Page 105 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“How about regular ale? Say, three barrels?” she asked. “With a single barrel of black ale for the adventurous?”

“We could manage that.”

“It’s a bit short notice, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve got stock in the back.”

“Wonderful! Would you mind terribly giving my fiancé a taste? We do so want the canapes to complement it.”

“Canapes.”

“Yes.”

The bartender, faintly bewildered but eager for the exorbitant price he no doubt meant to charge them, gestured them around the bar and through a doorway hung with a curtain. He led them to the storeroom down in the cellar, a maze of barrels and stacked boxes of bottles. Aidan’s eyes glinted in the shadows. He accepted a glass of the ale with a wry glance at Sorcha.

She peered into a box of glass bottles filled with pale liquid and marked dandelion wine.

She widened her eyes at Aidan, nodding pointedly to the bartender. Aidan stifled a sigh and turned him toward the black ale, inquiring as to the vintage. As if goblin ale had a vintage.

Sorcha took a small pouch from her pocket. It was filled with a fine dust made of dried nettles and rue and powdered brambleberry thorns. She whispered the spell Briar had taught her and blew the fine powder over the dandelion wine.

When Aidan and the bartender turned back, she was all smiles. “All sorted, then?”

“Aye.”

Aidan did not speak again until they were in the laneway.

“What was that about then?” he asked. Sorcha was very sure her smile was as devious as it was smug.

“I spelled the dandelion wine.”

“Why?”

“If you order the dandelion wine, you get informed when the next Cauldron is on. It’s their code. Doesn’t give us any more warning than we already have, of course.”

“Then why do it?”

“Justice,” she said with a glower. “If there was no audience, there would be no Cauldron.”

“Ah.”

“Now we’ll know who the spectators are.”

“How will we know?”

“For one thing, that many boils will be hard to conceal.” She smirked.

Aidan shook his head. “The ancient Roman Furies were a type of winged bird-women, weren’t they?” Also known for seeking vicious justice.

“Yes.”

“Thought so.”

Sorcha was still smirking when the screaming began.

The only warning was the low, throaty croak of a raven.

He was closer to her than a paper bird, three streets over, where he was pecking at the remains of a dropped pasty. He sent her images: an overturned apple cart, sparrows fleeing for the rooftops, two gentlemen nearly colliding in their haste to run away.