, never surgically tightened, was soft, natural, and heavily lined like that of Thibault, and his thick thatch of hair, once strawberry blond, was now almost white.

Phil was standing in the library, quite alone among the people drifting in and out, and he was looking fixedly at the big picture of the Distinguished Gentlemen over the mantelpiece.

Reuben could almost see the wheels turning in Phil’s mind as he studied the picture, and the sudden awful thought came to him: He will figure it out.

After all, wasn’t it obvious that the Felix of today was the spitting image, as everyone said, of the man in the photograph, and that the men around him, the men who should now be some twenty years or more older than they’d been when the picture was taken, were exactly the same now as they’d been then? Felix had come back as his own illegitimate son. But how to explain Sergei or Frank or Margon not having aged in the slightest during the last two decades? And what about Thibault? One might grant men in their prime another twenty years of remarkable vigor, and the young ones did appear to be men in their prime. But Thibault had looked like a man of sixty-five or perhaps seventy in the photograph and he looked exactly like that now. How was such a thing possible, that someone so advanced in years when the photo was taken should have the very same appearance now?

But maybe Phil wasn’t noticing all these things. Maybe Phil didn’t even know the date of the picture. Why would he? They’d never discussed it before, had they? Maybe Phil was studying the foliage in the photograph and thinking of mundane things, like where it might have been taken, or observing details about the men’s clothing and guns.

People interrupted Reuben—wanting to say thanks, of course, before they left.

When he finally reached the library, Phil was nowhere in sight. And who should be sitting in the window seat, on the red velvet cushion looking out over the forest, but the inimitable Elthram, his dark caramel skin and savage green eyes veritably glowing in the firelight, as if he were a demon fueled by fires no one in this room could possibly see. He didn’t even look up as Reuben drew close to him. Then finally he did turn and give Reuben a radiant confidential smile before vanishing as he had in the village, without a thought for those who might have been watching, as if such things didn’t really matter. And as Reuben glanced around at the people talking and laughing and nibbling from their plates he realized that nobody had noticed, nobody at all.

Suddenly and without a sound Elthram appeared beside him. He turned and looked into Elthram’s green eyes, as he felt the pressure of the man’s arm around his shoulder.

“There’s someone here who must speak to you,” Elthram said.

“Gladly, only tell me who,” said Reuben.

“Look there,” he said, gesturing towards the great front room. “By the fire. The little girl with the woman beside her.”

Reuben turned, fully expecting to see the woman and the young girl who’d been crying. But these were different people, indeed.

At once Reuben realized he was looking at little Susie Blakely, at her grave little face with her eyes fixed on him. And the woman beside her was Pastor Corrie George, with whom Reuben had left her at the church. Susie wore a lovely old-fashioned smock dress with short puffed sleeves and her hair was beautifully combed. There was a gold chain around her neck with a cross on it. Pastor George wore a black pantsuit with a lot of pretty white lace at the neck, and she too was staring fixedly at Reuben.

“You must be wise,” Elthram whispered. “But she needs to talk to you.”

Reuben’s face was burning. There was a throbbing in his palms. But he went directly towards them.

He bent down as he smoothed the top of Susie’s blond head.

“You’re Susie Blakely,” he said. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper. I’m Reuben Golding, I’m a reporter. You’re much much prettier than your picture, Susie.” It was true. She looked fresh, radiant, undamaged. “And your pink dress is beautiful. You look like a little girl in a storybook.”

She smiled.

His heart was racing, and he marveled at the calm sound of his voice.

“Are you having a good time?” He smiled at Pastor George. “What about you? Can I get anything for you?”

“Can I talk to you, Mr. Golding?” asked Susie. Same clear crisp little voice. “Just for a minute, if I could. It’s really really important.”

“Of course you can,” said Reuben.

“She does need to talk to you, Mr. Golding,” said Pastor George. “You must forgive us for asking you like this, but we’ve come a long way tonight, just to see you, and I promise this won’t take but a few minutes.”

Where could he visit with them in quiet? The party was as crowded as ever.

Quickly, he drew them out of the great room and down the hallway and up the oak stairs.

His room was open to all the guests, but fortunately only a couple were having some eggnog at the round table and they quickly yielded when he brought the little girl and the woman in with him.

He shut the door and locked it, and made sure the bathroom was empty.

“Sit down, please,” he said. “What can I do for you?” He gestured for them to sit at the round table.

Susie’s scalp looked as pink as her dress, and she blushed suddenly as she sat down on the straight-backed chair. Pastor George took her right hand and held it in both of hers as she sat near the child.

“Mr. Golding, I have to tell you a secret,” said Susie. “A secret I can’t tell anybody else.”

“You can tell me,” said Reuben, nodding. “I promise you, I can keep a secret. Some reporters can’t but I can.”

“I know you saw the Man Wolf,” said Susie. “You saw him in this house. And the time before that, he bit you. I heard all about it.” Her face puckered as if she was about to cry.

“Yes, Susie,” said Reuben. “I did see him. All that was true.” He wondered if he was blushing as she was blushing. His face was hot. He was hot all over. His heart went out to her. He would have done anything at this moment to make her comfortable, to help her, protect her.

“I saw the Man Wolf, too,” said Susie. “I really did. My mom and dad don’t believe me.” There was a flash of anger in her small face, and she glanced uneasily at Pastor George who nodded to her.

“Ah, that’s how you were rescued,” said Reuben. “That’s how you got away from the man.”

“Yes, that’s what happened, Mr. Golding,” said Pastor George. She dropped her voice, glancing anxiously at the door. “It was the Man Wolf who rescued her. I saw him too. I spoke to him. Both of us did.”

“I see,” said Reuben. “But there wasn’t anything about it in the papers. I didn’t see anything on television.”

“That’s because we didn’t want anybody to know,” said Susie. “We didn’t want anybody to capture him and put him in a cage and hurt him.”

“Yes, right, I see. I understand,” said Reuben.

“We wanted to give him time to get away,” said Pastor George. “To clear out of this part of California. We wanted to figure some way not to ever tell anybody. But Susie needs to tell people, Mr. Golding. She needs to talk about what happened to her. And when we tried to tell her parents, well, they didn’t believe us! Either of us!”

“Of course she needs to talk about it,” said Reuben. “You both do. I understand. If anyone should understand, I should.”

“He’s real, isn’t he, Mr. Golding?” asked Susie. She swallowed and the tears came up in her eyes, and suddenly there was a listlessness in her face as if she’d lost the thread.

Reuben took her by her shoulders. “Yes, he’s real, darling,” he said. “I saw him and so did a lot of other people, downstairs in the big room. Many people have seen the Man Wolf. He’s real all right. You don’t ever have to doubt your senses.”

