Such a fine thing to see Herry's face revealed. And I have to think it did him some good, as well. I lay a hand to his cheek, just because I could. Who was there to stop me? And who but Herry would ever know of my foolishness? So soft was his cheek. But gaunt. And gaunter by the day. He was not long for this world. But he probably knew it as well as I, so there was no point in dwelling upon it. Death would claim us all soon enough.

I patted his hand and then took it up in my own. Of course, I had to curl his fingers round mine, but there was a nice heft to it as it lay in my palm.

"Ach, two fools are what we are. You for lingering. And me for dawdling." As I said it, I shed a tear for the man with nothing left but his wits, and the woman with nothing left but her work. I sat there beside him, holding his hand, until I heard Marguerite coming toward the door.

The devil himself would have heard Marguerite coming, accompanied as she was by some man or another. All shrieks of mirth and howls of laughter, they were.

I gave Herry his hand back and tucked it underneath the blanket I'd settled atop him. For certain it would stay there for the night.

I opened the door when I heard the straw's rustle and Marguerite's curse. "You might have pushed this all to the side!"

Hiding a smile beneath a hand, I did push it aside with the toe of my clog as I brushed past her. "And you might give him a look over in the middle of the night. To see if he wants for anything."

"And if he did, could he tell me?"

"You've only to look at him. He'd tell you. With his eyes."

She sneered and then shut the door in my face.

Chapter 10.

Denis Boulanger The border of France and Flanders One month, the lieutenant said he'd give me. But I still hadn't found any lace.

Once, though, I had been close. I'd stopped a man as he stepped into the line. There was something about his eyes. Something in the way they shifted back and forth as he looked around. There was only the shack and the lieutenant and myself to look at. It seemed strange to me he should be so interested in the goings-on about him. Especially when everyone else concerned themselves with the tips of their own shoes.

I'd asked him to remove his cloak.

There was nothing hidden inside it.

I'd asked him to remove his coat.

There was nothing in there, either.

I might have stopped right there, but it seemed to me if he had nothing to hide, he would have said so.

I asked to look in his pack. He had a purse in there and a shirt and what looked like a very fine loaf of bread. "Is it any good?"

He looked up at me. "What?"

"Is it good? It looks as if it is."

"It's...very nice."

My father was an excellent baker. Anyone in Signy-sur-vaux would have said so. It wasn't easy to make a good loaf of bread. That's why I'd joined the army.

He coughed. "May I go?"

"What?"

"Have you finished?"

Had I? I didn't think so. "Might I have some?"

"Some...?"

"Some of your bread."

"My bread."

Even if there were no lace hidden inside, I had a sudden longing for a good piece of bread. He was no destitute peasant; there were no children staring hungrily at this loaf. I thought-I hoped-he could spare just one bite.

He broke off the heel and handed it to me.

It was very good. Quite good, in fact, though not quite so fine as the bread my father made. I waved the man into the line and stepped back to survey the crowds.

I wondered that day and the next and the one after it whether I ought to have left Signy at all. There were benefits to being a baker.

A hot oven to warm the home. Bread without end for the children.

There had been ten of us at my father's house. A brood of brothers and sisters. And there had been cousins, as well. My family had flowed along with the river from Signy-sur-vaux out to l'Abbaye and even unto Dommery.

Why had I ever left the place?

I'd had bread in abundance and a fire that had rarely ever gone out...though in the summer, with the fires roaring, I might as well have lived in the pit of hell.

My father had never understood why I could not be content. "You want to be the only Boulanger who makes no bread?" That's what he'd asked me when I told him I was leaving for the army.

And that's when I'd had to tell him the truth. "It's not what I want to do," I'd said. I didn't mind the fires in the winter. Or the fall or the spring. I liked the smell of bread rising. I didn't even mind kneading it. I just didn't want to become known as the man who made bread.

