Page 22 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

Each Pack controls a major city. For the Albions, it’s London. The Caledonians have Edinburgh, the American Pack has New York, and so on. Any wolf entering that territory must have permission from the Pack. If the trespassing wolf is from another Pack, it’s an even more grievous offense, considered an act of war, punishable by certain death.

These are all things I’m learning, the complexities of werewolf culture that few outside it truly understand.

After Bishop requests an audience, we’ll wait one night for a response. If none is received—which may simply mean the message didn’t get to the Caledonians in time—then the telegram also included the time our train is expected to arrive, with an invitation to meet us there instead and a promise that we will not proceed more than a half mile beyond the station until that answer arrives.

Werewolves have a reputation as uncivilized brutes, but while some of their customs may seem savage, they don’t enforce the rules mindlessly. What Bishop proposes is fair and reasonable, and it will therefore be acceptable even if it technically violates werewolf law.

While Bishop, Julius, and I would be an adequate party, someone else must join us. Bishop’s cousin and mate can’t be relied upon to give an honest account of what happened at Trevelyan.

As Silas’s brother, Oliver would be an excellent choice, but Bishop needs him to act as leader in his absence. Bishop must take an established member of the original Pack, who will give a fair and unbiased accounting. That’s not Felix or Augustus, both brought in by Bishop, as was Etienne, one of the others I don’t know well. Lewis is a possibility, having not initially supported Bishop, but Bishop isn’t sure enough of him yet. No one even mentions Harry. That leaves Kenric and Wallace, two others I know only by sight.

He ends up choosing Kenric, who has a cousin in the Caledonian Pack. Kenric is in his mid-thirties, a compact but brawny wolf who doesn’t say much. In fact, he says so little that neither Bishop nor Julius has ever been able to get a good read on him. That’s risky, but it also gives them a chance to get to know him better and assess his place in the new Pack. When Bishop asks him to join us, Kenric only nods, packs food, and waits for us to be ready.

I ride with Bishop on the gelding—the sturdiest horse—while Julius takes Cinder and Kenric rides the mare. Felix and Augustus will walk the five miles to the station and pick up the horses at a predetermined location.

By midmorning, we’re on a train to Leeds.

Trains are truly a wonder, and we’re in Leeds early that afternoon. Kenric goes with Julius to send the telegrams Bishop and I composed. They’ll also message the one local lone wolf, as a courtesy. After that, they’ll purchase the clothing required to arrive in Edinburgh without looking like vagabonds.

As for Bishop and me, clothing is our first order of business. As much as I might have loved a hot bath and a good meal first, I’ll feel better once I’m wearing comfortable—and, yes, flattering—clothing. I have my vanity in that regard, and I’m not the only one. One of the first things I noticed about Bishop was how well he dressed, and while he’d never complain about his ill-fitting homespun shirt and trousers, I know he’s as quietly miserable as I am.

He’s easier to outfit, so I insist on starting there. He only needs to find a good tailor with a selection of ready-made wear for adjustments. After a few inquiries, we’re in an excellent shop. Does the tailor raise a brow at our rough attire, as if doubting we can pay for his wares? Yes. Does he seem suspicious when Bishop starts his tale of our honeymoon coach being in an accident on the way from London, our trunks lost? Yes. But how Bishop says it puts the man at ease.

Like me, both Julius and Bishop speak with upper-class English accents, while most of the Pack sound more working class. Given that Julius’s doctoring skills come from an actual medical degree, they’re obviously both well educated. That would be unusual for werewolves, where receiving a formal education beyond their early teens would be difficult, as they begin to shift.

It’s a reminder that I need—and want—to know so much more about Bishop. A reminder, too, of how we were thrust together, knowing not even the basic background that would have been exchanged early in a courtship. Still, I suspect that considering what we have been through, I know him—the man beneath biographical details—better than most women know their husbands after a year of marriage.

Our speech patterns and accents tell the tailor Bishop can afford his wares, and a show of bills proves it. The man sets about bringing jackets and trousers and shirts from his back room. Bishop needs one set of travel clothes, one set of daily wear, and one set of fancier attire.

“And your current clothing?” the tailor asks.

“Burned, if possible.”

The man laughs softly. “They aren’t quite ready for that. I’ll have them cleaned for a cousin who deals in lesser goods.”

Bishop’s tone softens. “Yes, of course. Please add any cleaning and repairs to my bill, and accept the clothing as a donation for your cousin. If he can use my wife’s dress, we will return with that as well. Now, if you have either travel or daily wear that fits as is, I’ll take that immediately and return for the rest once it’s been altered. I’d like to get a seamstress started on my wife’s attire. Would you have any recommendations?”

The man scrutinizes me with a professional gaze.

“Unlike my husband,” I say, “I am unlikely to fit pre-made fashions.”

The tailor only smiles. “You present a challenge, but one that a good seamstress would be delighted to undertake. I know of two. Let me send my boy to see which would be able to accommodate you today.”

“Thank you.”

An hour later, we’re at the seamstress. Bishop wears a fashionable loose-fitting lounge coat, with trousers that only needed to be let down to accommodate his height. The seamstress takes one look at me and smiles, and I relax under that smile. I’ve learned to evaluate the reaction of any new seamstress. A look of concern is, well, concerning. A look of distaste is, well, distasteful, and would see me out the door even though we are pressed for time. What I want is this—an assessment that says dressing me will be a challenge, but not a chore.

“A delightful canvas,” the seamstress says with a slight French accent that sends a pang through me, evoking memories of Marjorie. “A full figure with the height to carry it well. A beautiful complexion and that hair.” She touches it with a sigh. “That hair and those eyes. Yes, I owe Mr. Brown for sending you to me. Now, tell me what you need. Several outfits, yes?”

“We are honeymooning in Edinburgh,” I say. “I need one dress for travel, one for daily wear, and one for an evening out.”

“I will buy her more in Edinburgh,” Bishop adds quickly, as if the seamstress might fault him for penny-pinching. “We are, sadly, in a hurry for an appointment there, or else we would stay in Leeds until she is outfitted properly.”

She smiles at him. “I understand, sir. Time is of the essence. Let us go behind the curtain so I may get your measurements and see what I have that can be altered to suit.”

I forgot about the blood on my corset.

The seamstress is helping me out of my dress when her breath catches. I frown over to see her staring in alarm at the reddish-brown splotches on my corset. Then her eyes move to the bruises on my arms and a healing burn—from a fire half-demon—on my shoulder. I fled Trevelyan in my underthings after stripping down to fight.