Page 110 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

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?”