Chapter Two #2
Too late now. Her mouth was already open and words were pouring out, entirely unbidden. “Lord Coventry, I did not know you were still on the island.” Had that sounded casual? Or accusatory? And why did it matter to her so much?
He bowed. “How do you do?”
How do you do? How do you do?
She had spent weeks trying not to think about the shape of his mouth and his mildly exasperated, slow blink when she said something outrageous, and she received a how do you do?
And he had not used her name.
Had he forgotten her name?
She had lain awake at night aching, and he did not remember her name.
For some reason she did not care to examine and that she was quite certain had to do with the after-effect of curses, it made her bristle. He was used to ladies like her cousin Lydia, after all, with the curtsying and the flattery. Had she even remembered to curtsy? She couldn’t recall.
There was a time when the idea of not curtsying would have been as preposterous to her as willingly sticking her hand into a fire.
It would never have occurred to her. And she had nothing against curtsying, it was only that her skull was now full of red cloaks and bread recipes and dead-but-still-opiniated grandmothers.
And how to keep fleas from the sitting room rugs.
She curtsied now, just to prove to herself that she still retained the ability. And because the Winterwells had noticed her noticing Aidan. And no doubt, his not noticing her.
“What brings you to Hallow?” Aidan asked. It was such a benign question. She wanted to ask him where he had been, if he had undone any more curses, if he believed that Atlantis had been a real place, an island like Lyonesse. If he had ever seen any monsters in Loch Ness.
If he ever thought about that kiss.
But that was not how the game was played. His smile was polite, bland. The same smile she imagined he had offered to a hundred debutantes and dowagers and patrons of the museum. Students in his classes, if he gave classes. He seemed the type.
“So you do remember me, then,” she said instead, like an absolute cabbage.
“You are not easy to forget.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.” She was fairly certain it wasn’t meant as one.
The last time they had met, he had been intent on recovering that stolen moon charm, and she had been intent on stopping him.
He had been such fun to tease, all solemn focus and befuddled glances in her direction, the clenched jaw when she pushed too far.
And that kiss. The roses. She could still smell them.
The guests moved around them in a sea of silks and moonstones. The chatter swelled as they took note of the glass-fronted cabinets and the shiver of old magic. There were a few witches like Sorcha—most were wolves.
“Welcome all,” Lord Winterwell boomed from the elaborate raised dais in the center.
The moonlight touched his graying hair, the powerful span of his shoulders.
Sorcha had not a single doubt that it was intentional.
The light poured over Lady Winterwell’s moonstones, making her glow.
A tickle of a glamour spell made Sorcha want to sneeze.
They always did. It was one of the reasons she avoided Haven so assiduously.
One could sneeze a hundred times just walking from the baker to the modiste one door over.
“We are so pleased to present to you the collected treasures of the nine Packs of Britain. There has never been a collection like it on Lyonesse. Or, indeed, anywhere in the world. And we have the director of the London Museum of Magic to attest to it. Isn’t that so, Lord Coventry?”
Aidan inclined his head. There was a pause, as if Lord Winterwell expected some sort of praise. Aidan did not oblige. He only continued to appear his mild, well-mannered self.
Not like a man who kissed as though he craved her.
“We have here the tooth of Lord Bisclavret himself,” Lord Winterwell continued.
“I don’t need to tell you how rare it is.
The Ossory tooth is the only one with as important a provenance, and it has never been found.
We also have a ribbon worn by the first Luna priestess of the goddess Luperca herself.
Moonstones brought from Skara Brae, more found buried under the standing stones of Callanish.
We have the wedding gown of Lady Bisclavret.
And the fang-teeth charms from each of the noble Families, on loan from the Pack leaders themselves. ”
There was a murmur at that. They were clearly important.
“And, it seems, my youngest son.”
Simon stepped forward, bowing.
“And Lady Sorcha, you are most welcome,” Lady Winterwell said pointedly, clearly annoyed at not having been greeted before Aidan.
And probably also the fact she had not, in fact, invited Sorcha.
Sorcha curtsied again, as gracefully as she knew how. She had not forgotten the trick of it, after all. Lady Winterwell sniffed, somewhat mollified. Granny would be horrified to know how much they were alike in that moment.
