As Barbara had said, a heavily-veiled woman sat near a book stand in the corner. “Ah, my dear Regeane,” the veiled woman greeted her. “Barbara told me she would find some way to send you to see me before the day was over. Set the tray on the table and please sit down. I hope Barbara sent up enough for two. As you see, I have a guest.” Regeane frowned for a moment, puzzled, then recognized Dulcina, the singer she had heard at the pope’s banquet last night. “If I know Barbara,” Dulcina said, smiling, “she sent up enough for three.” She rose, took the tray from Regeane’s hands, and set it on the table. Then she embraced Regeane. Confused for a moment, Regeane stiffened and almost drew back, but deep within her the wolf gave a soft, inaudible cry and she relaxed in Dulcina’s loving embrace. The wolf fully awakened and her memories filled Regeane’s mind. Memories of singers long ago. Singers so gentle, so much a part of the living world that their voices had the power to call even the savage wolf packs of the mountains from their dens down into cool, green, high meadows, dotted with copses of silver birch and red-berried rowan, where she, like the rest of the wolves, lay at the singers’ feet.
