Chapter Twenty-One
Later that night, Sorcha found herself thinking embarrassingly fond thoughts of Aidan. Naughty ones, too.
But when she peeked at his bedroom door, it was open and the room was empty.
He wasn’t here. Again.
He wasn’t in the library, or the kitchens, or the drawing room. She had checked before convincing herself to go to sleep, failing after three-quarters of an hour, and popping her head back out.
No Aidan.
She retreated back into her chambers, scowling. She had no real claim over him. No reason to be cross. But some reason to worry. Wouldn’t he worry if she simply left without a word?
Which was his right.
Why was this so complicated? When it wasn’t, really.
It was simple. He could wring pleasure from her body in ways she had never imagined, but they had no true understanding, no real promises made.
They owed each other nothing. She had agreed to it.
Agreed with it still, even if her treacherous heart was trying to get involved. Unsolicited, it had to be said.
She might not be able to sort her own thoughts from feelings or find a comfortable way to braid them together tonight, but she could wake her paper birds. The full moon was fast approaching, and there had not been a Cauldron called in days.
It was soothing, familiar work. The methodical folding of paper to create little birds with long necks, to whisper magic to them until they slowly lifted into the air.
To open the window and bid them fly, fly, fly.
It made her feel better, but also more tired, the magic unspooling from her to give flight to her birds.
And it did not bring Aidan to her door.
She knew this for a fact, because she could not help another peek.
Where she found herself nose to nose with Simon.
He startled her so thoroughly that she shouted. Rather like one of her chickens, regrettably. Simon recoiled and hit the wall, yelping. Sorcha yelped back. A painting fell to the floor. The ghoul snickered from down the hall.
It was not a very graceful affair.
Simon scrambled to his feet, wild-eyed. His limp seemed momentarily improved by the scare.
“Who is yowling?” Hecuba drawled from the top of the stairwell. There was blood on her chin, which she wiped at delicately. “Why do debutantes always taste like roses?”
All in all, Sorcha was suddenly glad Aidan was not here as witness.
“Oh, settle down,” Hecuba added, catching Sorcha’s expression. “She was in the gardens outside of a ballroom bored out of her mind. I gave her a story to tell. Or to hide, which is even more fun.”
Simon shook out his hair, very much like a wet dog. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Lady Sorcha.”
“Me either,” Sorcha said. “Are you all right?”
He nodded and hurried away.
“That’s not the first time I’ve caught him lurking by your bedroom door,” Hecuba murmured, approaching in that graceful, floating way of hers.
“He’s protective. You know how wolves are.”
“He does not sleep much. Mostly paces the halls at night.”
“His leg must be bothering him,” Sorcha said. “I’ll make a tincture for him in the morning.”
Hecuba watched him limp around the corner and out of sight. “Hmm. Make him some cologne while you’re at it, would you? He smells like a dog.”
“Hecuba! He can probably hear you.”
The vampire shrugged. “It’s not my fault you all smell.”
Sorcha shook her head. “It’s your nose.”
“Can’t be—I don’t breathe.”
She rolled her eyes. “How many debutantes did you drink from?”
“Only the one. And her suitor. He was a bit drunk. Also, her cousin. So…five?”
“You’re blood drunk.”
“I’m far too experienced to get blood drunk.”
“That would sound more convincing if you weren’t hiccupping. And if you could remember basic arithmetic.”
“Probably.” Hecuba pushed past Sorcha and into her room. The doorknob was lacy with frost. Granny must have been by. “Where’s your wolf?”
“I don’t know.”
Hecuba curled up on the chair, wrapping one of Sorcha’s discarded shawls around her shoulders. Her pale hair was white as bone. Her lavender eyes glinted like a cat’s. “Your room is a mess.”
“So is yours,” Sorcha returned, climbing into her bed.
“True. It’s why we get along so well.”
“Are you sleeping in that chair?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Sorcha yawned. “Why?”
“I’m bored.”
She cracked one eye open. “Are you guarding me? Because there’s no reason to think the Collector suddenly knows who I really am.”
“Certainly not.” Hecuba sniffed. “I don’t like you that much.”
Aidan paced the perimeter of the estate, noting wards, scenting the wind for danger. He’d woken with a growl lodged in his throat again, his heart pounding so hard he felt it in his teeth.
Wolf tracks on the beach, the burn of fangs tearing through him.
The moon.
The taste of Sorcha in his mouth.
The struggle to keep the wolf from taking him over.
The moon.
And again, always, the taste of Sorcha in his mouth.
The next morning, Sorcha found Hecuba’s chair empty and Briar and Pippa in her kitchen, drinking tea and eating rolls with butter and black currant jam.