“They don’t believe anything I say,” she said in a small voice.

“They believe about the bad man who took you, don’t they?” he asked.

“Yes, they do,” said Pastor George. “His DNA was all over the trailer. They’ve connected him to other disappearances, too. The Man Wolf saved Susie’s life, that’s perfectly obvious. That man killed two other little girls.” She stopped suddenly and glanced at Susie with concern. “But you see, when her parents didn’t believe her about the Man Wolf, and others didn’t—. Well, she doesn’t want to talk anymore about any of it, not any of it at all.”

“He did save me, Mr. Golding,” said Susie.

“I know that he did,” said Reuben. “I mean I believe every single word you’re saying. Let me tell you something, Susie. Lots of people don’t believe in the Man Wolf. They don’t believe me. They don’t believe the people who were with me here, the other people who saw him. We have to live with that, that they don’t believe us. But we have to tell what we saw. We can’t let the secrets fester inside us. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, I know what it means,” said Pastor George. “But you see, we don’t want to trumpet it to the media either. We don’t want people hunting him down, killing him.”

“No,” said Susie. “And they will. They’ll get him and kill him.”

“Well, listen, honey,” Reuben said. “I know you’re telling the truth, both of you. And don’t you ever forget that I saw him too. Look, Susie, I wish you were old enough for e-mail. I wish—.”

“I am old enough,” said Susie. “I can use my mom’s computer. I can write down my e-mail address for you right now.”

Pastor George took a pen out of her pocket. There was a writing pad already on the table.

Quickly Susie began to carve out the letters of her e-mail, her teeth biting into her lower lip as she wrote. Reuben watched, quickly entering the e-mail into his iPhone.

“I’m e-mailing you now, Susie,” he said, his thumbs working. “I won’t say anything that anybody else would understand.”

“It’s okay. My mom doesn’t know my e-mail address,” said Susie. “Only you do and Pastor George.”

Pastor George wrote out her e-mail and gave it to Reuben. At once he recorded it and fired an e-mail off to her address.

“Okay. We’re gonna e-mail, you and me. And any time you have to talk about what you saw, you e-mail me—and look.” He took the pen. “This is my phone number, the number of this phone here. I’ll e-mail this to you too. You call me. You understand? And you, too, Pastor George.” He tore off the sheet of paper and gave it to the woman. “Those of us who’ve seen these things have to stick together.”

“Thank you so much,” Susie said. “I told the priest in Confession and he didn’t believe me either. He said maybe I imagined it.”

Pastor George shook her head. “She just doesn’t want to talk anymore about any of it now, you see, and that’s no good. That’s just no good.”

“Really. Well, I know a priest who’ll believe you,” said Reuben. He was still holding his iPhone in his left hand. Quickly, he texted Jim. “My bedroom upstairs now, Confession.” But what if Jim couldn’t hear his phone over the music downstairs? What if his phone was shut off? He was four hours away from his parish. He might have shut it off.

“She needs to be believed,” said Pastor George. “I can live with people’s skepticism. The last thing I want is the press on my doorstep anyway. But she does need to talk about all of what happened to her, and a lot—and that’s going to be true for a long time.”

“You’re right,” he said. “And when you’re Catholic, you want to talk to your priest about the things that matter most to you. Well, some of us do.”

Pastor George gave a little shrug and an offhand gesture of acceptance.

There was a knock at the door. It couldn’t be Jim, he thought, not this quickly.

But when he opened the door, Jim was there all right, and behind him Elthram stood leaning against the wall of the corridor.

“They said you wanted to see me,” said Jim.

Reuben gave a grateful nod to Elthram and let Jim into the room.

“This little girl needs to talk to you. Can this woman stay with her while she goes to Confession?”

“If this little girl wants the woman to stay, certainly,” said Jim. He focused intently on the little girl, and then nodded to the woman with a soft formal smile. He seemed so gentle, so capable, so effortlessly reassuring.

Susie stood up out of respect for Jim. “Thank you, Father,” she said.

“Susie, you can tell Father Jim Golding anything,” said Reuben. “And I promise you, he will believe you. And he’ll keep your secrets too, and you can talk to him anytime you want, just as you can talk to me.”

Jim took the chair opposite her, gesturing for Susie to sit down.

“I’m going to leave you now,” said Reuben. “And Susie, you e-mail me any time you want, honey, or you call me. If it goes to voice mail, I promise, I’ll get back to you.”

“I knew you’d believe me,” said Susie. “I knew you would.”

“And you can talk to Father Jim about all of it, Susie, whatever happened out there in the woods with that bad man. And anything about the Man Wolf. Honey, you can trust him. He’s a priest and he’s a good priest. I know because he’s my big brother.”

She beamed at Reuben. What a beautiful and radiant creature she was. And when he thought of her crying in that trailer that night, when he thought of her small dirt-streaked face as she’d cried and begged him not to leave her, he was silently overcome.

She turned and looked eagerly and innocently at Jim.

And Reuben said, without thinking,

“I love you, darling dear.”

Susie’s head turned as if jerked by a chain. Pastor George turned too. They were both staring at him.

And it came back to him, that moment in the forest outside the church, when he’d left Susie with Pastor George and he had said in that very same tone of voice, “I love you, darling dear.”

His face reddened. He stood there silently looking at Susie. Her face seemed ageless suddenly, like the face of a spirit, stamped with something profound and at the same time simple. She was gazing at him, without shock or confusion or recognition.

“Good-bye, honey,” he said and he went out closing the door behind him.

At the foot of the stairs, Reuben’s editor, Billie, accosted him. Wasn’t that Susie Blakely? Had he gotten an exclusive with Susie Blakely? Did Reuben realize what that meant? No reporter had been able to talk to that little girl since she’d been returned to her parents. This was huge.

“No, Billie, and no, and no,” Reuben said lowering his voice to soften his outrage. “She’s a guest in this house, and I do not have any right or any intention of interviewing that child. Now, listen, I want to get back to the pavilion and hear some of the music before the party’s over. Come with me, come on.”

They plunged into the thick of the crowd in the dining room and mercifully he could no longer hear Billie or anyone else. Billie drifted away. He shook hands here, nodded to thanks there, but steadily moved towards the music coming through the front door. Only now did he think about Jim hating so much to be around children, hating to see them, but surely he’d had to call Jim for Susie. Jim would understand. Jim was a priest first and foremost, no matter what personal pain he might feel.

The pavilion was no less crowded. But it was easier to make his way through the tables, exchanging greetings, acknowledging thanks, merely nodding at those he didn’t know, and who didn’t know him, until he came near to the solemn artfully lighted crèche.

