“That’s a way of putting it,” the soldier said. “No better or worse is a thing to hope for, sometimes. You hunted?”
“Yes. Rabbit, I think.”
“We got a sheep,” Brandon said smugly. “Was our turn for sheep, this month. They’ll get one next month.” He nodded to the other fellow.
“You take turns?” she said.
“Well, Christmastime we both get sheep. We have to be careful, not to completely depopulate the island. But you got a rabbit. That’s good.”
“Yes.” She moved closer. She wanted a better look at them. Wanted to know what had happened last night, how she’d managed to have the most peaceful full-moon night she’d had in months, here on the Island of Beasts.
“You have a question,” Cox stated, matter-of-fact. Brandon studied his fingernails, picking out a bit of dirt from one.
“You . . . you left me alone,” she said. “I was prepared to fight, to defend myself. But none of the wolves came for me.”
Brandon finished picking his nails and brushed off his hands. “We convinced our men to leave you be.”
“Or we’d rip their throats out. No argument.” Cox’s smile was mean, toothy. A fierce wolf’s grin.
“But why?” she asked.
“That is our bribe,” Brandon said. “The one gift you might accept. We leave you alone.” He flicked his hand, as if releasing a bird to flight.
“And what do you want in return?”
“Your name?” the gentleman said hopefully.
She thought about it a moment and said, “Lucy. I’m Lucy.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Lucy,” he said.
“Likewise,” Cox said, more gruffly. “Three packs on the island, then?”
“Agreed,” Brandon said with a brief nod. “But Miss Lucy, I hope you’ll understand if we don’t allot you your own sheep every month.”
She shook her head. “Even my beast couldn’t eat a whole sheep on her own.”
“Just so.”
She didn’t know what to think, and felt as if she still swayed with the movement of the boat that brought her here. Her legs gave out and she sat heavily in the grass, cradling the bottle of whisky in her lap. Scrubbed her cheek and swallowed back a tightness in her throat.
“What’s that you have there?” Cox asked, pointing.
She held it up. “Found it on the beach.”
“Good lord, is that what I think it is?” Brandon’s gaze narrowed, amazed.
She studied the label, looked back at them. Relished the feeling of safety she had in that moment. The feeling of peace. It wouldn’t last, most like. Couldn’t last, on a windswept island wracked by storms and monsters.
Then again, maybe it would, if an island of monsters could choose civility for itself. Unlike the world that sent her here. She cracked the seal on the bottle and pulled the cork. Brandon might have moaned a little. Even from several paces off, his wolf could no doubt smell the heady, oaky aroma rising up. For a moment they simply sat quietly and breathed it in.
“I don’t have cups,” she said.
“Never mind cups. We’re monsters, after all,” Cox said. “Just take a swig and pass it ’round.”
She did so, turning up the bottle, filling her mouth, letting the liquor burn. Cox reached, and she handed it to him. Taking a chance on him. Trusting.
He drank, let out a laugh. “God that’s good. See, it’s what this island’s needed all along, a woman’s touch. Place looks better already.” He handed the bottle to Brandon.
“Barbaric,” Brandon muttered, but didn’t turn down his chance.
He took his drink and savored it, eyes closed.
Then he passed the bottle back to Lucy. That was when she knew she would be safe on the Island of Beasts. She stuffed the cork firmly back in the bottle’s mouth.
Still wincing from the liquor’s sting, Brandon said wistfully, “No offense to present company, but I was meant for better than this.” He gazed off at a distant point, maybe at a parlor fire or some fine park in London. Lucy would get his story someday.
“Aye, we all were,” Cox said. “They will come for us, you know. The Lords of Wolves and Masters of Blood and all the rest. They will come here expecting to find monsters. Tools they can use in their wars.”
The wind blew and smelled of rain. They turned their noses up to it, and Lucy breathed deep the free air.
“We will be ready for them,” she said.
The Beaux Wilde
IT WAS SAID of Miss Elizabeth Weston that she was a young woman of great fortune and little accomplishment. Since the former went some ways toward making up for the latter, all was well, or should have been. But at twenty-two years of age, Miss Weston remained unmarried.
She played the pianoforte adequately, but would not play before strangers. Her needlework was loose at best, her dancing merely functional. She was pretty, with honey-brown hair, a pert face, and clean skin; but she was shy, and so did not catch the eye as she might have if she smiled more. What she liked best was to read, and while conversations and games of whist might go on around her, she would sit alone with a book of Scott or Radcliffe. She could sometimes be prevailed upon to read aloud, but within a line or two her voice would grow so timid and constricted, she must leave off.
Elizabeth knew what people said about her in whispers, behind their fans and glasses of sherry. Since she could not help what they said or what she was, she withdrew further and avoided the kind of company a highly marriageable young woman in her prime should have sought out. It was a paradox that gave her mother and father some anxiety.
Elizabeth would not have attended the ball at Woodfair at all, but Woodfair was the home of the Brannocks. If Elizabeth had a best friend in all the world, it was Amy Brannock, because what Amy said and the feelings behind her words were just the same. When the invitations went out, Elizabeth accepted, because Amy would not question why she did not wish to dance.
Mr. and Mrs. Brannock greeted the Westons at the door, and Elizabeth immediately looked over their shoulders for her friend, but alas, she was not in view, and Mrs. Brannock had another plan. She and Mrs. Weston exchanged a wink that meant they had been conspiring.
“Miss Weston, it is my great pleasure to present to you Mr. Richard Forester. He is a cousin on my mother’s side, and expressed a great interest in meeting you after hearing of your many charms!” Mrs. Brannock offered up the handsome young man as if he were wrapped with ribbon.
Blushing enough to make her head ache, Elizabeth curtseyed, and Mr. Forester grinned as he bowed. Her great charms—her fortune, was what he was thinking. Why was that the first thing anyone learned about her?
“Miss Weston,” he said, as he was expected to, as this situation was contrived to arrange. “Would you do me the honor of dancing this next set with me?” Music was playing in the adjoining room. Of course the dancing had already begun, and Elizabeth could not have delayed just a half an hour more to miss it. She looked pleadingly at her mother, but Mrs. Weston seemed so happy, Elizabeth could not argue.
“Of course,” she said, and held out her hand. He led her to the ballroom, where couples lined up for the next dance.