Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes

I wake the next morning several hours after dawn.

At first I don’t quite understand the sinking disappointment I feel when I look out from my bed and see how far the patch of sunlight has progressed along the floor. After all, I slept long and deep, better than I have since first coming here. So why is my stomach knotting like this?

Then I realize: the dawn hour is past.

Dire didn’t come to see me, to check my wound.

Which is a good thing! If he didn’t come, that means I must be much better and don’t need his daily plucking and nagging. Besides, I don’t like being fussed over, cared for. It’s embarrassing. And unnecessary.

I sit up, grimace at the soreness in my shoulder, and gently move my arm in its socket. Certainly not back to normal, but not terribly far off either. I should be ready for whatever adventure awaits tonight.

Pushing back the blankets, I slide out of bed and snatch up the same dressing gown I’ve been wearing these last several days. I wrap it around the frilly nightgown, trying not to enjoy the softness of the fabric too much. But I can’t quite help it. There’s something so nice about un-glamoured silk, un-glamoured muslin. Granny’s fabrications are always convincing, to be sure . . . but knowing they aren’t real always dampens my enjoyment of them.

I move to one of the open windows, shivering a little as the cool morning air blows through, stirring the leaves and vines. The Wood seems closer than ever today, but as I gaze through the interwoven branches and tall trunks, I feel almost as though I can see all the way to the edge. Out to where open country lies, with its fields and towns and ordinary folk going about their lives, free of the Wood’s treacherous influence. Are they out there now, setting up for Glorandal Night? Stringing lanterns and banners, baking treats and sweets. The musicians tuning their instruments, the young lads and lasses testing their dancing shoes.

It’s been a long time since I attended a Glorandal dance. Excitement shivers in my stomach at the prospect. Is it possible I’ll discover word of Valera? Is it possible I’ll find the information I need to finally escape Granny’s clutches? And if so . . .

If so, what will that mean for Dire?

I sink onto the window seat, which is covered in soft moss like a cushion, and lean my head against the wooden frame. Why am I letting my mind wander this way? Why am I letting concern for the werewolf encroach on other, more important thoughts? Yes, he’s been kind to me these last few days. Unexpectedly, undeservedly kind. But is that any reason to lose my head?

I close my eyes. For a moment, I feel again that sparking thrill when his fingertips brushed against my bare flesh.

“Stupid!” I growl and shake my head, my brow knotting. “Stupid, stupid girl. You saved his life from the Monster Hunter; he saved your life in return. That’s all this is! A give and take. Like a bargain almost. Nothing more.”

There can never be anything more between us. Never.

I’m Elorata Dorrel’s granddaughter. I’m kin to the woman who brought about the death of his true love. His sweet, gentle true love. A girl entirely unlike me in every particular . . .

I stand up sharply, shaking hair out of my eyes. The abruptness jars my shoulder, and I wince and put a hand to it, rubbing in little circles over the bandage. It’s going to be a long day. Painfully long. But gods willing, when it’s over, I’ll have what I need. Then I’ll get out of here as fast as I can, put many worlds between me and my grandmother. As for Dire? Well, he’s a big boy. He can handle himself. Same as me.

We are, both of us, meant to be alone.

I spend the day wandering aimlessly about the hall.

Now that I’m starting to feel better, restlessness settles into my bones, like an itch I can’t quite scratch. Every hour or so, I force myself to return to the room, to sleep or at least to doze. Dire has many times insisted that sleep is the best medicine.

I wonder a bit about his confidence in caring for my injury. He’d said he was sent to the university in Wimborne, the capital city. Perhaps he was studying medicine back before . . . before everything? Gods! It’s so strange to think about Dire in these sorts of terms. A student, with a history, with goals and ambitions. With friends and family and . . . and lovers. I’ve been so careful to always and only think of him as the monster. The beast.

If only he wasn’t avoiding me while in his werewolf form these last few days. He’s taken care to only show himself at dawn and dusk, when he is fully human. It’s making things difficult. Everything would be so much simpler, so much clearer, if I could just see him again as the monster he is.

I doze again in early afternoon and this time sink into a deeper sleep, waking late in the day. A little gasp bursts from my lips as I sit upright. There’s a change in the atmosphere. Subtle but growing stronger by the moment. A change which I have always felt in those last, creeping hours before Glorandal Night: magic in the air.