The chain of medieval mummers was passing through, handing out their golden commemorative coins. Waitresses and waiters everywhere were replenishing plates or collecting them, offering fresh glasses of wine, or cups of coffee. But all of this faded as he moved into the soft dreamy light of the manger. This had been his destination all along. He smelled the wax of candles; the voices of the choir were blended and heartbreaking yet faintly shrill.

He lost track of time as he stood there, the music close and beautiful and engulfing. The boys’ choir began a mournful hymn now to the accompaniment of the whole orchestra:

In the bleak mid-winter

Frosty wind made moan,

Earth stood hard as iron,

Water like a stone.

Reuben closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them he looked down on the smiling face of the Christ Child, and he prayed. “Please show me how to be good,” he whispered. “Please, no matter what I am, show me how to be good.”

A sadness overwhelmed him, a terrible discouragement—a fear of all the challenges that lay ahead. He loved Susie Blakely. He loved her. And he wanted only all that was good for her forever and always. He wanted good for every single person he’d ever known. And he could not think now of the cruelty he’d visited on those whom he’d judged as evil, those whom he’d taken out of this world with a beast’s thoughtless cruelty. Silently with his eyes closed he repeated the prayer in a profound and wordless way.

The inner silence, the engulfing song, seemed to go on forever, and gradually he felt a quiet peace.

All around him people seemed rapt in the music. Nearby to his left, Shelby stood with her son, Clifford, and her father. They were singing, as they gazed at the choir. And others crowded in whom he didn’t know.

The choir went on with the soft, beautiful hymn.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim

Worship night and day,

A breastful of milk

And a mangerful of hay;

Enough for Him, whom angels

Fall down before,

The ox and ass and camel

Which adore.

At some point he heard a tenor voice, a familiar voice, singing beside him, and when he opened his eyes, he saw it was Jim. Jim was with Susie, standing in front of him, Jim’s hands on her shoulders and beside Jim was Pastor Corrie George. It seemed an age had passed since he left them. Now they were all singing the hymn together, and Reuben sang along with them, too.

What can I give Him,

Poor as I am?

If I were a shepherd

I would bring a lamb,

If I were a wise man

I would do my part,

Yet what I can I give Him,

Give my heart.

Gathered all round them were the volunteers from Jim’s parish soup kitchen whom Reuben knew from past meals there when he’d worked with them as he had last Christmas and the Christmas before. Jim stood still merely looking down at the white-marble Christ Child in the manger of real hay with a curious wondering expression on his face, one eyebrow raised, and an overall sadness pervading him—so like what Reuben felt.

Reuben didn’t talk. He caught a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray and sipped it quietly, and the choir started up again. “What child is this who laid to rest in Mary’s arms is sleeping …”

One of the volunteer women was crying softly, and two others were singing along with the choir. Susie sang clearly and loudly, and so did Pastor George. People came and went around them, as if paying visits to the altar. Jim remained, and Susie and Pastor George remained, and then slowly Jim’s eyes moved up over the serene face of the angel on the pediment of the stable and over the trees massed behind it.

He turned and saw Reuben as if shaken out of a dream. He smiled and put his arm around Reuben and kissed Reuben’s forehead.

The tears sprang to Reuben’s eyes.

“I’m happy for you,” said Jim in an intimate voice under the sound of the choir. “I’m happy your son is coming. I’m happy you’re with your remarkable friends here. Maybe your new friends know things I don’t know. Maybe they know more things than I ever dreamed it was possible to know.”

“Jim, whatever happens,” said Reuben in a low confidential voice, “these are our years, our years to be brothers.” His voice broke and he couldn’t continue. He didn’t know what more to say anyway. “And about the little girl, I mean I know what you said about it being painful, painful to be around children, but I had to—.”

“Nonsense, not another word,” said Jim with a smile. “Understood.”

They both turned, allowing others to step between them and the crèche. Pastor George led Susie to a vacant pair of chairs at one of the tables, and Susie waved at Jim and at Reuben and, of course, they both smiled.

They stood together facing the huge pavilion. To their right the orchestra played the old “Greensleeves” melody beautifully and the voice of the choir was one voice. “The King of Kings salvation brings; Let loving hearts enthrone Him.”

“They’re all so happy,” said Jim as he looked at the crowded little tables, at the waiters and waitresses weaving in and out with their trays of drinks. “All so happy.”

“Are you happy, Jim?” Reuben asked.

Jim suddenly broke into a smile. “When have I ever been happy, Reuben?” He laughed, and this was maybe the first time he’d laughed this way, in his old way, with Reuben since Reuben’s life had changed forever. “Look, there’s Dad. I think that man talking to him has him trapped. Time for a rescue.”

Did the man have Phil trapped? Reuben hadn’t seen this man before. He was tall with long full white hair down to his shoulders, much like Margon’s hair, something of a lion’s mane, and he was dressed in a worn belted suede jacket with dark leather patches on the elbows. He was nodding as Phil talked, and his dark eyes were coolly regarding Reuben. Beside him sat a lovely but rather muscular blond woman with slightly upturned eyes and severe cheekbones. Her straw-colored hair was free like that of the man, a small torrent, falling to her shoulders. She too was looking at Reuben. Her eyes appeared colorless.

“This is a world traveler, this man,” said Phil, after presenting his two sons. “He’s been regaling me with stories of Midwinter customs the world over—of ancient times and human sacrifice!” Reuben heard the man say his name, Hockan Crost, in a mellow deep voice, an arresting voice, but he heard the word Morphenkind.

“Helena,” said the woman extending her hand. “Such a lovely party.” Obvious Slavic accent, and the smile very sweet, but there was something faintly grotesque about her, about her strong proportions, and the very large bones of her beautifully painted face, and her long throat and firm shoulders. Her sleeveless dress was crusted with sequins and beads. It looked heavy, like a carapace.

Morphenkinder, both of them.

Maybe there was a scent to his own kind, male and female, that his body recognized even when his mind didn’t acknowledge it. The man regarded Jim and Reuben almost coldly from beneath heavy black eyebrows. He had a hard-cut face but it wasn’t ugly. He looked weathered, with colorless lips and massive shoulders.

He and the lady rose, bowed, slipped away.

“Some fascinating people here tonight,” said Phil. “And why they keep introducing themselves to me I have no idea. I sat here to listen to the music. But this is a lot of fun, Reuben. I have to hand it to your friends, and the food is spectacular. That Crost is a remarkable man. Not many people claim to sympathetically understand Midwinter human sacrifice.” Phil laughed. “He’s quite a philosopher.”

