Chapter Fifteen
F IFTEEN
By the time we go inside, it’s time for dinner.
I haven’t seen my father all day, which means he hasn’t sought me out to broach the subject of my marriage.
He’s biding his time, and so I must use my time to convince him that when he does ask, the answer might be yes.
Lower his guard. Give Bishop the breathing room he needs to resolve this.
When dinner talk threatens to turn to business, Bishop focuses his conversation on me, and my father tells Henry to move so I can sit with Bishop.
When the business chatter ends, I talk to my father, broaching the subject of what my life would be like if I stayed, using what I’d learned at lunch to ask what sort of duties I’d fill, how I could contribute to Pack life.
I speak tentatively, not wanting to make him suspicious, but he’s obviously pleased.
I’m not leaping in to plan my new married life.
I am gathering information, though, which means I’m considering the possibility.
After dinner, Bishop and I retreat to a sitting room with Julius, Oliver, and a few others, where we play cards deep into the night. My father stops by several times, teasing us about our laughter keeping other wolves awake, while nearly bursting with pleasure at how well I’m fitting in.
We can do this.
We are doing it.
I only need to be patient, and I’ll be home with my aunt in no time.
That night, I dream of Bishop. My mind pulls the threads of every scene I’d glimpsed through half-open brothel doors and weaves them into tapestries of my own.
I dream of him in the attic, naked, blood on his lips, backing me into the locked room and taking me there on the floor as a battle rages below.
I dream of him in the carriage, irritated and unsettled, kissing me hard in his anger and frustration, me responding in my own chaos of emotions, losing ourselves in rough grappling on the seats as the coach whips through the countryside.
I dream of him in the meadow, laughing, more relaxed than I’ve seen him, chasing me in a very different game, the two of us wrestling, drunk and giddy, and then me straddling him as he sits by that tree.
I dream of him coming into my room, standing there, naked and hungry, and I pull him to me, my lips going around him, pleasuring him in the silent house, before he pushes me back onto the bed and whispers “Shh” before sliding into me.
I dream of him all night. I can’t help it. I don’t want to help it. It’s as if this afternoon, in the meadow, giving myself permission to lust after him opened a door, and I really do feel as if I’m at a buffet after not eating for a week.
I’ve fantasized before, but the men in those dreams are strangers, conjured up for the moment, and there’s something so different about this, about seeing a flesh-and-blood man, one I can picture, naked, one whose reactions I even fool myself into thinking I could anticipate.
This is real. And it’s with a real man that I absolutely cannot take as a lover, even if he were interested, which he is not.
That takes me into the extra-delicious land of the forbidden, and that night, I lose myself in that land, over and over again.
Sometimes I wake from the dream, trembling with release.
Other times, I wake hot and panting and find my own release.
I dream of Bishop, and I revel in taking my pleasure, and in that, I find another kind of release. The release of letting all my fears and worries and terrors disappear into the night, my mind casting them out until my body is exhausted and I fall into what I need most of all. Sleep.
Despite my very busy night, I wake early the next morning and I wake with a smile. Even when I remember where I am and why I’m here, the smile flickers for only a moment.
Being happy is acceptable, because I’m confident that this situation will be resolved. That Bishop will resolve it.
In the meantime, I’ll lull my father into thinking I’m well on my way to accepting his heir as my mate.
As I wait for breakfast, I continue reading my new novel. The tray arrives soon, and my day brightens more as I see who’s brought it: Marjorie and Tabitha. I insist they sit and join me, and we dig into the triple serving of bread and honey.
“I’d like to apologize for yesterday,” I say. “Tabitha, I treated you as if you can’t communicate. That was a breathtaking presumption. I understand now that you’ve your own way of doing it.”
Marjorie smiles. “She does. Ann devised it for her. Most of the maids know it, and some of the men do as well.”
“Would you teach me a little?”
Marjorie’s smile lights her eyes. “Of course.”
“For now, since you’re here to interpret, I don’t need to dominate the conversation again. Tabitha? Is there anything you wanted to talk about?”
Tabitha’s hands fly fast.
“She wants to know if…” Marjorie laughs. “But of course. She wants to know if you have a dog at home.”
“A dog?”
“One of the men told her that witches have familiars, like toads and cats. Tabi has decided she wants a dog.”
