Page 130 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Thirty

They had finally broken the Cauldron into pieces.

Literally. The tower was a pile of rubble.

The Lycan shook off the last of the binding magic. Several of them chased down the guards who had tried to flee. Amelia was wrapped in the chains she loved so much, but she had yet to regain consciousness. Orla had shaken her rather hard.

Aidan prowled through the tower and the surrounding courtyard, finding the remnants of the spell: glass eggs, moonstone bound in jet, wolfsbane, dried roses.

Gretel threw herself at her disoriented brother, before cuffing him on the back of the head and rushing off to kiss Orla.

The ogre had lumbered off over the hills. The satyr, Papillon, was confused and nursing three broken ribs. Sorcha bandaged them up and invited him to recover at Nettlestone. As long as he did not mind kittens climbing all over him.

She tended to the missing wolves, Lorcan, Odessa, Jolan—and Orla, once she could get her to release Gretel long enough to see to her burns and wounds. They did not let go of one another’s hands.

When the sun crept over the horizon, the birds began to sing, sharing with Sorcha images of the dew on the grass, yellow gorse, wolf prints. There were no paper birds. Only the crows laughing from the top of the walls, the sparrows searching for seeds.

They returned to the Wolf Wood, Sorcha crossing the hills with a pack of wolves and naked men.

Lyonesse had its own kind of beauty. Feral and dangerous and mysterious. And as of today, just a little bit safer.

Freya waited for them by the river, in which she had placed iron nails. Rowanberries floated on the surface. The Lycan crossed the water, washing off any baneful magic. The air sparked, redolent with lemon balm and salt. Orla lay down in the river and stayed there for a very long time.

Simon would be tried according to Lycan law. Amelia would be turned over to the Order, for the iron or prison. If she ran, she would be hunted by every wolf in Britain.

Sorcha kneaded dough and fried bannock bread until Aidan came to find her, hair dripping river water, chest gleaming. She wiped her palms on her dress. She probably ought to have gone into the river as well. She was covered in mud and grass and flour. She had washed her hands before getting to the baking, and splashed water on her face. But the Moon only knew what her hair looked like. And what she must smell like to a wolf.

Aidan tilted his head, nostrils flaring as he catalogued her minute reactions. He shook his head, a gentle scolding.

And then he scooped her up over his shoulder. “I’m taking my wife.”

“About time,” Agnes said, chopping approximately a hundred apples. Beside her, Tavish was carving radishes into hedgehogs. “Off with ye.”

Aidan brought Sorcha to his tent, setting her carefully on her feet. She resisted the urge to squirm. Barely. Her gaze bounced off the bed, the chair, the trunk. Aidan waited patiently, before tipping her chin up so she had to finally look at him. His eyes gleamed gold, that glitter that chased away most of her anxieties. “What’s going on here, songbird?” he asked.

She forced a smile. “Nothing.”

His grip tightened, just a little. “Try again.”

“I don’t know.”

“Better,” he said. “But I think you do know.”

She huffed a sigh, ruffling the lock of hair that had fallen into her face. Aidan brushed it aside. “I am trying to be reasonable here,” she said.

“I know. It’s disconcerting and I don’t like it.”

“Everything happened very fast.”

“Aye.”

“And you only decided to keep me yesterday!”

He snorted. “I was always going to keep you, songbird. I just didn’t know how to. And I thought we agreed I belong to you. Are you having second thoughts?”

“No!” Never. He was her wolf. Her museum curator. Hers. “But I thought you might. Now that it’s done with.”

“I’m not done with you, Sorcha. I’ll never be done with you.” He was beginning to sound insulted under all that calm patience. It made her feel better. “Can we go home now? Your grandmother hasn’t yelled at me in days. It’s making me feel unmoored.”