When Simon gulped, his mother’s gaze narrowed on him, flashing like an arrow suddenly nocked to a bow. “Son.”
Simon bowed. “Lady Mother. Father.” No one came forward to embrace him even though he had been missing. And wounded.
Indeed, Lord Winterwell sat back down in his overly ornate chair. “So you finally made it out of that place,” he said. “Took you long enough. Your brother would have been out in hours.”
“His brother never would have gotten caught in the first place,” Lady Winterwell corrected him coldly.
Simon looked so alone. They had no idea what he had been through.
How strong and resilient he was under the cravat and the nervous sheen of perspiration.
Sorcha moved to join him, but Aidan was suddenly at her side, not quite looming but definitely taking up all of the air.
He touched her arm. His fingertips were warm.
She refused to notice. “If you join him now in front of all these Pack families, they’ll take it as a declaration that you are mates. ”
She halted.
She liked Simon well enough, but she had no intention of marrying him. And being mated was simply out of the question. She might be curious about Lycan society, but she wasn’t that curious.
Aidan turned away as if there were no reason to remain in her presence for a single moment longer than necessary. Indeed, as if he was bored by her. The muscles in his jaw clenched.
Her fists clenched in response before she could remind them not to. Something behind her breastbone ached. Just a bit.
Too much.
“What took you so long to visit your parents and the Alphas of your Pack?” Lord Winterwell demanded of Simon. “You insult your mother.”
Simon’s ears turned red. “I was injured.”
“You look well enough.”
The truth was that he had broken his ankle and shape-shifted back and forth too quickly for it to heal the way Lycan usually healed. But it had saved him from being skewered by a basilisk.
His mother sniffed the air once, cataloguing something Sorcha could not sense. The guests hovered nearby, as curious about the family meeting as they were ancient wolf history. “Your bones set badly.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She sighed. “Disappointing.”
Sorcha didn’t leap at the woman’s head, which was an amazing show of restraint. “And the basilisk?” she snapped, her tone not quite as restrained as the rest of her. This night was definitely not going according to plan. “The one he fought and defeated? Is that also disappointing?”
Lord Winterwell showed a flicker of interest. “The basilisk’s head?”
Sorcha blinked. “Pardon me, Lord Winterwell?”
“No trophy, no glory.”
“I think what you mean to say is ‘well done.’”
He looked down his nose at her. “Wolves do not coddle their children. We do not reward failure.”
Sorcha’s hands curled into fists. She happened to know that wolves did, in fact, coddle their children. As did ordinary wolves. It was only that the Winterwells were awful.
Aidan was not even looking at her—he was too busy perusing a collection of glass bottles filled with moonwater dating back centuries—but she saw him shake his head all the same.
Before Sorcha could say anything else, Simon spoke, cheeks red. “Sorcha has asked me to stay on at Nettlestone as her wolf.”
Someone near her growled. The air charged despite the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling of fine silk. Sorcha could see that something was happening but had no idea what it was.
“For my protection, you understand,” she hastened to add in her snobbiest of tones. It was not unusual for wolves to take on protective work, even the children of the aristocracy, especially the younger ones. “As a duke’s granddaughter, one cannot be too careful.”
“Hmmm. Indeed.”
Simon looked a little less like he might throw up on his mother’s silk slippers. Sorcha could only imagine how that would go over.
“Are you speaking for him?” Lord Winterwell demanded.
“Well, I’m not going to marry him,” Sorcha clarified hastily. “But yes, he is part of my household. If that’s what you mean.”
Lord Winterwell sighed. “I suppose it’s the best we can expect, given the son in question.” He waved his hand, no longer interested. “Very well.”
“Thank you, Father.” Simon bowed and backed away. He might have broken into a run if his ankle allowed it. Sorcha inclined her head, smiling.
They did not know her. They did not know what that smile meant.
As she took a turn throughout the gallery, she kept her steps light, her expression interested but not too interested. She slipped between two tall gentlemen with impressive whiskers.
And then she slipped a silver-capped wolf tooth from the fifteenth century into her beaded reticule.
Take that, Winterwells.
Take that, Aidan Carnahan.