Chapter Twenty-Five
Unsurprisingly, Granny was extremely put out not to be attending the betrothal ball.
She shook chandeliers all day and pushed books off the shelves—not her recipe books, naturally.
She froze the whiskey in the decanter, and it promptly exploded.
She threatened to unravel Sorcha’s new dress, which everyone knew was an empty threat because she would never damage a new gown.
Especially after Sorcha retorted that she would wear her breeches instead.
But it was simply too risky to hold the celebration at Nettlestone. Not only were they better equipped to house a hippogriff over witches and unicorns over carriage horses, but setting a trap in the home of the Red Cloak was tantamount to announcing her true identity.
It might come to that.
But not tonight. Tonight, they had a plan.
When they arrived, the roof of the chapel was covered in birds.
Pigeons and crows, sparrows and hawks, and a blue heron, all clustered together between the stone gargoyles.
Waiting. Watching. Sorcha and Aidan had opted for a medieval chapel long since converted into a museum space for traveling professors and antiquarians—and, once, a famous treasure hunter.
Luckily, it was perfectly within Aidan’s character to hold a celebration inside an exhibit of artifacts.
No one would blink at the choice, especially in Hallow.
But the Collector would blink at the Ossory tooth so close at hand.
Aidan had added other items to make the focus less obvious to the sharp eyes of the witches of Hallow, who were obsessed with solving riddles and ancient puzzles, and ferreting out secrets.
There was the permanent collection that included a mandrake amulet from the time of King Henry III, a carved adder’s stone from the Isle of Anglesey, and an illuminated manuscript on loan from the Library.
As well as the tooth, Aidan had added a blue scarab beetle amulet from Egypt, braided red yarn spun by a famous witch in Orkney, a pear hair comb which a mermaid had voluntarily been parted from—which was in itself a form of witchery—and a brass key that had once opened the door of the king’s chambers from anywhere in Britain.
Evil-eye designs were painted over the windows, and there were the usual hexes to trip up thieves, banishing powders in case some spirit wiggled free when it should not.
Precautions to safeguard artifacts and books were the lifeblood of the town.
There were museum witches whose entire day consisted of wandering the many exhibits to make certain they were properly warded.
The use of salt and rowanberries was comprehensive.
And the Collector would know that, of course.
And if he could shield himself from wolves as expertly as he did, then he would know how to circumvent the wards.
Magic might have rules, but it was still wild.
Unpredictable. And he would notice an iron collar from the Order or sigils painted on the floor.
But very few people would notice a brown sparrow, perched on the upper cabinet in the converted apse. He waited patiently, ready to send up the alarm, happy with the promise of sunflower seeds and honey bread.
Meanwhile, Sorcha stood in her new gown, with gold ribbons in her hair, and greeted the guests in the cloister garden. Oil lamps burned, and candles in painted glass jars were hanging in the oak tree in the center and strung from the chapel roof to the remains of the courtyard walls.
Aidan loomed beside her, tall and handsome, eyes watchful. He wore dark gray, and his spectacles. She did not point out that it did not hide the power of him as well as he might think.
More wolves prowled the cloister-turned-ballroom. They might wear cravats and embroidered waistcoats, but they were still wolves. Just like Aidan. The air simmered with anticipation, even if the guests assumed it was for the betrothal of an earl and a duke’s granddaughter.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Aidan murmured as the fireflies she had convinced to float above them twinkled. There were flowers everywhere, champagne flutes decorated with ivy, canapes shaped like doves.
“I had to make it believable.”
His mouth tensed. He looked as if he wanted to say something. Sorcha wondered if she would have to remind him that she knew this was all a farce. She had not forgotten.
Just because she might wish it wasn’t, that didn’t change the facts. Or the point of the evening.
Stop the Collector.
That had to take precedence over her feelings—which she resented, by the way.
There were lives at stake. And the warmth pooling in her belly, the way she couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Aidan, was…
irritating. How did people just go on about their days with all this swirling energy inside their chests, with the electrical threads that linked them together?
Well, her, anyway.
They had a connection. Something burned between them but she could not name it. Did not know how to.
Did not dare to.
Aidan would protect her with his life. She had no doubt of that. But she also knew it had nothing to do with her as a person, not really. It had everything to do with who he was. A good man who protected others. Was it the wolf in him? Or was it the Aidan in the wolf?
That was not a riddle to be answered in a chapel-turned-museum-turned-ballroom full of guests celebrating her nonexistent upcoming nuptials.
Simon paced nervously around the perimeter.
Ethan leaned against the wall, tracking Briar as she adjusted the flower sculptures she had made for the occasion.
Pippa helped her, while greeting two other librarians.
Hecuba floated past the window and winked at Sorcha before disappearing.
The cake Aesop had baked with Granny’s supervision towered high, decorated with tiny birds made of meringue and white frosting as well as garlands of violets sparkling with sugar.
It could feel real, if Sorcha let it. She pasted on her best Mayfair smile.
