Page 22 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“Of course not.” To know Pippa was to know that she might flit away at a moment’s notice if the books demanded it. Her familiar, a white moth the size of a saucer, floated above her. Some of the books she passed inched closer to the edges of their shelves, as though wanting to be nearer to her. The sound of pages rustling was like the soft, constant murmuration of the ocean.

Sorcha remained in the closet with her tea for approximately four minutes. She was not particularly good at sitting still and never had been. There were always fields to explore, forests to wander through, birds and badgers to coax out of thickets and tangles.

And paper birds to follow.

She had been asked by the Head Librarian to bewitch birds that would track anyone who might get lost in the endless stacks. It was more common than anyone liked to admit. Not only did the shelves reach up like towers, but there were so many of them, some lost to the light of stained-glass windows or even the fireflies in the places where oil lamps were not permitted. There were books on magical herbs, spells to unlock doors that probably ought to remain locked, grimoires dating back three thousand years, family histories, journals, but also portals to Fae worlds and other, less savory places trapped in ink.

A paper bird, made from the parchment on which the Library’s ethos was written in swooping script, dove at her. It did not seek out a Librarian, only came to find Sorcha. She had spelled them for various people and purposes, but they did tend to ignore those spells if she was nearby. “Hello,” Sorcha said softly. “Who are you looking for?”

The bird circled her again, before landing on her outstretched hand. If a paper bird could look impatient and imperious, this one did.

“You’ve spent too much time with the librarians,” Sorcha murmured.

“I heard that.” Sulis was in charge of the main floor of books. She was tiny, severe, and terrifying. Also, somehow sweet as strawberry wine. Even if she did make both first-year students and seasoned professors cry on a regular basis. She wore a green dress, as always, her goat hooves peeking out from under the hem. Glaistigs were Fae and they always wore green.

Sorcha grinned at her and pointed to the covered basket on the desk. “I brought dill-and-cranberry bread. Granny’s recipe.”

“You’re forgiven.” Sulis took the basket even though no one was foolish enough to steal bread from her. Not any kind, but especially dill and cranberry. It was rather an acquired taste. “Why are you here in my closet? You’re not a librarian.”

“I was visiting Pippa. Urgent business, I assure you.”

“Hmph.”

“And then one of the birds found me.”

“Some fool let loose a piskie in the reading rooms. If the bird’s ignoring that, he’s woken for you specifically. I ought to get a discount for a spell that is only partially tethered to the Library.”

“You never paid me,” Sorcha reminded her.

“Good. Get out.”

Sorcha grinned again and risked life and limb to kiss her wrinkled cheek. “Granny says hello.”

“You tell her she still owes me the recipe for her lavender-lemon scones.”

A push of magic slid Sorcha out of the closet and shut the door firmly behind her. It did not slam; it would not dare make such an undignified row in the Library. But it considered it.

Sorcha wandered between the bookcases, familiars darting around her. A red bird, a snake curled around a table leg, a dog racing underfoot.

And just there, Aidan.

Naturally, he looked as though he were made for the Library, and it for him. He was poring over a leather-bound tome, rich brown hair gilded by the light through the stained glass. He made a stern sound of disapproval over something he read, and it shot straight to her thighs.

Her mind knew that he did not care for her, that he clearly thought nothing of that kiss they’d shared, but her body, inconvenient, ungovernable thing, did not seem to care.

He was so handsome and serious, with those wide shoulders. Such a contradiction. A gentleman, a curator. Mild and softly spoken but fierce and dedicated. She wanted to unravel the mystery of him.

But he did not care to be unraveled.

Not by her.

And here she was, hair in a braid, wearing a faded dress that her grandmother considered unfit even for a scullery maid. It was perfectly serviceable, if a little plain. There was flour dust on the hem instead of embroidered violets.

Sorcha abruptly wished to be anywhere but here.

She had hunted him through the cobblestone streets, buzzing with questions. A veritable beehive of curiosity. Most of her questions were impertinent and none of her business. A great number of them centered on where he had learned to kiss like that.

But abruptly, she felt itchy in the way Mayfair had made her feel itchy by the end, before she moved to Lyonesse. She had miscalculated. As much fun as it was making him squirm awkwardly through polite, stilted conversation with her at the Winterwell ball, it had also made her feel inexplicably sad. And that would not do.