I smile. I can’t help myself. There’s something undeniably delicious about that pricking in my thumbs, that dance of fine hairs on the back of my neck. Glorandal is the most magical night of the year, a night of wildness and possibilities. Valera never liked it . . . she was afraid of that unnamable something in the wind, that scent, that taste, that strain of song. She always wanted to keep me indoors and away from the dancing, but I would beg and plead so hard, and when that didn’t work, threaten to climb out my bedroom window and run away if she didn’t take me.

Ultimately, I always convinced her. We would run together, hand in hand, to our village’s dancing green, there to experience the wonders, to glimpse the strange, shadowy, unnatural figures. And to dance. Not stately dances like the balls I sometimes glimpsed through the windows of the Public Hall. Those dances were dances of manners and propriety and elegance. Glorandal dances were wild. Primal like ancient drums, pulsing magic straight through the veins.

Oh, how I loved those nights!

I close my eyes and sniff the air, delighting in these sensations flooding through me. We should set out soon if we don’t want to miss a moment.

I spring up from the bed and take three steps toward the door before I stop and look down at my dressing-gown-wrapped body and the hem of the lace nightgown just visible by my ankles. I can’t wear this to the dancing green; I’d be a laughingstock!

Pressing my lips together, I turn to a large, ornately carved chest sitting half hidden by a bramble of wild roses. I push the roses out of the way, receiving more than a few thorny bites for my efforts, and drag the chest out in the open where I can fling back the lid. I tell myself not to expect much—it’s been years, after all, and most of Mistress Phaendar’s fine gowns must have rotted away long ago. But I might as well have a peek . . .

To my surprise, the gowns are as fresh as though folded and placed in this chest yesterday, sandwiched with delicate paper and layers of dried lavender. A dazzling array of colors meets my surprised gaze. I’m almost overwhelmed by choices.

Then I catch a glimpse of a vivid midnight blue and snatch it out from among the rest, draping it over the bed for inspection. I’m not much of a one for fashion. That’s always been Valera’s domain, not mine. But even I can’t help staring at this gown.

It’s beautiful. Dated, yes. Valera had told me that voluminous sleeves, wide necklines, and pinched waists were all the rage these days. This gown has none of those features. Its sleeves are fitted and sport a row of silvery buttons from wrist to elbow. The scooped neckline is much too low for modesty, obviously meant to be worn with a decorative chemise underneath. The waistline is loose but nicely fitted.

I return to the chest and fish out a chemise, a belt, and a front-lacing corset. I’ve never been a corset wearer, but even my inexpert eye can see that this dress needs something structured underneath in order to fit smoothly. So I set to work pulling myself together—lacing and tucking and tying and buttoning. It’s all quite a bother, and halfway through the process I’m about ready to chuck it all and slip back into my comfortable dressing gown.

When at last the job is complete, however, it’s not so bad. I anticipated difficulty breathing and severe discomfort from the corset, but instead it gives me a nice sense of protection and support—all that boning around my midsection feels almost like armor. It definitely helps my posture, and since I didn’t lace it tight, my breathing is in no way compromised. I could probably dance the whole night away in something like this.

Moving across the room to Mistress Phaendar’s tall mirror, I steal a tentative peek. A smile tries to break across my lips, and I fight to hold it back. But the truth is . . . I rather like what I see. The bodice, even with the chemise, is still a little lower cut than I like, but everything feels secure enough. And the way the shoulder line is cut, one can scarcely see the bulge of my bandage underneath the midnight cloth.

I turn to one side and then the other, feeling more than a little foolish. Then I scamper back to the chest, find a pair of slippers that are only a little too snug, along with a decorative belt and some hair combs. A few minutes of experimentation with the combs is enough to drive me nearly mad, so I end up tossing them and simply tie my hair in its habitual knot at the nape of my neck. It might not be fancy enough for a gown like this, but it’ll have to do.

I stand before the mirror again, surveying the overall effect one last time. Giddy pleasure tickles my stomach despite every effort to quash it. But I can’t be silly about this. I’m not going to the dance for fun, after all. I have a purpose, an important mission to fulfill.

