Page 86 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“Did I forget someone’s birthday?” Sorcha asked through a yawn. She wandered toward the teapot. “You drank it all already?”

“You got betrothed and forgot to tell us?” Briar asked.

“Oh.” Sorcha winced. “That.”

“Yes, that.”

“Surprise?”

They threw rolls at her—the stale ones she hadn’t had a chance to put in her pockets yet.

“Ouch!” She shuffled forward and stepped on an iron nail. “Ouch again. Why are these everywhere?” She made a note to check if the kittens had somehow gotten into the apothecary cabinet. The locked one. She would not put it past them. Someone had also spilled rosewater on the worktable.

She dropped into a chair and ate a spoonful of jam, since there were no rolls left, and no tea. “How did you even find out so fast?”

Pippa snorted. There were professors the length and breadth of the University who talked to her every day and still would have been shocked that she could make such an unladylike sound. “Wild Sorcha Beauregard engaged to the quiet Earl of Coventry?”

“Not only that,” Briar added helpfully, getting up to bring the kettle from the fire and refill the pot. “But there are a great many wagers that you will murder him before the year is out.”

“That’s rather unflattering,” Sorcha muttered. “Although understandable,” she admitted. Still, they had not even officially announced their betrothal yet. That was quick, even for the gossips of Lyonesse. That was what she got for asking the crows to help. And the gulls.

Which had been the point, actually. The betrothal needed to be known, far and wide. For her safety, as Aidan had said, but more importantly, for the next part of the plan to work.

Sorcha peered into her cup. “Is this safe to drink?” Briar might be the green witch who knew exactly which plants were poisonous, but quiet, gentle Pippa was the one to watch out for. “How cross are you?”

“Drink your tea,” Pippa said.

“That’s not an answer.”

“No it’s not, Countess.”

“Not so loud! I haven’t told—”

“Sorcha Beauregard!” Granny’s sudden appearance froze Sorcha’s tea in its cup. The porcelain cracked with a forceful pop. The handle was shorn clean off.

“—Granny,” Sorcha finished.

Granny’s glow made the eyes water. Ice formed on the flagstones, frosted Briar’s cane. It turned Sorcha’s breath to mist. “Good morning, Granny.”

“Is it true?” Her snake slithered up her arm, resting its head on her collarbone to better stare at Sorcha. Judgmentally, of course. She was beginning to wonder if she should have stayed in bed.

“I thought betrothals were supposed to be good news,” she muttered.

Granny’s ghostly light gentled. “You’re going to be the Countess of Coventry?”

Sorcha forced a smile. If she admitted the betrothal was false to her grandmother, the castle would become a battlefield. She would never hear the end of it. “Yes, Granny.”

“Oh, you lucky girl. The Carnahan men are… Well, you’ll find out, won’t you?”

The fact that Sorcha knew exactly what her grandmother meant was…disconcerting.

“An earl,” Granny sighed. “And a clever, handsome one. I’ll start planning the cake. There’s so much to do!”

“Granny—”

Too late. She had disappeared in a pop of light. The frost on the stones melted in tiny rivulets.

Pippa tilted her head, too perceptive by far. “What aren’t you telling us?”