Dessert service began, and people were heading for the big dining room once more, the air filled with aroma of coffee and the freshly baked mince and pumpkin pies. The waiters brought trays of plum pudding, “humble pie,” and mince pies in the shape of the Christmas crib to those who remained in the pavilion. Phil loved the pecan pie with the real whipping cream. Reuben had never had “humble pie” and he loved it.

At the next table little Susie was eating ice cream and Pastor George gave Reuben a secretive reassuring nod and smile.

More and more people were slipping away. Felix came through the tables urging everyone please to wait for the closing music. Some clearly could not. There was talk of the long drive to here and to there, and how it had been worth it. People flashed the commemorative gold coins with thanks, saying they’d be saving them. People so loved “this house.”

The caterers were now giving out small white candles, each cradled in a little paper holder, and directing everyone to the pavilion for the “closing music.”

What was happening? The “closing music”? Reuben had no idea.

The pavilion was suddenly packed. People in the main room of the house were crowded against the open windows looking into the pavilion, and the double doors to the conservatory were wide open with many crowded there as well.

The overhead floods were being turned off, reducing the light throughout to a beautiful gloom. Candles were being lighted everywhere, with people offering their candles to one another. Soon Reuben’s small candle was lighted and he was shielding it with his hand.

He rose and pressed towards the orchestra again, and finally found a comfortable place opposite against the stone wall of the house itself just below the far-right front-room window. Susie and Pastor George moved closer to the crèche and orchestra, too.

Felix was at a microphone to one side of the crèche, and in a soft rolling genial voice he said that the orchestra and the adult choir and the boys’ choir would now be singing “the most loved Christmas carols in our tradition” and everybody was most welcome to join in.

Reuben understood. There had been many lovely old hymns and songs heard up until now, and some grand church music, but not the great lusty heavy hitters. And when the orchestra and the choirs burst forth with “Joy to the World” in high vigor, he was thrilled.

Everywhere around him, people were singing, even the most unlikely people, like Celeste, and even his dad. In fact, he could hardly believe that Phil was standing there with a small lighted candle singing in a loud clear voice, and so was Grace. His mother was actually singing. Even his uncle Tim was singing, along with his wife Helen, and Shelby and Clifford. And Aunt Josie in her wheelchair was singing. Of course Susie was singing, and so was Pastor George. And so were Thibault and all the Distinguished Gentlemen whom he could see. Even Stuart was singing, along with his friends.

Something communal was happening that he could never have anticipated, never thought possible, not here in this place or this time. He’d thought the emotional temperature of his world far too cool for such a thing.

The orchestra and choirs went right into “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” with the same vigor and after that “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” A whole string of English carols followed, each one more exuberant than the other. There was a jubilant authority to the music, and a spirit that seemed to engulf all present.

When a single soprano led the magnificent “O Holy Night,” people actually began to cry. So powerful was her voice, and so lustrous and beautiful the song itself, that the tears came to Reuben’s eyes. Susie leaned against Pastor George, who held her close and tight. Jim was beside Pastor George.

Stuart had come up to stand beside Reuben, and he too was singing as the orchestra moved into a solemn and urgent “O Come, All Ye Faithful” with the choir soaring over the rapturous strings and the deep throbbing French horns.

A silence fell with the rustling of the little paper candleholders and a few coughs and sneezes as one might hear in a packed church.

A thickly accented German voice spoke through the microphone. “And now I give the baton to our host, Felix Nideck, with pleasure.”

Felix took the baton and held it high.

Then the orchestra struck up the first famous notes of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus,” and people seated throughout the giant pavilion rose to their feet. Even those slightly confused by this were rising on account of the others. Aunt Josie struggled to rise with the help of her nurse.

When the chorus broke forth with the first “Hallelujah” it was like the blast of a trumpet, and on and on the voices went rising, falling, and rising again, declaring with the orchestra surging beneath them the gorgeous anthems of the chorus.

All around Reuben people were singing, falling in and out of riffs of lyrics that they knew and humming with those they didn’t know. On the voices roared: “And he shall reign forever and ever!”

Reuben pushed forward. He moved closer and closer towards the overwhelming sounds, until he stood close to Felix between the orchestra and the chorus, vigorously conducting with his right hand, the baton in his left.

“King of kings. Forever and ever!”

On and on in frenzy the music coursed towards its inevitable climax until there came the last great: “Ha Le Lu Jah!”

Felix’s arms dropped to his sides, and he bowed his head.

The pavilion roared with applause. Voices broke out everywhere in a delirium of convivial thanks and praise.

Felix straightened and turned, his face positively glowing as he smiled. At once he broke and rushed to embrace the conductor, the choirmasters, and the concertmaster and then all the players and singers. On and on came the applause as they took their bows.

Reuben pushed his way towards him. When their eyes met, Felix held him closely. “Dear boy, for you, this Christmas, your first at Nideck Point,” Felix whispered in his ear.

Others were reaching for Felix, calling his name.

Thibault took Reuben by the arm. “Easiest thing now is to stand by the door, or they’ll all be stumbling around trying to find you to say good-bye.”

And he was right.

They all took up their positions by the main entrance, including Felix. The medieval mummers and the tall gaunt St. Nicholas were also there, reaching into green sacks for coins and toys to give everyone.

For the next forty-five minutes people filed out, voicing their exuberant thanks. Some of the kids wanted to kiss St. Nicholas and feel his natural white mustache and beard, and he gladly obliged, offering his toys to the adults when there were no more children.

All the musicians and singers were soon gone, some declaring this the best Christmas festival they’d ever played for or attended. The night was filled with the rattle and throb of diesel buses pulling away.

Stuart’s mother, Buffy Longstreet, was crying. She wanted Stuart to come with her back down to Los Angeles. Stuart was comforting her and explaining gently that he just couldn’t do this as he walked her out to her car.

The exceptional women came to say their farewells together, and with the singular man, Hockan Crost, and that cinched it. Morphenkinder, had to be. Another, a dark-haired woman whom Reuben hadn’t met before, confided her name to be Clarice as she took Reuben’s hand, and told him how much she’d enjoyed the entire festival. She was his height in flat evening slippers, and wore a decidedly politically incorrect white fox-fur coat.

“You thrive in the public eye, don’t you?” she said, her speech so very heavily accented that he found himself leaning forward, the better to hear her. “I am Russian,” she explained, sensing the difficulty. “I am always learning English but never mastering it. This is all so innocent, so normal!” She made a soft scoffing sound. “Who would ever dream this was Yule?” The others were waiting a bit impatiently to say their good-byes, it seemed, and sensing it, she gave a petulant shrug and embraced Felix tightly, confiding something to him under her breath that made him smile a little tightly as he released her.

