Page 51 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“You know your bread,” Agnes said.

“Yes, I help with my granny’s bakery.”

Agnes snapped her fingers. “The duchess. I knew you looked familiar. Her blackberry scones were divine, and I don’t even care for blackberries.”

There were baskets of more Welsh cakes, cottage loaves, and oatcakes. There were wheels of cheese, crocks of butter, bowls filled with apples and pears and plums and walnuts. Slices of ham, baked potatoes. Agnes smiled proudly. “Wolves eat a lot. Shifting can be tiring for the wee ones.” As if on cue, she caught a young girl racing past by her ear. “Eat another scone!”

“Auntie, I’ve eaten three! And I don’t like the rosewater ones!”

“I can see your knobbly elbows. Eat some cheese.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

“And who’s been making rosewater scones? Who wants to eat perfume?”

Sorcha decided right then and there that she loved the Wolf Wood. The bakehouse at Nettlestone was her grandmother’s favorite place. Briar had her gardens, Pippa her libraries. Sorcha had the hills, but they were fickle. Sometimes windy, sometimes too hot, too icy.

But this…

The air was cool and quiet, scented with the smoke of cooking fires and wild mint growing on the banks of the nearby river. Someone was brewing coffee. Someone else was singing, a deep voice with a haunting song. No one cared that there was mud on her hem, or burrs, or that she had wrapped her hair in a haphazard braid. And definitely no one cared if there was dog hair on her sleeves.

When she wasn’t being abducted or threatened, it was quite lovely.

“So what do you know about Lycan men?” Agnes asked bluntly.

Sorcha blinked. “Um. Not very much?” she admitted. “Besides Aidan, I’ve only met a few wolves.” A fair few at the Cauldron, but they seldom lingered to talk. Even Simon was fairly closemouthed. She knew more about wolves than Lycan. “Counting Brutus and Lorcan.”

Gretel of the blonde braids tilted her head at Sorcha’s tone. “You don’t care for my brother.”

“Who is your brother?”

“Lorcan.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t,” Gretel crowed. Instead of looking insulted, she looked positively delighted.

Sorcha decided it was probably safe enough to be sitting within arm’s reach. “I am sure he’s very…nice?”

“Arrogant peacock, you mean.” Gretel was still grinning. “Oh, we are going to be fast friends. I can’t walk three feet around here without tripping over someone who wants to bed him. It’s very annoying.”

“He is handsome,” Sorcha allowed.

Gretel snorted. “And he knows it.”

“So I gathered.”

“You can’t pretend he’s not beautiful,” Odessa said, sighing.

Sorcha and Gretel exchanged a glance.

“He’s very pretty.” Agnes waggled her brows. “But he’s no Alpha, like Aidan.”

Aidan was an Alpha? What did that mean, exactly? Did he have a Pack? There must be ceremonies, rituals. There were at least a dozen Sorcha could think of off the top of her head when it came to marrying an earl. Betrothal balls, dowries, negotiations. Being seen at the theatre, having the wedding at St. George’s. Even what one would be expected to serve at the wedding breakfast.

How did Lycans marry? Did they handfast, as was the old witch custom, by binding their wrists together with red cord? Did they jump over the Beltane fire?

She suddenly had a hundred questions. Even if she knew none of the answers applied to her.