Briar wore her usual apron of many pockets, overflowing with flowers and leaves and a curved silver boline knife. Her cane rested against the table, carved with roses. Her familiar, an elegant and vicious swan, had roosted under the worktable.
Pippa’s golden hair caught the light coming in through the narrow window. Her leather pack hung on the back of her chair, filled with books. Her glowing moth familiar floated nearby.
Her friends glanced up in unison, spearing her with identical judgmental looks.
Exceedingly judgmental.
“Did I forget someone’s birthday?” Sorcha asked through a yawn. She wandered toward the teapot. “You drank it all already?”
“You got betrothed and forgot to tell us?” Briar asked.
“Oh.” Sorcha winced. “That.”
“Yes, that.”
“Surprise?”
They threw rolls at her—the stale ones she hadn’t had a chance to put in her pockets yet.
“Ouch!” She shuffled forward and stepped on an iron nail. “Ouch again. Why are these everywhere?” She made a note to check if the kittens had somehow gotten into the apothecary cabinet. The locked one. She would not put it past them. Someone had also spilled rosewater on the worktable.
She dropped into a chair and ate a spoonful of jam, since there were no rolls left, and no tea. “How did you even find out so fast?”
Pippa snorted. There were professors the length and breadth of the University who talked to her every day and still would have been shocked that she could make such an unladylike sound. “Wild Sorcha Beauregard engaged to the quiet Earl of Coventry?”
“Not only that,” Briar added helpfully, getting up to bring the kettle from the fire and refill the pot. “But there are a great many wagers that you will murder him before the year is out.”
“That’s rather unflattering,” Sorcha muttered. “Although understandable,” she admitted. Still, they had not even officially announced their betrothal yet. That was quick, even for the gossips of Lyonesse. That was what she got for asking the crows to help. And the gulls.
Which had been the point, actually. The betrothal needed to be known, far and wide. For her safety, as Aidan had said, but more importantly, for the next part of the plan to work.
Sorcha peered into her cup. “Is this safe to drink?” Briar might be the green witch who knew exactly which plants were poisonous, but quiet, gentle Pippa was the one to watch out for. “How cross are you?”
“Drink your tea,” Pippa said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No it’s not, Countess.”
“Not so loud! I haven’t told—”
“Sorcha Beauregard!” Granny’s sudden appearance froze Sorcha’s tea in its cup. The porcelain cracked with a forceful pop. The handle was shorn clean off.
“—Granny,” Sorcha finished.
Granny’s glow made the eyes water. Ice formed on the flagstones, frosted Briar’s cane. It turned Sorcha’s breath to mist. “Good morning, Granny.”
“Is it true?” Her snake slithered up her arm, resting its head on her collarbone to better stare at Sorcha. Judgmentally, of course. She was beginning to wonder if she should have stayed in bed.
“I thought betrothals were supposed to be good news,” she muttered.
Granny’s ghostly light gentled. “You’re going to be the Countess of Coventry?”
Sorcha forced a smile. If she admitted the betrothal was false to her grandmother, the castle would become a battlefield. She would never hear the end of it. “Yes, Granny.”
“Oh, you lucky girl. The Carnahan men are… Well, you’ll find out, won’t you?”
The fact that Sorcha knew exactly what her grandmother meant was…disconcerting.
“An earl,” Granny sighed. “And a clever, handsome one. I’ll start planning the cake. There’s so much to do!”
“Granny—”
Too late. She had disappeared in a pop of light. The frost on the stones melted in tiny rivulets.
Pippa tilted her head, too perceptive by far. “What aren’t you telling us?”
Sorcha picked at the crumbs of a bun. “Um.”
Briar poked her with her sticky spoon. “Sorcha.”
Sorcha groaned, dropping her head onto her arm. “It’s not a real betrothal.” Her voice was muffled.
“Why not?” Briar demanded. “He’d be lucky to have you.”
Sorcha snorted.
“He would! Did he say otherwise?” Briar demanded hotly.
“Nothing like that,” Sorcha said.
“This is about the Cauldron, isn’t it?” Pippa guessed.
“Yes. We have a plan.”
“Which is…?”
“The less you know about it, the safer you will be.” At Pippa’s enraged scowl, Sorcha wrinkled her nose. “I know. I feel the same way when someone says that to me.”
“Small consolation.”
“Aidan knows I am the Red Cloak,” she added.
“He knows?” Pippa frowned. “Are we going to have to kill him now? I rather like him.”
“I can ask Ethan to help,” Briar offered.
“Yes, you can, sweetheart,” Ethan Swansea said from the stairs, stepping out of the shadows. “But can I have a cup of tea before I go on a murdering spree for you? It’s been hardtack for a week now.”