“You can’t make me,” she said, and laughed.
“There it is!” Jem said suddenly and stopped dead, pointing. It was across the street: a small building with its bricks painted blue and its shutters and door a vivid purple. A large window beside the door displayed an array of books, and above it hung a neatly lettered sign that said, FERGUS FRASER AND SONS, PRINTING AND BOOKS.
“Merde,” Germain whispered.
“Sons?” Jem asked, puzzled.
“Germain and his wee brothers, I expect,” Roger replied. He spoke matter-of-factly, but his own heart had suddenly clenched and then beat faster. He reached to take Germain’s hand. “Come on, Germain, we’ll go in first.”
THE DIRECTION OF the breeze changed and suddenly the smells of ink and hot metal from the open door breathed upon them, a warm invisible cloud surrounding them. Germain took a big gulp of it and coughed. Coughed again and cleared his throat, eyes watering—possibly not just from the acrid scent, Roger thought. He thumped Germain lightly on the back.
“Going to be all right, then?” he asked. Germain nodded, but before he could say anything, footsteps came pounding over the cobbles behind Roger and, with a shout of “Germain!” Fergus flung his arms about his son and snatched him hard against his chest.
“Mon fils! Mon bébé!”
“Bébé?” Germain said. His face was flexing through emotions ranging from astonishment to joy to pretended indignation, so fast that Roger could hardly read them—but there wasn’t any doubt as to what the boy really felt. His cheek was pressed tight to his father’s shabby waistcoat and now he turned his head, buried his face in his father’s heart, and sobbed with relief.
“Certainly, bébé,” Fergus said, softly, and Roger saw that tears were running down his own cheeks. He held Germain a little way away from him and said, “I see you are a man now, and yet when I look at you—always, always—I see you as I first saw you.” He let go, gently, and took an ink-stained handkerchief from his pocket. “Short, fat, and covered with drool,” he added, wiping his nose and grinning at his son.
Everyone laughed, including—after a brief, stunned moment—Germain.
“What’s going on out— Germain!” There was a flurry of skirts and Marsali rushed out of the shop and engulfed her wayward son.
Roger heard a small sound from Brianna and, stepping back, took her hand and held it hard.
“Mam! What’s—Eeeeeee! Fizzy, Fizzy, come see, it’s Germain!” Joan, small round face flaming with excitement, ran back into the shop and ran back an instant later, yanking her younger sister half off her feet.
Roger felt a small hand tugging on his breeches and looked down.
“Who’s dose?” Mandy asked, clinging to his leg and frowning suspiciously at the tearstained, laughing mob scene taking place before them.
“Our cousins,” Jem said tolerantly. “You know—just more family.”
SANCTUARY WAS BREE’S first thought at sight of the printshop, and the feeling continued to grow as the commotion of arrival gradually smoothed out into small eddies: the brief exchange of news, down payment on further conversation; water for washing; the orderly bustle of making supper; the less orderly business of eating it, with half the people sitting at the table and the others mostly under it, giggling over their bowls of rice and red beans; and then the washing-up and changing of clothes and clouts for bed, as the heat of many bodies and of the banked type-forge was gradually wicked away by a cool, dark breeze that rose from the river and ran through the house from the open back door to the open front door, harbinger of a peaceful night.
All of the children at last in bed, the adults sat down in the tiny parlor to toast their reunion with a bottle of very good French wine.
“Where did ye get this?” Roger asked, after the first sip. He lifted his glass to admire the color, sparkling like a ruby in the firelight. “I haven’t drunk anything like this since—since—well, I’m no sure I’ve ever drunk anything this good.”
Marsali and Fergus exchanged a marital glance.
“It’s likely better ye dinna ken,” she told Roger, laughing. “But there’s a wee bit more where that came from—dinna hold back!”
“Certainement,” Fergus agreed, and lifted his own glass to Roger. “You have brought home our prodigal. If you want to bathe in it, say the word.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Roger took a long, slow sip and closed his eyes, his worn face relaxing wonderfully.