Page 60 of Master Wolf

And with Britain and Saxony at war, it had not been the safest of trips. Thankfully, Drew’s German was excellent, and if he had not quite passed as a local, he had least passed as not British. Well enough to get the grimoire out of Saxony with very little trouble beyond a few scuffles, and down into French-ruled Venice.

“What sort of grimoire is it?” Lindsay asked.

Wynne turned his head, meeting Lindsay’s gaze. “It teaches scrying, in particular using mirrors and water—reflective surfaces.”

Lindsay’s expression sharpened with interest and Drew was reminded of their recent conversation.

“He is going to scry for me. Find a solution.”

“A solution to what?”

“To you.”

A shiver ran up Drew’s neck. A premonition? He felt a sudden conviction that he should not have brought the grimoire here.

Marguerite rose to her feet. “I am going to bathe,” she said. “We will dine in an hour. Do please dress accordingly.”

* * *

An hour later,they recongregated in the drawing room. Lindsay and Wynne had changed out of their masquerade costumes and were now in plain, elegant evening clothes, as were Drew and Francis. Marguerite wore a simple white muslin gown that was near transparent, displaying the outline of her body quite blatantly, and she had styled her lustrous hair in an artless Grecian manner.

“I do like these new fashions,” Lindsay said, bowing over her hand to kiss the tips of her fingers. “They are wonderfully revealing. They show you off to perfection, my love.”

Marguerite laughed throatily, a deeply attractive sound. “Flatterer,” she teased. When Wynne’s scent spiked, Drew forced himself not to glance at him—or at Francis who would surely also have noticed.

“Come,” Marguerite said, leading the way into the dining room. “I have had everything laid out so we can eat in peace.”

Sure enough, the table was groaning with platters of food: roasted meats and fowl and dressed vegetables, and since they were all, other than Wynne, wolves with fearsome appetites, they set to without ceremony. While they ate, there was little talk, but once their appetites were satisfied, the conversation began to flow more readily.

It was pleasant enough, at first, catching up on what each of them had been doing. But the differences under the surface could not be avoided forever. The surprising thing—to Drew at least—was that when disaster finally struck, it was not between himself and Lindsay.

Marguerite had excused herself from the table a few minutes before. When she returned, she carried a package wrapped in brown paper. Drew recognised it. Beneath the paper was a layer of linen, and beneath that was the grimoire.

Marguerite set it down in front of Wynne.

“This is for you,” she said.

He stared at it, the oddest expression on his face. Silence fell around the table, as they all watched and waited for his reaction.

Slowly, Wynne reached out and touched the parcel with his left hand, only barely resting his fingertips on the surface.

“It’s smaller than I’d have thought,” he said. His voice was husky.

“Open it,” Marguerite said.

He glanced at her, his expression troubled, but he said nothing, only reached out with his other hand and began undoing the knots on the string that held the paper in place.

He unwrapped first the paper, then the linen, finally drawing out the grimoire itself. It was indeed quite small, only a little larger than Wynne’s hand, with a cover of dark brown tooled leather and a sturdy iron hasp, locking the pages closed.

When Wynne began to examine the hasp, Drew said, “It’s open just now, but the seller told me the mechanism can be securely locked by a skilled magic-user who knows what they’re doing.”

Wynne nodded but said nothing.

He set the book on the table and gazed at it longingly for several moments. Then he pushed back his chair and stood.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I can’t accept this.”

Marguerite’s expression was wounded. “What?Why?”