The other ladies embraced him in turn. Berenice, the pretty brunette who so closely resembled Frank, gave him long lingering kisses, and seemed suddenly sad, the tears plainly rising in her eyes. The woman he’d seen with Thibault introduced herself as Dorchella, and offered her thanks warmly as she left. The tall pale Fiona of the diamonds appeared to be rushing the others. She kissed Reuben brusquely on the cheek. “You bring a strange new life to this great house,” she whispered. “You and all your family. Aren’t you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?” he asked.

“Don’t you know?” she asked. “Ah, youth and its eternal optimism.”

“I’m not following,” said Reuben. “What is there to be afraid of?”

“The attention, of course,” said she quickly. “What else?”

But before he could respond, she’d turned to Felix.

“I marvel that you think you can get away with all this,” she said. “You don’t learn, do you, from experience?”

“Always learning, Fiona,” said Felix. “We are born into this world to learn, to love, and to serve.”

“That’s the dreariest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Fiona.

He flashed a brilliant and perfect smile on her. “How very good of you to come, young Fiona,” he said with seeming sincerity. “Delighted to have you as a guest under this roof anytime. Don’t you agree with me, Reuben?”

“Yes, absolutely,” said Reuben. “Thank you so much for coming.”

A deep anger darkened Fiona’s face, her eyes moving quickly over both of them. Does anger have a scent, and what would her scent be if she weren’t a Morphenkind? Behind her, the woman named Helena pressed in, and put a hand on Fiona’s shoulder.

“You think you can get away with anything, Felix,” said Fiona, voice uglier than before, a flush beating in her cheeks. “I think you like heartbreak.”

“Good-bye, my dear,” said Felix with the same even courtesy. “Safe journey.” The two women withdrew without another word. Catrin went with them, flashing a smile at both Felix and Reuben.

Yes, Morphenkinder, because some scent of malice would have arisen from all that, but there had been nothing.

Hockan Crost’s eyes lingered on Reuben for a long moment, but Felix at once spoke up in his usual convivial manner, “Always good to see you, Hockan, you know that.”

“Oh, indeed, old friend,” said Hockan in his deep melodious voice. There was something wistful in his expression. “We need to meet, we need to talk,” he said emphasizing the word need both times.

“I’m more than willing,” said Felix earnestly. “When have I ever closed my doors to you? And during Midwinter? Never. I hope we see you soon again.”

“Yes, you will,” said the man. He looked troubled, and there was something immediately appealing about him, in the way he let his feelings come to the fore, in the imploring way in which he spoke. “There are things I have to say, beloved Felix.” He was pleading with dignity. “I want you to hear me out.”

“Indeed, and we will have the chance to talk together, won’t we?” said Felix. To Reuben he said, “This is my old and dear friend, Reuben. Hockan Crost. He should always be welcome day or night here.”

Reuben nodded and murmured his approval.

Then the man, glancing at the guests crowding towards the exit, and sensing that this was not the time and the place for any more talk, moved on.

And they were gone, the mysterious ones, all this confusing and unsettling talk having taken no more than two or three minutes. Felix gave Reuben a pointed and meaningful glance, and then sighed audibly with eloquent relief.

“You recognized your kindred, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Reuben. “Most definitely yes.”

“And for now, forget about them,” said Felix, and he went back to the farewells with renewed spirit.

Susie Blakely gave Reuben a hug as she came to say good-bye. Pastor George whispered, “You can’t imagine the change in her! I can’t tell you. She actually had fun!”

“I saw it. I’m so happy for her. And please, stay in touch with me.”

Off they went.

Of course the family and closest friends remained for a while longer, together with Galton, Mayor Cronin, and Dr. Cutler, and some of Stuart’s old gay boyfriends. But then even Celeste and Mort said they were tired and had to be going, and Grace, after hugging each of the Distinguished Gentlemen in turn, kissed Reuben good-bye, leaving with Aunt Josie, Cousin Shelby and Clifford, and Uncle Tim and his wife, Helen.

Finally Stuart’s friends wandered out into the night also, one of them singing the “Hallelujah Chorus” at the top of his lungs, the mayor and Galton left arguing with each other over something to do with the village festival, and the giant plastic flaps of the tent doors came down on the damp and gusty darkness. The windows to the main room were being shut up and locked.

Then it was to the kitchen, where Felix wanted to personally thank the maids and the entire catering team. Would Reuben please join him? And he would show Reuben just how he liked to do these things.

Reuben was eager to learn. Tipping people had always made him very nervous.

Lisa appeared right beside them with a large leather purse from which Felix took one white envelope after another to present to each individual cook, server, waiter or waitress, and maid as he gave thanks. Soon he deferred to Reuben and handed the envelopes to him to give to the workers, and Reuben did his level best to assume the same gracious manner, discovering how easily the awkward matter of tipping could be handled if he just looked people right in the eye.

Last, they handed out envelopes to the surprised teenage volunteers who had been the upstairs docents and guides and who had not expected any such special consideration. They were delighted.

The other Distinguished Gentlemen had wandered off. Soon only Lisa and Jean Pierre and Heddy were left putting this or that little thing in order, and Felix had flopped down in the wing chair by the library fire, kicking off his patent-leather dress shoes.

Reuben stood there drinking a cup of hot chocolate and looking down into the flames. He wanted so to tell Felix about having seen Marchent, but he couldn’t bring himself to confide this just yet. It would alter Felix’s mood too dramatically, and perhaps it would alter his own mood as well.

“This is where I secretly and quietly relive every minute of the evening,” said Felix happily, “and ask myself what I might have done better and what I might do next year.”

“You know these people mostly had never seen anything like this,” said Reuben. “I don’t think my parents in all their lives ever contemplated giving a large party let alone something even remotely like this.” He sat down in the club chair and confessed how he himself had only been to the symphony maybe four times in his entire life, and had only heard Handel’s Messiah once, during which he had fallen asleep. The fact was, parties had always been a bore to him, and mostly involved tiny hors d’oeuvres on plastic plates, white wine in plastic glasses that wouldn’t stain anybody’s carpet or linen, and people who couldn’t wait to leave. The last time he’d had this much fun was at a “bring your own bottle” party in Berkeley where the only food had been pizza and there hadn’t been much of that.

Then, quite suddenly with a violent start, he remembered Phil. Was Phil still here? “Good God, where is my dad?”

“Taken care of, dear boy,” said Felix. “He’s in the best room in the middle of the east side. Lisa took him up, saw to it that he had everything he needed. I think he’s here to stay, but he doesn’t want to presume.”

Reuben sat back. “But Felix, what does that mean about our own Yuletide?” he asked. Never mind the sadness he felt that his parents were in fact drifting apart, far apart. That was nothing new, after all.

