The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [16]
“And to the other wonders that may cross our path!” Hercule said, taking another swallow.
It was good to see Hercule in a happy mood. He smiled, and that small difference in his face pulled away the years, and she remembered when they met, twelve years before, in the ravaged countryside of Lorraine. He had always been cheerful then, full of life and swagger, a rascal and a good heart. She scarcely connected him with the brooding character he had become. And she knew that she was in large part responsible for the change.
Could she amend that? So many of her works needed mending.
She lifted her glass. “To you, Monsieur d'Argenson. For being the soul of this expedition, for seeing it through dangers none of us could have imagined. And for being my loyal friend.”
That brought a strange, almost shocked silence to the entire table. Had it been so long since she had said such a thing?
Apparently. And Hercule was blushing.
Well. She could mend nothing with a single toast, but it was a beginning.
Glasses clinked, and Hercule downed all his wine. He would be drunk within the hour.
“Vodka!” Crecy called to one of the servers.
Across the table, Mikhail Sergeivich, a middle-aged artillery captain, laughed. “That's a Russian drink—not made for your French blood.”
“Oh?” Crecy said. “Or is it that I'm a woman?”
“No offense, please,” Sergeivich told the redhead. “You're a man in my book. You dress like one, you fight like one, you ride like one. But even a Russian woman could drink you down the river with vodka. It's what they bathe us in when we're born.”
“How would this be, then, sir?” Crecy asked. “I will match you, drink for drink. If I meet Morpheus first, you will have the opportunity to learn that in no book whatsoever am I a man. If you go under first, you give me that Hungarian saber you're so proud of.”
“Done, by the saints!”
“I'll go at that, too,” Elizavet put in, “to show what damage a Russian woman might do.”
“Then we need a fourth,” Adrienne heard herself say.
“Are you volunteering, Mademoiselle?” Elizavet made no attempt to hide her astonishment.
“Indeed.” She raised her voice. “More vodka for the table. Two —no, three more bottles!”
Crecy leaned so her lips were touching Adrienne's ear. “What strange wind is blowing between your ears?” she whispered.
“Don't discourage me,” Adrienne pleaded, just as softly. “Please.”
“No secrets!” Elizavet said. “And no scientifical trickery!”
“Never fear,” Crecy said. “We need no science against the likes of you. Have at it.” And she drained her newly filled glass.
The contest quickly involved the whole table, and within the hour was essentially forgotten. Crecy and Sergeivich were arm in arm, singing some off-key song in the Russian that Sergeivich had been trying to teach them. Hercule's head was tilted back, and gentle snores escaped him.
Feeling quite unsteady but not unhappy, Adrienne decided it was time to return to her cabin before she did anything even more foolish than she had already.
On the way she bumped into three of her students, who were swaying a bit themselves.
“Mademoiselle!” said the first, a tall young fellow named Lomonosov. “It is good to see you up and about.”
“It is good to be so,” she replied. Or hoped she did. Her voice was a strange roar in her own ears.
“We have much to discuss with you, Mademoiselle,” a young woman said. Even in the dark, Adrienne imagined she could make out the young woman's green eyes and infectious smile. She also saw that the third fellow, Carl von Linné, was standing quite near her. Had they been holding hands when she arrived? She suspected that they were lovers.
“Well, we shall begin our meetings again,” Adrienne said.
“Oh, we have kept up with them. We have found something quite astonishing.”
“We could even speak of it now!” Lomonosov said.
“Well …”
“There you are.” Elizavet's voice came, from behind. “Monsieur Linné, I disht— dishk—distinctly