Page 104 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sorcha and Aidan returned to Hallow, to further promenade and call attention to their betrothal, to the curator who would display his most prized artifacts in celebration: a gold hagstone said to have belonged to Merlin, feathers from a druid’s cloak, and the Ossory wolf tooth.

In the meantime, he bought her candied lemon peels. She bought him a worn antique book the size of her palm filled with handwritten spells.

It was lovely. Normal.

Until Sorcha turned down one of the crooked laneways.

“What are you doing, songbird?” Aidan asked, keeping pace.

She blinked innocently. “Why, I am placing an order for wine for our betrothal, of course.”

“Of course.” He noted the shadows, the sounds of raucous laughter. A cat chasing a mouse.

The pub door plastered with posters offering a reward for the Red Cloak.

He stilled, arching an eyebrow.

Sorcha shrugged with a grin. “I am sure they sell wine.”

He made a sound of doubt.

“Ale?”

“Black ale, maybe,” he allowed. “Made by the goblins.”

“Love the stuff.”

“You hate the stuff.”

She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t know that.”

“Sorcha, everyone hates goblin ale. It tastes like salt licorice and the bottom of a swamp.”

“Yum.” She slipped her arm through his. “Come along, Lord Coventry.”

He sighed but allowed her to pull him into the pub. The air was thick with pipe smoke, the floor sticky, but the tables were clean. Candles burned, struggling to pierce the haze. An automaton offered to read fortunes in one corner.

The clientele was sparse in the middle of the day, flicking glances at the newcomers and then returning to their beer-and-beef pies. The bartender nodded to Aidan. “Afternoon.”

“Hello,” Sorcha replied.

“Don’t get many fancy folk in here of an afternoon, don’t mind telling you.” He crossed his arms. “Don’t sell tea. Or crumpets. Or champagne.”

“Oh, we’re not here for tea. We’re here for black ale.”

“Black ale? For your lot?”

Aidan cleared his throat at his tone. The bartender swallowed.

Sorcha smiled her brightest smile. “Which is why my betrothal ball will be the talk of the Season. Anyone can drink champagne.”

He snorted. “It does take a strong constitution to drink black ale. Not even the students in their last year can manage it more than once.”

She lowered her voice as if imparting a great secret. “Lycan do not have a refined palate, I am sorry to say.”

The bartender snorted again. “Fair enough.”