“Well, Reuben, we will ask for his indulgence on that night when we go out into the forest. We’ll call it a European thing, you know. Something like that. I’ll speak with him about it. I’m sure he will gladly allow us our private Old World customs. He knows so much history, your father. He knows so much about the old pagan ways in Europe. He’s a reader of wide scholarship. And he has that Celtic gift.”

Reuben felt uneasy.

“Is it a powerful gift?” he asked.

“Well, I think it is,” said Felix, “but don’t you know?”

“We’ve never talked about it, me and Phil,” he said. “I do recall his saying his grandmother saw ghosts and that he’d seen them, but that was all there was to it. In our house, people weren’t very receptive to that kind of talk.”

“Well, there’s a great deal more, I’m sure. But the main thing is you needn’t be the least concerned. I’ll explain that on Christmas Eve we have our private customs.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Reuben. Lisa was filling his cup with hot chocolate again. “That’s how we’ll handle it, of course.

“Listen, there’s something I have to confess,” said Reuben. He waited until Lisa had left the library. “There was a little girl here tonight—.”

“I know, dear boy. I saw her. I recognized her from the papers. I greeted her and her friend when they came in. They didn’t expect to be admitted so easily. They asked to speak to you. I told them everyone was welcome. I insisted they join the party. I told them they’d find you in the main room. And I saw you later with them by the crèche. You had quite a good effect on the little girl’s spirits.”

“You know, I didn’t reveal anything to her, not deliberately in any event. I was just trying to assure her that yes, the Man Wolf was real, and what she’d seen was real—.”

“Don’t worry. I knew that’s what you would do. I trusted that you would handle it beautifully, and I saw that you did.”

“Felix, I think maybe she suspected … because I might have said something, just something offhand that made her recognize me, I mean, for a minute anyway. I’m not sure.”

“Don’t worry, Reuben. Do you realize how few people tonight even mentioned the Man Wolf, or asked about the scene here? Oh, there was a lot of whispering, but it was the party that mattered tonight. Let’s enjoy our pleasant memories of the party. And if the little girl is troubled, well, we’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

There was a moment of silence and then Felix said, “I know you were quite mystified with Hockan Crost and a number of the others tonight,” he said. “Stuart’s no doubt puzzled by them as well.”

Reuben’s heart skipped a beat. “Morphenkinder, obviously.”

Felix sighed. “Oh, if you knew how little I care for their company.”

“I think I understand. They made me curious, that’s all. I guess it’s only natural.”

“They’ve never approved very much of me and my ways,” said Felix. “This house, my old family. And the village, they’ve never understood my love of the village. They don’t understand the things I do. And they blame me for some of my own misfortune.”

“So I gathered,” said Reuben.

“But at Midwinter Morphenkinder never turn away their own kind. And it’s never been my policy to turn away others at any time, really. There are ways to live this life, and my way has always been one of inclusion—of our own kind, of all humankind, of all spirits, of all things under the sun. It’s not a virtue with me. I don’t know any other way to move through the world.”

“But you didn’t actually invite them.”

“I did not invite them, no, but then all the world was invited. And they knew that. And I’m not surprised that they came, and it’s understood that they may join us for the Yule celebration. And if they come, we will of course include them. But frankly, I don’t think they will. They have their own ways of celebrating Yule.”

“That man, Hockan Crost, you seemed to like him,” Reuben ventured.

“Did you?”

“He’s very impressive,” said Reuben. “His voice is positively beautiful.”

“He’s always been something of a poet and an orator,” said Felix, “and he is magnetic, and I daresay immensely attractive. Those black eyebrows of his, those black eyes, and the white mane of hair; he’s quite unforgettable.”

“And is he old and experienced?” asked Reuben.

“Yes,” said Felix. “Oh, nothing as old as Margon. There is no one as old as Margon, and no one as widely respected as Margon. And Hockan is kin to us, I mean quite literally kin to us. We have our differences but I can’t dislike him. There are times when I’ve deeply appreciated Hockan. It’s Helena one has to be wary of, and Fiona.”

“I caught that, but why? What is it that so offends them?”

“Anything and everything I do,” he said. “They have a way of interfering in the business of others, but only when it suits them.” He seemed annoyed. “Helena’s hearty, proud of her age, of her experience. But the truth is she’s very young in our world, and so is Fiona—and certainly in our company.”

Reuben remembered Fiona’s unusually intrusive question as to whether Phil was coming to live at Nideck Point. He repeated the exchange to Felix. “I couldn’t imagine why this concerned her.”

“She’s concerned because he’s not one of us,” said Felix. “And she can damn well keep out of it. I have always lived among human beings, always. My descendants lived here for generations. And this is my home and this is your home. She can keep her bloody notions to herself.” He sighed.

Reuben’s head was swimming.

“I’m sorry,” said Felix. “I didn’t mean to become so very unpleasant. Fiona has a way of provoking me.” He extended his hand suddenly. “Reuben, don’t let me alarm you with all this. They’re not a particularly frightening bunch of kindred. They’re a little bit more, well, brutal than we are. It’s just that right now they share the Americas with us, so to speak. It could be worse. The Americas are enormous, aren’t they?” He laughed under his breath. “There could be a lot more of us.”

“Are they a pack, then, a pack with a leader in Hockan?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “If there is a pack there, it’s the women under Helena, and excluding Berenice. Berenice used to spend a lot of time with us, though not lately. But Hockan’s been with them off and on for a very long time now. Hockan has suffered his own losses, his own tragedies. I think Hockan’s under the spell of Helena. They used to confine themselves to the European continent, this bunch, but it’s simply too hard now for Morphenkinder in Europe, especially Morphenkinder who believe in human sacrifice at Midwinter.” He gave a scornful laugh. “And the Morphenkinder of Asia are more jealous of territory than we tend to be. So they’re here, in the Americas, now, been here for decades actually, searching perhaps for some special locale. I don’t know. I don’t invite their confidences. And frankly, I wish Berenice would leave them, and come live with us, if Frank could bear it.”

“Human sacrifice!” Reuben winced.

“Oh, it’s not all that horrifying, really. They select an evildoer, some utterly reprehensible and unredeemable scoundrel, some murderer, and they drug the poor bastard till he’s in a perfect stupor, and then they feast on him at midnight on Christmas Eve. Sounds worse than it really is, considering what we’re all capable of. I don’t like it. I won’t make the killing of evildoers ceremonial. I refuse to incorporate it into ritual. I refuse.”

“I hear you.”

“Put it out of your mind. They talk big but lack a certain collective or personal resolve.”