He'd thrown up his flour-drenched hands, loosing a fine, dusty cloud that settled upon his shoulders as he spoke. "What does that have to do with anything? You're a Boulanger! And boulangers make bread."

It had everything to do with it in my opinion. That's why I'd joined the army. Once he'd gotten used to the idea, my father had claimed it as his own. And when I was posted to the border, he'd told everyone in town I would soon make my fortune catching smugglers.

And I might have. Had I caught any of them.

So how was I supposed to write him and tell him I'd failed? Again. At something that was supposed to be so simple to do? I couldn't decide which would be worse: working for the lieutenant who expected so very much, or working for my father who was content with so very little.

Chapter 11.

The Dog Rural Flanders Hunger had gnawed a hole right through my belly and come out on the other side. I knew it, because I did not hunger anymore. Neither did I sleep. Neither did I hear.

I did nothing.

I was nothing.

There was nothing.

Nothing but the box.

I woke, though I had not been sleeping. I woke to the scent of something sweet. Something clean. I was out of the box, and the bad master was in front of me. I could see his feet.

"Drink."

In front of his feet was a bowl.

"Drink, Chiant!"

I wanted to drink from it, but I couldn't get my head to move.

He reached out, grabbed one of my ears, and jerked on it to lift my head. Then he slid the bowl beneath my chin with his foot and let go my ear.

My head fell into the bowl.

"Drink!"

I wished I could drink. I opened my mouth enough to let my tongue fall out. The liquid was sweet, but I could manage only one lick.

"Do I have to feed you myself?"

He grabbed my head, hooked a finger between my jaws, and forced them open. Then he took up the bowl and poured it down my throat.

I could not swallow fast enough, and most of it ran down my muzzle to my paws.

"Emmerdeur!"

Kicking the bowl away, he shoved me back into the box and sealed it up. I licked my paws where the liquid had spilled, and I did not stop until I had consumed it all. After a while, I began to hear the birds again. And the squirrels. And soon, I felt my strength returning.

With the bowl had come a memory. The sweetness of the liquid had served as a reminder. I remembered everything now. That bowl would be followed by another. And another. And finally, I would be freed.

I turned onto my side, rolled into myself, and at long last, I slept. I dreamt the memory of a hushed whisper and a hand that stroked my fur. Moncherargent.

Moncher, Moncher, Moncher.

When I woke, it was to the sound of footsteps approaching my box.

I curled into a ball and hid my nose beneath my paws.

A nail pulled through wood, and then a wall came off my box.

I blinked at the sudden invasion of light. Slunk back into a shadow.

Something struck the top of the box.

I flung myself against the back wall.

"Come out!" The box shuddered.

I curled back up into a ball.

"Chiant! I give you something to drink. That's all. See? Here."

I heard the sound of something sliding along the ground and lifted my face so I could see. It was a bowl. I raised my nose and took a sniff.

It was a bowl of something sweet.

I raised an ear.

Listened.

"Are you coming out?"

I let my ear drop, pressing it tight against my head.

The bad master's face appeared in front of the bowl. "Drink, damn you!"

He shoved the bowl toward me with his foot.

The smell of it flooded my nostrils and brought hunger creeping back into my belly. I put forward one foot, stepping out from the shadow.

"Oui. That's it. Drink." His face disappeared.

I waited a moment to make sure it would not return. Then I stepped forward. Raised my nose. Sniffed.

The bad master was nearby. I could smell the sour scent of him. I took another sniff. He was not too near. Perhaps if I drank quickly...I put my head into the bowl and lapped it up as fast as I could. But I was too slow.

The wall hit me on the snout as it came down.

And as I pulled back away from the bowl, as I retreated into the box to the safety of darkness, the wall was pounded back into place. The next time he came, I would be ready. The next time, I would not cower in the box. I would not creep out to drink. The next time he came, I would jump right over the bowl, take to the forest, and run straight to my other master. That is what I would do.

I would do everything right this time.