Page 97 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sorcha spent the evening resurrecting her neglected calligraphy for betrothal invitations.

Simon was cornered by the kittens until red splotches grew on his cheeks. “I don’t know why they hate me,” he said miserably as three little mouths attacked his shin and bad ankle. Aesop had to rescue him, after which they curled up in his arms and purred like furry little angels.

Hecuba wandered past the drawing room but did not stay to mock him.

Granny popped in and out with increasing agitation over the state of Sorcha’s penmanship, until the ice snapped Sorcha’s quill and muddled the ink. She vanished to the bakehouse after that, grumbling.

And then proceeded to send one of the bakehouse lads with her advice on the guest list until Sorcha threatened to host the ball in the barn. With pigeons as her footmen. Anyone who managed to survive five minutes with Nimue would get a canapé. The goat could scream instead of an orchestra.

Granny sulked after that, but she relented. A little.

Aidan excused himself just as the moon began its slow climb over the horizon. Sorcha did not think it was a coincidence.

She was proven right when, an hour later, a pigeon tapped at her bedroom window.

At first she assumed it was an ordinary tap, just to say goodnight. But when she pushed the curtain aside, there was one pigeon and seven crows lined up in a row. Seven for a secret never to be told.

Tap, tap, tap.

There were no paper birds, so she did not think anyone was in trouble.

A flash of the courtyard silvered by the moon, the forest—Aidan.

Tap, tap, tap.

He had snuck away again.

She thought of their conversation on the beach. Was he afraid of his wolf as the moon grew? Was that why he was hiding? The fear of moon madness? Of the one who had bitten him?

Of himself?

Tap, tap, tap.

The birds did not like him alone in the woods.

Neither did Sorcha. She grabbed her plaid shawl, which she kept even closer than her red cloak. “Thank you,” she said to the birds.

She was not particularly surprised to find Tavish lurking by the garden wall. She clambered over, landing in the wet grass. “Where is he?”

“Can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?” she asked.

“Can’t. Alpha’s orders.”

Her gaze narrowed. A crow cawed from the silvery hills. “I thought Aidan had no Pack?”

Tavish grunted. “I decided it wasn’t his decision anymore.”

Sorcha smiled. “Good.” She might not understand the intricacies of Pack law or wolf customs, but she knew Aidan should have someone strong and trustworthy at his back. Someone like Tavish.

Even if he still hadn’t told her where he was.

“Don’t try to stop me, Tavish,” she warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, lass,” he returned easily, leaning against the stones. “But mind you don’t stray from the path.”