Page 5 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Two

Winterwell House was a fine manor built sometime after Henry VIII, with black iron scrollwork and white lilies lining the walk up to the front door. The brass knocker was in the shape of a wolf. As were the fence finials. They chased each other around the rainwater pipes.

Even the gargoyles on the roof were wolflike.

Sorcha’s paper birds had found Simon Whelan, son of the Marquess of Winterwell, several weeks ago, injured and alone. She had brought him to Nettlestone, and even though his wounds had mostly healed, he still had not gone home to his family. When Sorcha offered to go with him, he had reluctantly agreed. He was so young, not yet nineteen, all long limbs and nervous twitches.

He had survived the Cauldron, but as ever, it had left its mark.

When Simon emerged from behind a willow tree in the front garden, blond hair falling over his forehead, Sorcha smiled at him reassuringly. “I’m sorry I’m a little late. You look very handsome.”

And nervous. He looked even more nervous than he had the night she had found him. And he had been bleeding profusely then, not to mention starving.

It predisposed her to dislike his family intensely. Immediately and without reservation.

She decided she did not like the house after all.

Nor the gardens. Even the flowers were ugly. There were too many white roses, a reminder of the sleep curse.

She ought to have worn every moonstone Granny offered her.

She sniffed disdainfully. Her spine straightened without clear instruction from her brain. Her chin tilted up. The Duke of Gloucester’s granddaughter had arrived, and she was not impressed.

Simon’s eyes widened. “Blimey.”

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

The footmen at the door were wearing the family livery, a wolf with a lily in his jaws. One of them startled when he saw Simon. “My lord. Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Arthur.”

“Your parents are in the main gallery.”

Simon nodded but did not immediately move.

“We can still make a run for it,” Sorcha whispered. “I wager I can beat you over that wall, even in these dancing slippers.”

Simon smiled. “You’d have half a dozen wolves after you just for the fun of the chase.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can handle a wolf.” Though the hair curling over his collar was damp with sweat, Simon’s shoulders relaxed and Sorcha decided he could at least now face his family without shattering like porcelain. “I do not like your parents,” she muttered.

Simon looked surprised. “You haven’t met them.”

She had, actually. But it was many years ago, in a fine house on Grosvenor Square. A lifetime ago.

Winterwell House, much like the London one, was as grand as one could imagine, if one’s imagination was cold and expensive. White marble floors, silver-framed paintings of wolves, the gleam and glitter of crystal chandeliers. A statue of the wolf goddess Luperca, also radiantly white. The paneled walls were painted white, as were the swags and garlands in relief along the ceiling. The tapestry upholstery of the chairs. The footmen’s livery, down to their old-fashioned powdered wigs. She supposed it was striking, even pretty, but had no intention of being impressed by it.

And it was as bad as being in Haven, where all of the houses were painted white to encourage restful elegance. One of the tea shops there had once requested that Sorcha dust all of the strawberries and raspberries in a braided fruit bread with a white sugar shell so that they would not disrupt the aesthetic. Of bread.

Being a fine gathering of fine people in a fine house of Lyonesse, animal familiars were also in attendance. There was a family of glowing sparrows perched on the bust of a disapproving-looking man. Sorcha’s own familiar was a crow with iridescent black feathers and a fierce gaze. She could feel him nestled inside her ribcage, simmering with magic. Waiting.

But as the majority of the guests were wolf shifters, there were fewer than at most assembly rooms and summer balls, especially during a Festival week. Shifters did not have animal familiars—they became them.

And knowing how some witches looked down on shifters for their wildness, it was obvious that the oppressive grandeur of the house had a purpose. And this was still the Mayfair set: champagne flutes and the flash of diamonds. Silk waistcoats, dancers whirling under the candlelight, regardless of the kind of witchcraft that sparked under ceilings painted with dark and powerful murals of wolves running over the moors and through forests. Sorcha could all but smell the pine and the rain and the storm clouds. It soothed her far more than cutlery with white pearl handles and moonstone inlays and snow-pale silk.

Some of the guests had already noticed Simon, and eyebrows were raised as he passed by. He had been missing for a few weeks now, even after the letter he had sent home assuring his family of his well-being. “They’ll be in the gallery,” Simon told Sorcha. “It’s a great honor to display so many artifacts of wolf-shifter history.”

“Oh, right. I’d forgotten this wasn’t just an ordinary ball.”