chance. She poured Reuben’s coffee, put in the two sweeteners for him, and poured Thibault’s wine and Sergei’s beer.
Reuben sensed a gentleness in her he hadn’t seen before but her gestures and movement were still odd, and a little while ago he’d seen her mount a five-step ladder before the front windows without holding on to anything, to wipe some blemishes from the glass.
Now she banked the little fire in the white Franklin stove, and stood about topping up drinks without a word as Sergei fell on his food like a dog, only using his knife now and then, shoving rolls of beef into his mouth with his fingers, and even breaking up the potato the same way. Thibault ate like a headmaster setting an example for schoolchildren.
“And that’s how they ate in the day and age when you were born, right?” said Stuart to Sergei. He loved to tease Sergei at any opportunity. Only next to the giant Sergei did the muscular and tall Stuart look small, and Stuart more than seldom let his big blue eyes move slowly over Sergei’s body as though he enjoyed the sight of it.
“Oh, you are dying to know precisely when I came into this world, aren’t you, little puppy wolf?” said Sergei. His voice was deep and at times like this his Russian or Slavic accent thickened. He poked Stuart in the chest, and Stuart held firm deliberately, his eyes narrow and full of gleeful mock condescension.
“I bet it was on a farm in Appalachia in 1952,” said Stuart. “You tended the pigs till you ran away and joined the army.”
Sergei gave a deep sarcastic laugh. “Oh, you are such a clever little beast. What if I told you I was the great St. Boniface himself who brought the first Christmas tree to the pagans of Germany?”
“Like hell,” said Stuart. “That’s a ridiculous story and you know it. Next you’ll tell me you’re George Washington and you actually chopped down the cherry tree.”
Sergei laughed again. “And what if I’m St. Patrick himself,” asked Sergei, “who drove the snakes out of Ireland?”
“If you lived in those times at all, you were a thick-skulled oarsman in a longboat,” said Stuart, “and you spent your time raiding coastal villages.”
“Not far off the mark,” said Sergei, still laughing. “Quite seriously, I was the first Romanov to rule Russia.” He rolled his rs theatrically. “That’s when I learned to read and write, and cultivated my taste for high literature. I’d been around for centuries before that. I was also Peter the Great, too, which was terrific fun, especially the building of St. Petersburg. And before that I was St. George who slew the dragon.”
Stuart was tantalized by Sergei’s mocking tone.
“No, I’m still betting on West Virginia,” said Stuart, “at least for one incarnation, and before that you were shipped over here as a bond servant. What about you, Thibault, where do you think Sergei was born?”
Thibault shook his head, and blotted his mouth with his napkin. With his deeply creased face and gray hair, he looked decades older than Sergei but this meant nothing.
“That was long before my time, young man,” Thibault said in his easy baritone. “I’m the neophyte of the pack, if I must confess it. Even Frank’s seen worlds of which I know nothing. But it’s useless asking these gentlemen for the truth. Only Margon talks of origins, and everyone ridicules him when he does it, including me, I must confess.”
“I didn’t ridicule him,” said Reuben. “I hung on every word he said. I wish every one of you would bless us one day with your stories.”
“Bless us!” said Stuart with a groan. “That might be the death of innocence for both you and me. And it might be our literal death from boredom. Add to that I sometimes break out in a fatal allergic rash when people start telling one lie after another.”
“Let me make a guess with you, Thibault,” ventured Reuben. “Is that fair?”
“Of course, by all means,” Thibault answered.
“Nineteenth century, that was your time, and the place of the birth was England.”
“Off by only a little,” said Thibault with a knowing smile. “But I wasn’t born a Morphenkind in England. I was traveling in the Alps at the time.” He broke off as if this had sparked some deep and not-too-pleasant thought in him. He sat very still, then seemed to wake from it, and he picked up his coffee and drank it.
Sergei rattled off a long quote, sounding suspiciously like poetry, but it was Latin. And Thibault smiled and nodded.
“Here he goes again, the scholar who eats with his hands,” said Stuart. “I can tell you right now, I won’t be happy unless I grow to be as tall as you, Sergei.”
“You will,” said Sergei. “You’re a Wonder Pup, as Frank always says. Be patient.”
“But why can’t you speak of where and when you were born in a casual way,” said Stuart, “the way anyone would do it?”
“Because it isn’t spoken of!” said Sergei sharply. “And when it is spoken of in a casual way, it sounds ridiculous!”
“Well, Margon of course had the decency to answer our questions immediately.”
“Margon told you an old myth,” said Thibault, “which he claims is true, because you needed a myth, you needed to know where we come from.”
“What, you’re saying it was all a lie?” asked Stuart.
“Indeed not,” said Thibault. “How would I know if it was? But the teacher loves to tell stories. And the stories change from time to time. We aren’t gifted with perfect memory. Stories have a life of their own, especially Margon’s life stories.”
“Oh, no, please, don’t tell me this,” said Stuart. He seemed genuinely upset by the idea, his blue eyes flashing almost angrily. “Margon’s the only stabilizing influence in my new existence.”
“And we do need stabilizing influences,” said Reuben under his breath. “Especially stabilizing influences that tell us things.”
“You’re both in excellent hands,” said Thibault quietly. “And I’m teasing you about your mentor.”
“What he told us about the Morphenkinder,” said Stuart. “That was all true, wasn’t it?”
“How many times have you asked us that?” asked Sergei. His voice was a richer baritone than Thibault’s voice and a little rougher. “What he told you was true to what he knows. What more do you want? Do I come from the tribe he described? I don’t know whether I do or not. How can I? There are Morphenkinder all over the world. But I will say this. I’ve never found one that didn’t revere Margon the Godless.”
That mollified Stuart.
“Margon’s a legend among immortals,” Sergei went on. “There are immortals everywhere who would like nothing better than to sit at Margon’s feet for half a day. You’ll find out. You’ll see soon enough. Don’t take Margon for granted.”
“This is no time for all this,” said Thibault with a little sarcasm. “We have too many things to do, practical things, small things, the things of life that actually matter.”
“Like folding thousands of napkins,” said Stuart. “And polishing demitasse spoons, and hanging ornaments and calling my mother.”
Thibault laughed under his breath. “What would the world be without napkins? What would Western civilization be without napkins? Can the West function without napkins? And what would you be, Stuart, without your mother?”
Sergei gave a great loud laugh.
“Well, I know I can exist without napkins,” he said, and he licked his fingers. “And the evolution of the napkin leads from linen to paper, and I know the West cannot exist without paper. That is a sheer impossibility. And you, Stuart, are far too young to try existing without your mother. I like your mother.”
Sergei pushed back his chair, drank his beer down in one long pull, and headed out to find Frank and “get those tables out under the oak trees.”
Thibault said it was time to return to work, and rose to lead the way. But neither Reuben nor Stuart moved. Stuart winked at Reuben. And Reuben glanced meaningfully in the direction of Lisa, who stood over his shoulder.
Thibault hesitated, and then shrugged and went on without them.
“Lisa, better give us a minute now,” said Reuben, glancing up at her.
With a faint reproving smile, she left, closing the conservatory doors behind her.
