I could guess, but I wasn't sure I would be right. It was safest not to answer.

"What concerns me is those dirty, rotten, stinking Flemish are smuggling contraband across our border every single day."

I'd heard that. The lieutenant had said that. He'd said it nearly every day for these six months I'd been posted here.

"And do you know who helps them?"

Well-non. Non, I didn't.

"We do. We French do. We French conspire with those dirty, rotten, stinking Flemish to cheat our own King out of the tariffs he deserves."

Not we French. I mean, I didn't. And the lieutenant didn't. Some French. That was the better way to say it. Some French do.

"But do you know what's worse, Denis Boulanger?"

There were many things that were worse. So many things that were worse. It was difficult to choose just one.

"What's worse is some people even try to smuggle in things that are forbidden. Did you know that?"

"Oui, chef." I knew that.

"Every single day, people try to bring things into France that don't belong here. Things the King, our King, doesn't want here."

He had come to stand quite near me. His tips of his boots touched the tips of my own.

"Oui, chef!"

He scowled. "Oui, chef? Oui, chef! You know this?"

"Oui, chef."

"Then why don't you do something about it!" He yelled the words so loudly they hurt my ears. So forcefully his spittle landed on my face.

I couldn't keep from blinking. And falling back from his assault. "I do, chef. I mean, I try."

"You haven't tried hard enough. Do you know how many times you've intercepted contraband these past six months?"

I nodded. I did. I knew exactly how many times.

"None! Thousands of livres in goods are smuggled across this border daily, and you've intercepted none of it!" He shook his wrist in front of my face. "Do you know how old this lace is?"

"Non, chef."

"Six months old. And do you know why?"

"Non, chef."

"It's because you haven't brought me any that's newer!"

"I haven't...I've never seen any."

"Never seen any. Bon." He turned on a heel and strode to his desk.

I wished I could do that. Turn on my heel and do it so quickly it looked like my foot was nailed to the floor. I'd tried. Many times. But I'd only ever made myself stumble.

"Never seen any. Never going to. I'm going to send you somewhere else. Lots of places to choose from. We're a country at war with these dirty, rotten, stinking Spaniards. So... do you think you could kill someone?"

"Kill someone?"

"With that musket."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would I want to kill someone?"

He sighed. Took up a piece of paper and began writing. "I have here, in my hand, your new orders." He signed them with a flourish as he spoke.

"Chef?"

"You're leaving. I'm done with you. You're a disgrace to your King."

"But...I...I would catch them. I would arrest those smugglers if I could only tell which ones they were."

"The trouble with you, Denis Boulanger, is you've no imagination. Do you know how contraband crosses the border? How lace crosses the border? Because that's what we're looking for-lace. Do you know how lace crosses the border?"

I nodded. He'd explained it many times.

"Lace crosses the border in hollow loaves of bread. It crosses the border pinned to a woman's underskirts or the inside of a man's breeches. It crosses the border in boots and books. It even crosses the border in coffins."

Coffins? I didn't think I believed him. I was quite sure, in fact, that I didn't.

"It crosses the border with men and women. With children and dogs. With the young and with the very old. It crosses the border with people."

Oui. I knew all of that. Every day I looked for lace. That was what I was supposed to do. But how could I know who was smuggling it? "Just-give me more time! I'll find some lace. I promise."

He folded his arms in front of him, leaned on the table's top. Frowned. "I've been giving you more time for six months now."

"Please."

He scowled. "Fine. One more month. It's hard enough as it is with the war going on. Be warned, if you don't find any"-he waved the orders above his head as he dismissed me with his other hand-"then you're done."

Chapter 4.

The Dog Rural Flanders I have two names.

One of my masters, my bad master, calls me Chiant. But I refuse to come when I hear it. That must be why he keeps me in the box that has no holes.

The other master, the good master, calls me Moncherargent...or sometimes just Moncher...and I like that best of all. When he says Moncher, he speaks it in a whisper. He says it in a sigh that feels to my ears the way his hand feels as he strokes my fur. Moncher, Moncher, Moncher, he says as I sit in his lap by the fire.

He frees me from my burden of lace, and he feeds me all I want and then just a little bit more. And he gives me milk to drink. Cream he calls it. And it's that cream I miss the most. Especially now, as I wait in the box. Especially now that I am Chiant once more.

I wish I knew how to keep from being sent away by the good master.

I was so careful last time.

I didn't yelp. I never yelp. Not at the good master. Not after that first nap in his lap. And never after my first taste of cream.

No. I had not yelped.

I had not nipped, either. Not at him. I could never bite the hand that tended my wounds. That fed me and caressed my fur.

No. I had not nipped.

But had I whined?

Perhaps.

I pushed to my feet and set my nose to work, trying to sniff out a hole. A big one. One bigger than the cracks through which the ants came in. If I could just find a hole, then I could make it bigger. And then I could get a taste of the rain my ears told me was falling on the box. And perhaps, if I were lucky, then I could find a way out. And I could run to my good master. And maybe this time I could stay.

But it was no good. I could not see, and surely if there were a hole, there would be light. What's more, my nose never failed me. And it had sniffed no moving air. No scent of forest or wind. The only thing I could smell was my own filth.

I pressed my back against the corner and curled myself into a ball.

No. There was no way out.

I whined.

I could not help it. The memory of fires and laps and cream was too fresh in my senses. I could feel the warmth. Taste the milk.

I whined again.

Yes. Perhaps I had whined at the good master. But could I not be forgiven such things? And how else was I to tell him what had happened to me? How else was I to make him understand? To keep him from sending me away?

For if he knew, surely he would not return me to the bad master.

If only he knew.

If only people could talk.

I woke.

How long had I been asleep?

I raised an ear. Took a listen.

The rain had stopped.

I let my ear flop back down against my head. I didn't like the rain. I couldn't hear the birds sing, and the squirrels weren't about their business. Someday...one day...perhaps one day I could pause for just a moment on my race through the forest. Maybe one day I would be able to see what those squirrels were doing. And know why those birds were singing.

But just now...just now I needed to think.

I needed to figure something out.

I wish I remembered what it was.

Something whined.

Something that sounded a lot like me.

I lifted my ear once more.

Nothing.

My stomach growled.

Maybe the whine had been me.

I was so hungry. But the only way to cure hunger was to not think about food. I would not think about the meat the good master fed me. And how it was always warm, and how the juices trickled down my chin. And I would certainly not think about the cream. I would not think about cream so thick I could almost chew it. Cream that coated my throat with lovely fat as I drank it. No. I could not think about cream.

I licked my nose, hoping for a drip or two.

Nothing.

It was dry. Dry as my mouth. Worse even.

I closed my eyes. I did not know why I had bothered to open them. I couldn't see anything, open or closed. The only thing to do was wait. I would not think about food. Or drink. I would not think about my belly or how it gnawed at me from the inside. Or the fleas that gnawed at me from the outside.

I rolled onto my side. The hunger shifted within me. I would rather be too hot or too cold than too hungry. There was no escape from hunger.

I woke.

But I woke with fear.

If only I could see.