Page 19 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“No!” Aesop and Simon shouted at the same time like her very own agitated Greek chorus. The kitten added a yowl for good measure.

“Fine, fine,” she said. “I’ll ask one of the pigeons to have a look.” There were always pigeons at Nettlestone. They flocked from Hallow and Haven and Holdfast, sometimes even from the mainland. Dovecotes lay abandoned throughout England, where they had once roosted and been cared for in exchange for sending messages. But the custom had fallen out of favor. No one had informed the pigeons, and instead they were abandoned after centuries of being trained into dependence and coexistence.

It infuriated Sorcha every time she thought about it.

“You’re grinding your teeth,” Aesop said gently. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’m thinking about pigeons.”

Aesop nodded, having been on the receiving end of her lecture on the subject more than once.

“What about pige—” Aesop cut Simon off with a shake of his head, which delighted the black kitten. Simon blinked. “Never mind.”

Sorcha forced herself not to give in to the tirade. “How is your leg?” she asked Simon.

He shrugged.

She raised her eyebrows. “That bad?”

“No.” She stared at him until he lowered his gaze. “A bit.”

“Let’s get you a blackberry tart and some willow-bark tea. We’ll put in the last of the brandy.”

Aesop grinned. “I think my leg hurts as well.”

Sorcha left for Hallow after she had transferred everyone’s fussing from her onto Simon, where it might actually do some good. She wandered through Hallow, glancing into every museum and bookshop and coffeehouse for a glimpse of Aidan. Where was he staying? There were several inns in town, mostly full due to the coming autumn equinox. She could ask around, but the winks and knowing glances she might receive would put her in a murdering mood.

Still, she considered it.

She saw a centaur with her nose buried in a book, an imp pouring gin into one of the decorative fountains, a professor lecturing a woman with dragonfly wings, a broom sweeping a front step by itself, and a satyr winking at every single thing he saw.

But no Aidan.

Which was perfectly fine.

She sighed and headed toward the Library. Sometimes, you just needed a friend to loudly decry the man who had kissed you too well and then barely acknowledged you. She was a woman grown; she knew disappointment and failed romances and gentlemen who did not favor you the way you favored them. It was hardly the end of the world. Certainly, it ranked lower than being attacked by an ogre.

Or it should, anyway. Sorcha was no stranger to monsters, so she allowed that her perception of such matters might be skewed.

But Pippa Cavendish, though deceptively gentle, was not the scowling, vengeful sort. Except for right now. It rather soothed the soul. “He did what?” she demanded. Her pale hair was twisted into a knot and secured with pins. And a pencil. She wore a simple muslin dress without a single wrinkle. Though some of her fingers were ink stained.

“Nothing, really,” Sorcha allowed. “That’s the trouble, I suppose.” She propped her chin on her hand. “It’s petty for me to dislike him for being so proper.”

“Then I shall dislike him for you!”

Sorcha grinned. “Unfortunately, he’s rather likeable. You two would get on, I think.”

Pippa sniffed. “Certainly not anymore.”

They were tucked into a storage closet behind the main circulation desk, which faced the main doors, guarded by marble statues of Eratosthenes, head librarian of the Great Library of Alexandria, and Seshat, Egyptian goddess and mistress of the House of Books. The Nine Muses led the way to the desk. There was also the Lady of Libraries, quiet and fierce and whose name was only known to the librarians.

But in the cramped storage closet there was dust and tea and shelves heavy with spell ingredients meant to safeguard the books from anything with teeth or fire or mold, from theft to toast crumbs. There was also a truly astonishing amount of tea and candies. Librarians had the sweetest tooth of anyone she had ever met.

Pippa offered her a candy from a jar shaped like a badger. “Boiled sweet?”

“Are those the licorice-aniseed ones?”

“Yes.”