Page 4 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Aidan, Sorcha was certain, felt differently.

London witches liked to visit Lyonesse as a vacation to the seaside but they did not often linger. And someone like Aidan, who spent most of his waking hours in an old building stuffed with amulets and broken swords and bits of crockery possibly used by King Arthur, was not the type to walk the beach barefoot, eating gooseberry ices. He was focused, clever, respectful. Even to Briar, who was a green witch under suspicion whom no one else bothered to be polite to, and he was even polite to Ethan—who was, let’s be clear, a bit of a criminal—and to Sorcha, who was…well, Sorcha.

It was refreshing. Curious.

And then he was just…gone.

She might have sent her paper birds on the search. Only the once.

Very well, twice. But her birds did not travel to London, and so there was little use in it.

Then she had given herself a good shake, remembered that drinking red wine on a belly filled only with raspberries and mushrooms foraged on a forest walk was a Very Bad Idea and decided to pretend she had never sent her birds, nor, indeed, ever met a certain earl. She had met many earls in her day. She could not possibly be expected to remember them all. And she had left both her Debrett’s Peerage and her Witch’s Debrett’s in London and so could not refresh her memory.

Again, not that she had tried. It hardly signified.

She was not in Hallow now to look for Aidan Carnahan.

And she could not afford to be distracted, not with her crown of paper birds still circling her, waiting for her to follow. And nothing made that fact more obvious than the tattered poster tacked to a narrow shop selling magical inks.

Wanted: The Red Cloak.

But tonight her cloak was white.

She had made sure of it.