“I think I see what’s happened,” said Reuben. “You were gone from here for twenty years. And now you’re back—all of you—and they’ve come to look the place over again.”

“That’s it, exactly,” said Felix with a bitter smile. “And where were they when we were captive and struggling to survive?” His voice grew heated. “Didn’t see hide nor hair of them. Of course they didn’t know where we were, or so they’ve said. And said. And said. And yes, we’re back in North America, and they are, shall we say, curious? They make me think of moths collecting around a bright light.”

“Are there others, others besides these, who might show up at the Yule?”

“Not likely.”

“But what about Hugo, that strange Morphenkind we met in the jungles?”

“Oh, Hugo never leaves that ghastly place. I don’t think Hugo has found his way out of the jungles now for five hundred years. Hugo moves from one jungle outpost to another. When his present shelter ultimately collapses, he’ll seek another. You can forget about Hugo. But as to whether others might come, well, I honestly don’t know. There’s no universal census of Morphenkinder. And I’ll tell you something else if you promise to put it out of your mind immediately.”

“I’ll try.”

“We aren’t all the same species either.”

“Good God!”

“Why did I know you’d turn the color of ashes when I told you that? Look. Truly, it doesn’t matter. Now, don’t get agitated. This is why I so hate to inundate you with information. Leave the others to me for the time being. Leave the world to me, and all its myriad predatory immortals.”

“ ‘All its myriad predatory immortals’?”

Felix laughed. “I’m playing with you.”

“I wonder if you are.”

“No, truly. You’re easy to tease, Reuben. You always respond.”

“But Felix, are there universally accepted rules about all this?—I mean do all Morphenkinder agree on this or that law, or—?”

“Hardly!” he said with thinly concealed disgust. “But there are customs among our kind. That’s what I was referring to earlier, the Yuletide customs. We receive each other at Yuletide with courtesy, and woe to one who breaks those customs.” He paused for a moment. “Not all Morphenkinder have a place to celebrate the Yule as we do. And so if others join us on Modranicht, well, we welcome them.”

“Modranicht,” said Reuben with a smile. “I’ve never heard that name for the Yule spoken aloud.”

“But you know the word, don’t you?”

“Night of the Mother,” said Reuben. “From the Venerable Bede, in describing the Anglo-Saxons.”

Felix laughed softly. “You never let me down, my beloved scholar.”

“Night of the Mother Earth,” said Reuben, relishing the words, the thought, and Felix’s pleasure.

Felix went silent for a moment, and then went on:

“In the old days—the old days for Margon, that is—Yuletide was the time to come together, to pledge fidelity, to pledge to live in peace, to reaffirm the resolves to love, to learn, and to serve. That’s what the teacher taught me a very long time ago. That’s what he taught Frank, and Sergei, and Thibault as well. And that’s what Yule still means to us, to us,” he emphasized, “a time of renewal and rebirth, no matter what the hell it means to Helena and the others.”

Reuben repeated it: “To love, to learn, and to serve.”

“Well, it’s not as dreadful as I’ve made it sound,” said Felix. “We don’t make speeches, we don’t offer prayers. Not really.”

“It doesn’t sound dreadful at all. It sounds like one of those concise formulas I’ve been searching for all my life. And I saw it tonight, I saw it in the party, I saw it infecting the guests like some kind of wonderful intoxicant. I saw so many people behaving and responding in the most unusual way. I don’t think my family has ever much held with ceremonies, holidays, any celebration of renewal. It’s as if the world’s gone past all that.”

“Ah, but the world never does go past all that,” said Felix. “And for those of us who cannot age, we must find a way to mark the passage of the years, to celebrate our own determination to renew our spirits and our ideals. We’re fastened to time, but time doesn’t affect us. And if we don’t watch it, if we live as if there were no time, well, time can kill us. Hell, Yuletide is when we resolve to try to do better than we have in the past, that’s all.”

“New Year’s resolutions of the soul,” said Reuben.

“Amen. Come, let’s forget about the others and go walk in the oaks. The rain has stopped. I never had a chance to walk in the oaks while the party was in full swing.”

“Me either, and I so want to do that,” said Reuben.

Quickly getting their coats, they went out together into the marvel of the lighted forest.

How still and quiet it was in the soft lovely illumination, rather like the enchanted place it had been when he’d first wandered out here alone.

Reuben looked around in the shadowy tangles of gray limbs, wondering if the Forest Gentry surrounded them, if they were up high in the branches above them.

On and on they walked, past the scattered party tables, and deeper and deeper into the fairy-tale gloaming.

Felix was quiet, deep in his own thoughts. Reuben so hated to disturb him, to ruin his contentment and his obvious happiness.

But he felt he had to do this. He had no choice. He had put it off long enough. It ought to be happy news, he thought, so why was he hesitating? Why was he torn?

“I saw Marchent today,” he confessed. “I saw her more than once, and it was markedly different.”

“Did you?” Felix was obviously startled. “Where? Tell me. Tell me everything.” There came that immediate distress that was completely unnatural to Felix. Even with all the talk of the other Morphenkinder, he hadn’t been this suddenly anguished.

Reuben explained that long glimpse in the village when he’d seen her in company with Elthram, moving about with him as if she were fully material, and then the moment in the dark corner of the conservatory as if she’d answered his summons. “I’m sorry I didn’t immediately tell you. I can’t explain exactly. It was so intense.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Felix. “That doesn’t matter. You saw her. That’s what matters. I couldn’t have seen her, whether you told me about it or not.”

Felix sighed.

He held the backs of his arms with his hands, that gesture Reuben had seen in him when they had first spoken of Marchent’s spirit.

“They have broken through,” he said sadly. “Just as I hoped they would. And they can take her away now when she’s willing to go. They can provide their way, their answers.”

“But where do they go, Felix? Where were they when you called to them?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Some of them are always here. Some of them are always wandering. They are wherever the woods are thickest and darkest and most quiet and undisturbed. I called them together. I called to Elthram, that’s what I did. Whether they ever really go far away, I can’t say. But it’s not their way to gather in one place, or to repeatedly show themselves.”

“And she will become one of them?”

“You saw what you saw,” he said. “I would say it’s already happened.”

“Will there be no moment in which I can actually talk to her?” asked Reuben. He had lowered his voice to a whisper—not because he feared the Forest Gentry would hear, but because he was opening his soul to Felix. “I had thought, perhaps, there would be some moment. And yet when I saw her in the conservatory, I didn’t ask for this. I felt a kind of paralysis, an absence of any rational thought. I didn’t let her know how badly I wanted to talk to her.”

“It was she who came to you, remember,” said Felix. “It was she who tried to speak, she who had the questions. And maybe now they’ve been answered.”

