"Why did you come by way of Fulda?"
"It's pretty much on my path. I came up the Rhine to Mainz, did some sketching there and picked up some ideas, and ran into Paul Moreau, who had been working up here in Fulda for a while."
"Will you be staying in Grantville?"
"I don't know. My brothers Crispijn the younger and Simon have been in Denmark for several years. They both say that Copenhagen is a good place to work, so I won't make my mind up until after I've talked with Magdalena."
"Did you see the cartoon that Hartmann made of Friedrich and me while you were there? The Mainz newspaper published it. Of course, the publisher is his uncle, but it's still exciting that he got something in the paper."
"It's really nice of you to let me look at your portfolio," Simrock said. "A lot of these are great. Is this all?"
"There's only this one folder more. When I left Utrecht, I headed down to the southeast, following some rumors. The rumors were right. Ferdinand of Bavaria is headquartered in Euskirchen for the winter. I didn't dare sketch in public, so these drawings are from memory."
Tata and Eberhard poked their heads over Simrock's shoulder.
"Sit down," Margarethe said. "I'll bring them all around and show you where you are sitting. One at a time. The least we can do is behave in a decent and orderly manner when the man is kind enough to show us his drawings."
"Yes, my dear would-be schoolmistress," her brother said.
"I would have been, if I hadn't met Friedrich."
"I know. I've heard it often enough." Friedrich grinned. "It's probably proof that there's no point in making plans for you Calvinists. Predestination will get to you every time."
"Friedrich." Theo frowned. "Don't be so irreverent." He picked up one of van de Passe's drawings and frowned again. "Who's this?"
"Didn't I label it?" Van de Passe took it back. "Ah. The Countess von Dohna—Colonel Walter Butler's wife—in full spate of a temper tantrum in the Euskirchen marketplace. She had just come from early weekday mass. Some girl selling cabbages from a wheelbarrow crossed her path and impeded her progress." He scribbled something in a corner. "Just to make sure I don't forget, as time goes by. Maybe I'll be able to use her."
"Butler?" Simrock asked. "Walter Butler? The Irish colonel? The one who kidnapped the abbot and Wes and the others in August?"
"In August," van de Passe said, "I was on the water, being very seasick during an interminable crossing on a boat that would have been over-ambitious if it called itself a decrepit tub. There was no hope of getting out on a short crossing, like Dover-Calais. King Charles's guards have too strict a watch up. I ended up having to do Bristol-Dublin on the tub and then book a separate passage to Amsterdam. Current events were my very lowest priority."
"You have the wife," Eberhard said thoughtfully. "Do you have Colonel Butler?"
"Oh, sure. All of them." Van de Passe shuffled around in his leather case. "Small scale—I couldn't very well try walking out of Euskirchen carrying an easel." He tossed a page on the table. "Deveroux." Another page, "Dislav, the countess's footman."
"We really ought to take these to the major, for him to look at, if you're willing," Friedrich said. "Maybe we should get them into the papers. That way, people all over the country can be on the lookout for the kidnappers, not just the posse. It's already back, anyway, so I guess they didn't find any of them."
Another page, "Just a hard case I spotted out on the edge of the dragoon camp."
"Good Lord!" Jeffie Garand screeched. "That's my future father-in-law."
"Did I get the wrong impression of him?"
"Hell, no. I guess the posse found something, after all."
"I'm not sure that I'm authorized to approve expenditure for such a purpose." Mel Springer pursed his mouth. "It's not a budget category. I'm willing to include a memorandum to George Chehab in the next despatch bag going to Grantville, but unless he's willing to approve a variation—"
"These guys killed Schweinsberg," Harlan Stull exploded. "Well, not them directly, but they kidnapped him and handed him over to the actual murderers. The guy who drew them is an engraver. There's equipment here in town—not what he's used to, but basic, at least. He's willing to stay and turning the drawings into etchings, but he has to eat while he does it. And you're not willing to pay him a piddling amount to get 'Wanted' posters printed up? That's . . . Wes would have . . ."
Andrea Hill put a hand on Harlan's elbow and tugged. On the other side, Roy Copenhaver kicked his ankle.