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wolf.” He reached behind his head and untied the ribbon
holding his gray wolf’s mask in place.
    Isabella scrutinized the mask. “Who exactly are you supposed to be? I don’t recall any `St. Wolf’ being associated
with the holiday.”
    Tristan shook his finger at her like a stern schoolmaster.
“Dear Juno, don’t you know? February fifteenth is the Roman
festival of Lupercalia. True historians credit this festival, not
Juno’s, as being the origin of our Valentine holiday.”
    “Ah, and Luper means wolf. You see, I remember my
Latin.”
    “Wolves devoured flocks of sheep, so the people of Rome
would pray to Lupercus to protect the flocks. It’s a bloody
holiday involving sacrifices and the like. Would you care for
me to elaborate?”
    Isabella wrinkled her nose. “It sounds perfectly abominable. I don’t need to hear any more” She laughed, rolling her eyes skyward. “You’ve always known the most interesting things. How do you come by such knowledge?”
     
    Tristan shrugged. “I read. I don’t think I ever forget anything.”
    “What a handy trick that must be. I could use a perfect
memory on occasion,” Isabella said wistfully.
    Tristan turned somber. “No, it’s not as great a gift as you
might think. I wish I could forget many of the things I know.”
    “The war?” Isabella’s voice was full of empathy for him
as she reached for his hand and squeezed it.
    Tristan leapt up with a barely restrained yelp of pain on
his lips. He clutched at his left hand, the one she’d touched.
Isabella was beside him, concern for him evident in her
warm eyes.
    “What is it? Have I hurt you?”
    “It is nothing, just a small problem I have with a nerve in
my hand. My apologies for having alarmed you.”
    He should have known Isabella was too tenacious to let
such a thing go with the flimsy excuse he’d offered. Before
he could distract her, Isabella gently took his hand and
stripped off the white glove. She stared for a long moment
at the scar that bisected his palm and wrapped around his
knuckles. The scar was hideous and stark, a thick white line
against the tanned skin of his hand.
    When she spoke, her voice was solemn. “How did this
happen?”
    “You don’t need to know. Please, Isabella. It does not
signify.”
    She stared at him for a long while before finally dropping
his hand and granting his request. “Does it hurt much?” She
asked, letting him cover the scar with his glove.
    “I have some salve. As long as I don’t overuse my hand it
doesn’t trouble me”
    “Will it heal?”
    “I imagine the scar will fade in time.”
    “I didn’t mean the scar,” Isabella said sharply. “I meant
your hand. Will it heal?”

    “Probably not” Tristan gave a wry smile. “But this is
unseemly talk for Valentine’s Day. We should talk of love, or
at least of roses.” He nodded toward the convenient but dormant cluster of rose bushes lining the garden walk. “Roses
are the official flower of love, being the sacred flower of
Venus”
    “Oh, that is nicely done, my lord wolf.” Isabella applauded. “You’ve managed to talk of both love and roses in one
sentence while deflecting me from my desired course of
conversation.”
    “Yes, so it seems that I have” Tristan patted her arm as
she tucked it through his. “Let’s go back inside and on the
way I’ll tell you about the cartes d’amities the French send
for the holiday.”
    “Salud!” Crystal flutes of newly legal French champagne
clinked in near unison beneath sparkling chandeliers as midnight heralded the time of unmasking in the crowded ballroom of the earl of Denbigh’s lavish town house. People
drank and laughed as masks were discarded. In one corner
of the packed room, Tristan exchanged toasts with Alain,
and the other two who completed their circle of childhood
chums, Giles Moncrief, Chatham Somerset, and of course,
Isabella. She looked delightfully disheveled without her
mask and