“I pray that’s true,” said Reuben. “She looked content. She looked whole.”

Felix stood silent for a moment, merely reflecting, his eyes moving gently over Reuben’s face. He gave a faint smile.

“Come, I’m getting colder and colder,” he said. “Let’s go back. She has time in which to speak to you. Plenty of time. Keep in mind the Forest Gentry won’t leave before Christmas Day and probably not before New Year’s. It’s too important to them to be here when we make our circle. The Forest Gently will sing with us and play their fiddles and their flutes and their drums.”

Reuben tried to envision it. “That’s going to be indescribable.”

“It varies from time to time, what they bring to the ceremony. But they’re always gentle, always good, always filled with the true meaning of renewal. They’re the essence of the love for this earth and for its cycles, its processes, its ever renewing itself. They have no taste for human sacrifice at Midwinter, I can tell you. Nothing would drive them away sooner than that. And of course they like you, Reuben, very much.”

“So Elthram said,” said Reuben. “But I suspect it was Laura walking in the woods who stole their hearts.”

“Ah, yes, well, they call you the Keeper of the Woods,” said Felix. “And they call her the Lady of the Woods. And Elthram knows what you’ve suffered with Marchent. I don’t think he means to abandon you without some resolution with Marchent. Even if the spirit of Marchent moves on, Elthram will have something to say to you before New Year’s, I’m certain of it.”

“And what do you hope for, Felix, with regard to Marchent?”

“That she’ll soon be at peace,” he said. “The same thing you hope for, and that she’s forgiven me for all the things I did that were wrong, and unwise, and foolish. But do keep in the mind that the Forest Gentry are distractible.”

“How do you mean?”

“All spirits, ghosts, the bodiless—they’re distractible,” said Felix. “They’re not rooted in the physical and so they’re not fastened to time. They lose track of the things that cause such pain in us. This is not infidelity on their part. It’s the ethereal nature of spirits. It’s only in the physical that they are focused.”

“I remember Elthram using that word.”

“Yes, well, it’s an important word. It’s Margon’s theory that they cannot truly grow in moral stature, these spirits, unless they’re in the physical. But we’re too deep in this woods to be uttering Margon’s name.” He laughed. “Don’t want to anger anyone unnecessarily.”

The rain was starting again. Reuben could see it swirling in the lights as if the drops were too light to fall to the ground.

Felix stopped. Reuben stood beside him waiting.

Slowly, he saw the Forest Gentry materializing. They were in the branches again as they’d been earlier. He saw their faces coming clear, saw their dark shapeless clothes, knees crooked, soft booted feet on the branches, saw the impassive eyes regarding them, saw those tiny child faces like flower petals.

In the ancient tongue, Felix said something to them, what sounded like a soft rush of greeting. But he kept walking. Reuben kept walking.

There was a lot of snapping and rustling in the trees, and a shower of tiny green leaves appeared suddenly, leaves that swirled like the rain, only gradually falling to the earth. The Forest Gentry were vanishing.

They continued on in silence.

“They’re still around us, aren’t they?” Reuben asked.

Felix only smiled.

Alone in his room, in his pajamas and robe, Reuben tried to write about the entire day.

He didn’t want to lose the vivid mind pictures crowding his brain, or the questions, or the sharp remembrances of special moments.

But he found himself merely listing all the many things that had happened, in loose order, and listing the people he’d seen and met.

On and on went his list.

He was simply too stimulated and dazed to really absorb why it had all been so much fun, and so unlike anything he’d ever done or known. But again and again, he recorded details, the simplest to the most complex. He wrote in a kind of code about the Forest Gentry, “Our woodland neighbors” and their “wan” children, and just when he thought he could remember nothing else he began describing the carols played and sung, and the various dishes that had covered the table, and the descriptions of those memorable beauties who’d walked like goddesses through the rooms.

He took some time describing the Morphenkinder women—Fiona, Catrin, Berenice, Dorchella, Helena, Clarice. And as he tried to remember each one as to hair coloring, facial features, and lavish dress it struck him that they had not all been conventionally beautiful, not by any means. But what had marked them all was luxuriant hair and what people call demeanor. They had possessed what someone might call a regal demeanor.

They had dressed themselves and carried themselves with exceptional confidence. A fearlessness surrounded them. But there was something else, too. A kind of low seductive heat came off these women, at least as Reuben saw it. It was impossible to revisit any one in his imagination without feeling that heat. Even the very sweet Berenice, Frank’s wife, had exuded this kind of inviting sexuality.

Was it a mystery of beast and human intermingled in the Morphenkind where hormones and pheromones of a new and mysterious potency were working on the species subliminally? Probably. How could it not be?

He described Hockan Crost—the man’s deep-set black eyes, and his large hands and the way the man had looked him over so obviously before acknowledging him. He noted how different the man had seemed when saying his farewells to Felix, how warm, how almost needful. And then there was that low, running voice of his, the exquisite way he pronounced his words, so persuasive.

There had to be some way male Morphenkinder knew one another too, he figured, whether or not the erotic signals were forthcoming. Hadn’t he felt some very similar set of tiny alarm bells the first time he’d met Felix? He wasn’t sure. And then what about the first few moments of the disastrous encounter with the doomed Marrok? It was as if the world was reduced to pen and ink when a Morphenkind was on the scene and the Morphenkind was done in rich oil paint.

He didn’t write the word “Morphenkind.” He would never write it down, not in his most secret computer diary. He wrote, “The usual questions abound.” And then he asked: “Is it possible for us to despise one another?”

He wrote about Marchent. He described the apparitions in detail, searching his memory for the smallest things that he might remember. But the apparitions were like dreams. Too many key details had faded. Again, he was so careful with his words. What he’d written might have been a poem of remembrance. But he was comforted that Marchent’s entire aspect had changed, that he’d seen nothing of misery or pain at all in her. But he had seen something else, and he didn’t know what that was. And it had not been entirely consoling. But was it conceivable that he and this ghost could actually speak to one another? He wanted that with his whole soul, and yet he feared it.

He was half asleep on the pillow when he woke thinking of Laura, Laura on her own in the forest to the south, Laura having changed unimaginably into a full and mysterious Morphenkind, Laura, his precious Laura, and he found himself uttering a prayer for her and wondering if there was a God who listened to the prayers of Morphenkinder. Well, if there was a God, perhaps he listened to everyone, and if he didn’t, well, what hope was there at all? Keep her safe, he prayed, keep her safe from man and beast, and keep her safe from other Morphenkinder. He could not think of her and think of that strange overbearing Fiona. No. She was his Laura, and they would travel this bizarre road into revelation and experience together.