I smile. “Well, I hate to bear bad news, but real witches don’t have familiars.
However, since people think we do, it’s an excellent excuse for a pet.
When I was little, I used to pester my mother for an owl.
Or a falcon. An owl is more common in the folklore, but someday, I’ll have a falcon. And you’d like a dog?”
Tabitha grins and signs her answer.
“She adores dogs,” Marjorie says. “She’s only heard stories of them, though. Dogs have no place in a werewolf pack. They’re nervous around men who smell like wolves. Even the horses need to be trained to tolerate them.”
“I didn’t know that.”
More excited signing from Tabitha.
“She wants me to tell you a story,” Marjorie says. “But you’ve to promise never to repeat it to the wolves. It shows them in a terrible light.”
Tabitha gives her hoarse giggle, her face glowing.
“I promise,” I say, crossing my heart.
“So, when Felix first came to us, he was fifteen. Tabitha was nine. Because Felix was the closest to her age, she started asking whether she could see him as a wolf when he began to transform. If she couldn’t meet a dog, she’d settle for meeting a wolf.
We don’t usually see the men in that form.
Felix said if she could beat him in a footrace, he’d grant her wish. She won.”
Marjorie glances at Tabitha, who’s signing something.
“She wants me to be clear that he didn’t let her win.
” Marjorie rumples the girl’s hair. “She’s very fast, and also, Felix is a very proud young man who didn’t want to play puppy-dog for a little girl.
Even though she won, he thought he had years before he’d need to pay, since he was only fifteen.
He figured she’d forget—or change her mind.
But he had his first transformation the next year, so as soon as they were under control, Tabitha called in her chit, and he had to transform for her. ”
A flurry of signs.
Marjorie says, “I’m to be clear that he didn’t transform in front of her. That’s not something she wanted to see—or something they’d show anyone.”
I smile. “They don’t snap their fingers and magically become wolves?”
She shudders. “I’ve heard the noises. It sounds agonizing. But Felix did it for Tabi. He let her see him as a wolf and suffered her to pet him. That’s all he’d allow, though, and she was very disappointed. When she threw a stick, he only gave her a hard look.”
Tabitha giggles at the memory.
“But then, another wolf ran out, grabbed the stick and brought it back to her.” Marjorie leans toward me and whispers. “His father.”
“Claude?” I struggle to imagine the controller fetching sticks for a little girl.
“Yes. Mr. Claude fetched sticks for at least an hour. He let Tabi pet him and even let her climb on his back, like a dog might. Since then, there are wolves she can make wagers with, and if she wins, they’ll play puppy for her.
Felix will, grudgingly. Mr. Claude will, Mr. Julius will, Mr. Oliver will and several of the others.
Even, one time…” She leans to whisper. “Mr. Reginald.”
My brows shoot up as Tabitha laughs. “The advisor?”
“Yes, the oldest and most dignified of the bunch made a wager with her and lost—on purpose, I think, to have a little fun.” Marjorie takes a bite of bread and then says, “It casts them in a terrible light, doesn’t it?”
I smile. “It does.”
Her voice lowers. “They can be hard men, Miss Cordelia. Rough and rude and even savage. But most of them are good at heart. The sort of men who’ll play games with a girl who’s…” She glances at Tabitha and lowers her voice more. “Suffered so much.”
I nod, and we finish the honey and bread.
Then I teach Tabitha a simple version of the sorcerer knockback spell.
While witch spells are supposedly easier for witches, I’ve never found a significant difference.
I suspect that idea is rooted more in prejudice than reality.
Understandable prejudice, at least on the witches’ behalf.
If one looks back at the earliest witch hunts, a surprising number of men were arrested for sorcery.
Then that changed, and witch hunts almost exclusively targeted women.
While there are lots of explanations for that, part of it can be laid squarely at the feet of the sorcerers, who were instrumental in that redirection.
Sorcery? Certainly not. Look over here at these women, practicing their dark magics. They’re the ones you want. Squash their evil while you can or they’ll use it to rise against you good God-fearing men.
That set the inquisitors chasing witches, which forced witches to withdraw into the shadows and stay there for a century. While we hid, the sorcerers usurped our place in the supernatural world, growing wealthy and powerful.