Aidan frowned down at her. “What’s wrong?”
She frowned back at him the best she could without dropping her smile. “Nothing, why?”
Just taking down the Collector and his Cauldron. In a ball gown. All while feeling feelings about the Earl of Coventry.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he asked.
“One of us has to smile.”
He was still frowning. “Not like that.” His hand ghosted along the small of her back. It was warm and reassuring and made everything better.
Botheration. This love business was a nuisance.
She nearly choked.
“Now what?” He patted the middle of her back, rocking her forward, slightly panicked.
No more panicked than she.
Love? No, thank you. Not now. Not with a man who might actually go through with the marriage after all of this was done just because it was the polite thing to do. The honorable thing.
The fact that she would be tempted regardless made her nervous.
“Are you worried about the Collector?” Aidan asked. “Because he won’t touch you. I can promise you that.”
“Not at all. It’s nothing,” she murmured. She could tell he was not pleased by her answer, was not convinced. But what could she say? I wish you would stay. With me.
She could not muddy the waters, not tonight. Not here.
She took a deep breath, welcomed more guests, and had herself well in hand by the time the orchestra started to play.
They were tucked into a corner, the music of violins and a pianoforte bouncing off the stone.
Footmen circulated with silver platters of tiny breads baked into love knots and stuffed with cheese and herbs. More champagne was poured.
And then Aidan lifted his glass. It was instinct that had the conversations dulling to a murmur, everyone’s attention effortlessly caught by the Scotsman with the gentle smile. The Alpha.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in that deep, serious voice of his.
Sorcha wanted to eat it more than she wanted to eat the cake.
The circumstances might not be ideal, but that apparently meant nothing to her body.
The hot thrill that went up the back of her knees was proof of that.
She knew what it was to be hunted by him, to feel his breath on her neck. His teeth on her skin. His mouth.
Honestly, being the Red Cloak was far less complicated than being Sorcha at the moment.
“Thank you for joining us,” Aidan continued.
She couldn’t tell if he noticed her reaction, but his eyes flared, just a bit.
Just a glint of gold. Could he hear her heartbeat?
See the way she was trying not to squirm?
“Please raise your glass to my betrothed, Lady Sorcha Beauregard. I am honored to announce that she has consented to be my countess.”
Glasses were raised. Sorcha did not recognize more than half the guests. It wouldn’t have mattered. She couldn’t look away from Aidan.
“I have never known a more caring, more clever, or more beautiful woman in my life.”
She swallowed, trying to appear happy but not on fire with an odd sort of envy for what her life might look like. Standing with Aidan while he singled her out in the crowd. Not just looking at her but seeing her.
“I look forward to many years together.” He raised his glass. “To Lady Sorcha.”
His speech was all part of the plan. Gather the guests, keep them distracted, pretend that the artifacts in the other room were unguarded. Bait the trap. Wait.
And then a woman sighed so enthusiastically that she ruffled the lace trim of her gown’s neckline. “May we see the ring?”
The ring.
Sorcha blinked.
She did not have a ring. She hadn’t thought to take one from Granny’s jewelry box.
And witches on Lyonesse did not wear gloves, so she could not even claim she had left it at home because it had not fit over a glove.
Could she pretend to have lost it? Would that put a crack in their deception?
Betrothal rings were supposed to be a complicated business, an heirloom or else something with a romantic meaning. She flicked a glance at Aidan, worried.
He was not the least bit worried. He was…smug? As if he had been waiting for this?
That didn’t seem likely. Or make any sense.
He strode toward Sorcha, eyes never leaving hers.
“I needed to find something as unique as my betrothed.” He pulled a ring from his waistcoat pocket, next to his watch fob.
It was simple gold, with a crow holding a moonstone circled with rubies in its beak.
His wolf, her crow. The magic of the moon and the Red Cloak. A secret language for them both.
The ring was unexpected. She supposed it was simply logical.
Betrothals required rings and new dresses and cake.
And he was the sort to be prepared for all eventualities.
He slipped it over her finger. They may as well have been entirely alone.
She could barely hear the applause over her pulse in her ears, could barely see the candles around them, the silk and gold, only the gold of his gaze.
Why did it all have to be so perfect?
Perfect and devastating.
Perfectly devastating.
Because she wished so fiercely for it to be true. Now that the realization had glimmered to life, it was impossible to ignore. Like a rose thorn.
That he might want to keep her.
A ridiculous notion for the Earl of Coventry and the museum curator. Less ridiculous for the wolf.
But she knew by now that Aidan did not listen to his wolf easily, and certainly did not give it free rein.
And besides, she was the Red Cloak. And when she wasn’t, she was a bread-selling spinster who roamed the moors and talked to pigeons.
She stifled a groan. She was allowing herself to be distracted, which was inexcusable. She lifted her own flute of champagne with a smile. She drank, and he watched her mouth, and she drank again just to see the gold burn in his eyes.
And then she turned and smiled and accepted numerous felicitations.
Until the sparrow sang a song only she could hear.