“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” Pascal said. “Do you think it possible?”
“Perhaps the wolf form isn’t a true wolf. Perhaps it only looks like one. On the inside, it could be more human. It’s an interesting exercise. Though I wonder how the change would initiate? Would the werewolf trigger a chemical reaction in her own body? It’s a bizarre idea, but possible, I suppose.”
“Like the duck-billed platypus.”
Lucilla cast him a glance. He was smiling. She said, “If it could turn into a duck, as well.”
“Have you ever traveled to the Antipodes?”
Lucilla considered his change of subject. She didn’t want to talk about Kauz anymore, either. “Alas, no. You?”
“Once, with my grand-oncle Erard, who worked on a merchant ship. I was eleven. It was the greatest adventure of my life.”
His tone sounded affectionate in a way she hadn’t heard before. “Tell me about it, and him,” Lucilla said.
“Perhaps later. First you will tell me how you became interested in chemistry,” Pascal said.
“Done,” she said.
INTERLUDE
LIEUTENANT GABRIEL MEYER WAS IN THE MIDST of testing his boy trumpeters on their fingering exercises when his fellow lieutenant and closest friend, Noel Ashby, entered the band room. Ashby, a lean man with cropped red hair and a slender mustache, leaned against a cabinet and crossed his legs at the ankles, outwardly casual, but Gabriel could read the tension in his normally relaxed posture, and he tensed, as well. Kern fumbled a pattern and stopped.
With a glance, Gabriel silenced the comment about to erupt from Wiley’s mouth. Wiley was inclined to rivalry. “No, keep on with it,” he said to Kern gently. “If you stop, you might stop there the next time, and make a habit of it.”
“Sir,” Kern squeaked, and lifted his trumpet again, aiming it at the regimental wolf banner that hung behind Gabriel’s chair. This time, he played more slowly, but accurately.
“Good,” Gabriel said. “Why don’t you two run along. I hear there’s cake for tea.”
When the boys had gone, Noel ambled over to Gabriel’s podium and leaned on his wooden music stand. “Reserves have been called up,” he said.
Gabriel rubbed his mustache with his forefinger. “So it’s happened then.”
“Soon,” Noel said. “I came here because we’re to be in the same company.”
“The same—you mean, the band—”
Noel gripped his forearm and gave it a shake. “I’m sorry. When it comes to war, your boys are to be trained as regimental stretcher bearers. There won’t be any band for you to lead.”
“Bloody hell.” Gabriel bowed his head, reeling from having his musicians snatched away from him. They’d be scattered across the regiment. Some of them weren’t old enough for active duty, and would have to be left behind. Kern and Wiley would be someone else’s responsibility now.
His stomach plummeted as another thought occurred. “Jemima,” he said. “She won’t be pleased.”
“Now’s a good time to break it off, then,” Noel said.
Without rancor, Gabriel said, “You’d marry to have children, too. You’ve said it a thousand times.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t marry Jemima.”
“She’s Jewish,” Gabriel said with a shrug. “You know I can’t marry a Gentile. Not unless I never want to hear the end of it.”
“You don’t really care about that,” Noel said.
Gabriel wasn’t up to resurrecting an old argument. “I’ll run down to the office and telephone her.”
Noel sighed, and cuffed his shoulder. “Good luck. I’m thinking I’d rather be shot at.”
Chapter Three
THE REST OF THE DAY’S DRIVE FELT LIKE AN OUTING. Lucilla had rarely had the opportunity to speak at such length, and with such freedom, to another scientist. She didn’t think she ever had done, except once or twice at university with older alumnae, as her own crowd all studied literature or languages. The next village appeared, but the motor had plenty of petrol, and she and Pascal had plenty of food. They ate their tea while sitting on the grass, seen only by a few birds gleaning seeds from the roadside. She doffed her hat and let the afternoon sun glow on her face. Bees buzzed in the hedge.
Pascal drew an astonishingly detailed map in one of his notebooks, his lines strong and sure. Lucilla peered over his shoulder, noting that they would need to drive through the night. When he’d finished drawing, he tore the page free. “Take this, and keep it safe,” he said.
Their fingers touched as she accepted the map. “Do you have an eidetic memory?” she asked.
“For some things,” he said. “Why do you wish to know?”
“You needn’t snap,” she said. “I was only curious. It’s a useful talent.”
Pascal took her hand again, and kissed the back. “I am sorry. I tell no one.”
“I won’t tell anyone, either.” It was a strange thing to be embarrassed about, but he was entitled to his secrets. She did not reclaim her hand, and soon he clasped it to his thigh, interlacing their fingers. She asked, “Have you told anyone before?”
“My mother knew,” he said. “My father does not. He would tell the government.”
Enlightenment struck. “I see. You would make a most excellent spy.”
He smiled grimly. “I would make a terrible spy. I am not…diplomatic. Also, I doubt I could withstand torture, or die with patriotic dignity. I wish to do neither of those things. I am not a brave man. I want to live.”
Lucilla tightened her fingers on his. In a rush of boldness, she said, “Kiss me.”
Pascal studied her, then took off his hat. “Come and sit across my legs.”
“Striving for efficiency?” Lucilla knelt, leaned over and kissed his mouth, awkwardly and sideways. Thoughtfully, she teased the corner of his mouth with her tongue. “Mind your arm,” she said before climbing into his lap.
His uninjured arm closed around her so tightly that the boning of her bust bodice dug into her flesh. She hooked her arms around his neck and yanked his face to hers. The heat and slickness inside his mouth forcibly reminded her of how his cock had felt inside her, each slide hot and sweet. She shifted restlessly as their tongues darted and tangled. She dug her fingers into the back of his neck, then her nails, and he groaned and pulled away. “Off,” he said.
Disentangling herself reluctantly, Lucilla sighed. “Of course we must stop. We’re right beside the—”
She landed on her back in the fresh grass. “Road,” he said. “We’ll have to hurry.” He shoved up her skirt, having to unfasten both sides to do so. It wasn’t cut for such unconventional activity.
“Pascal!”
“You wear too many underthings,” he said, flipping up her petticoat. He swooped down and kissed her through her drawers.
She couldn’t get her breath. He hadn’t done this the night before. His fingers shaped and massaged her thighs while he slowly and deliberately rasped his mustache against the cambric covering her sex. The