Page 58 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Thirteen

Even for Sorcha, who did not care for boredom, the last two days had been a bit too eventful.

And so the fact that she could not sleep was insult to injury. There were too many thoughts circling inside her head.

The wolf tooth. The Cauldron. Aidan. Her betrothal.

Her betrothal to Aidan.

She did not know nearly enough about the Lycan, and abruptly that felt intolerable.

She went down to the library, the flame of her candle flickering wildly when she took the steps too fast. She used to slide down the banister, but after the unfortunate splinter incident, she’d decided against it until someone came to smooth down the oak. When the hedgehog waddled toward her, she scooped him up and tucked him into her shawl, knotting it to hold him comfortably.

The ghoul who lived in the crooked painting at the end of the staircase shook its nail. “You’ll fall again if you don’t stop that,” Sorcha murmured. She knew better than to release her. She had done so once.

Once. Never again.

Sorcha might not believe in cages for wild animals and magical creatures, but in some cases discretion was definitely the better part of valor. Melon pulp had rained from the ceiling for days.

And then there was the blood. And the goblins attracted by the magic. To say bedlam had reigned was an understatement.

The ghoul, currently inhabiting a painting of a young girl on a swing, blinked large, watery eyes at her pleadingly. Sorcha snorted. “Not a chance. Aesop still has nightmares. You even scared Nimue, and nothing scares her.”

The ghoul hissed curses at her as Sorcha walked away.

“Manners,” she called, without looking back.

The library was mostly filled with recipe books, a few illustrated journals on the flora of Lyonesse, some poetry. There were guidebooks on how to survive a kelpie encounter, how to barter with mermaids (don’t), and a guided historical tour of Haven and the famous witches who had visited. There was not much on the Lycan, only a few entries in various encyclopedias. Nothing at all about their betrothal customs.

Granny drifted down from the ceiling. A cold draft rustled Sorcha’s curls. An icicle formed on the tip of the nose of the bust of her grandfather. Why Granny kept it was beyond Sorcha.

“If you’re going to be up at this ungodly hour,” Granny said, “check on the cottage loaves.”

Sorcha pushed the stack of books away. “Yes, Granny.”

“You look tired.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Bah.”

“I’ve had a long day.”

“I suppose,” Granny allowed. “Fix your hair,” she added abruptly. “Never mind the bread.”

“Never mind the bread?” Sorcha echoed. Her grandmother had never uttered those words in her entire existence, dead or alive. “Why not?”

“Because there’s a large Scottish earl heading this way.”

The candle wavered as Granny drifted away through the nearest bookcase. A mouse squeaked and darted away, whiskers frosted. Sorcha smoothed her hair even as she told herself not to. It did not matter what she looked like. Or that her nightdress was plain, without a touch of lace or silk or anything pretty at all.

Again, it did not signify. Aidan was not here to look at her. Their betrothal was just another weapon in their arsenal.

True to his word, he had not returned to the Wolf Wood. He had taken the room on the other side of hers, even though it was only in marginally better shape than the burned morning room. There was a shadow eater living in the closet, but they both seemed unperturbed by the other’s presence. She supposed it would take more than that to frighten a wolf. And the shadow eater seemed lonely.

And now here he was in his trousers and nothing else. Not another stitch of clothing. No cravat, now waistcoat. No shirt. Just the spiral tattoo and a scattering of scars she wanted to investigate.

Closely.