And I am certainly not going to dance with Dire.

I frown as thoughts of Dire push to the forefront of my mind. He’s been so unselfish, risked so much for my sake, and I can’t help but wonder . . . why?

Because he’s a good man.

He’s a good man. And you’re going to leave him behind.

To face whatever horrors Granny has in store for him.

“Great gods above!” I growl and turn away from the mirror, clutching folds of skirt in both hands. It’s not like there’s anything I can do, is there? I’ve got troubles enough of my own without worrying about the werewolf.

I need to focus.

The room grows darker as the sun begins to sink and the shadows of the forest fall ever more deeply across the ruins of Phaendar Hall. I step out of my room and proceed to the front staircase, peering over the banister to the foyer below. Dire is there. Waiting for me.

He stands before the open front door, framed by late sunlight, and gazes out into the forest. Offering me a prime opportunity to observe him without his knowledge. He’s slicked his hair back from his face but not tied it, and it falls in gentle, textured gray waves about his shoulders. From somewhere in this house, he’s dug up a suit of green velvet: doublet, hose, trousers, and capelet. All twenty years out of date, but richly made and well fitted.

It’s funny—I’ve seen him nearly naked numerous times, when his wolf form has retreated, leaving him bare and exposed. I know exactly how tight and toned his abdominal muscles are, how broad and strong his shoulders, how powerful his forearms and calves.

But seeing him now—those trousers fitting just so across his hips, and that doublet straining at the shoulder seams—somehow, he feels suddenly more real.

I let a slow breath out through my lips. Then, straightening my shoulders and moving boldly to the top of the stair, I clear my throat. Dire turns, looks up at me. His eyes widen. Is he surprised to see me in this gown? Displeased? He must have known I’d have to borrow something. I can’t very well attend the dance in a nightdress.

His mouth opens as though he’s going to speak, but no words come.

“What?” I demand, my voice ringing in the open space of the foyer beneath the spreading branches of the tree. “Do I look as bad as all that?”

He shuts his mouth, shakes his head. At last he manages, “I . . . I see you found more of my mother’s gowns.”

“I figured she wouldn’t mind.” I descend the stair, holding the hem of the skirt up with both hands so I won’t trip. As I reach the bottom step, I cast him a quick glance and add shyly, “I hope you don’t mind?”

“Of course not.” He’s still staring. His eyes run up and down my figure, but he quickly yanks them back to my face. I get the strong impression he’s focusing hard, determined not to ogle me. I’m also not sure that I would particularly mind being ogled . . .

A hot flush climbs up my throat. Gods above, I hope the shadows in the foyer are deep enough to disguise it!

“Well?” I say, putting up my chin. “Shall we then?”

Dire bows solemnly. It’s such an unconsciously gracious gesture, it takes me aback. When he straightens, he motions to the door, and I hasten to precede him out onto the front step. There I pause a moment as he joins me and shuts the door behind us.

“How far is it to the village?” I ask.

“About three miles to Gilhorn. But only a mile to the dancing green. It won’t take us long to reach it.”

I glance at the sky, orange and streaked above the dark silhouette of branches. “Sunset will be half over by the time we get there. What will . . . what will you do?” I glance sideways at him, catching a brief half smile.

“Glorandal Night,” he says, “is a night of profound magic. Profoundly good magic. The marriage of the fae Glorafina and the human Andalius ushered in a time of great peace and prosperity for all worlds. The magic of that union has never fully faded. Which means curses cannot thrive on such a night . . . not even a curse as powerful as Granny Dorrel’s.” He clears his throat and meets my gaze for half a moment. “I should retain my human form until midnight.”

I nod. “Are you sure?”

He offers a little shrug. “If I’m wrong, the folk on the dancing green will simply assume I’m one of the fae. I shouldn’t be too conspicuous.”

I accept this with a nod. Then, to my great surprise, Dire offers his elbow. He catches my eye again and this time holds it, a smile flashing through his beard. “Would the lady do me the honor of attending Glorandal Night with me?”

Another wretched blush roars in my cheeks. I nod quickly and murmur, “Why thank you, kind sir.” I gently lay my fingers on his elbow, feeling utterly foolish and utterly delighted at the same time. Dire guides me down the front steps and sets a brisk pace through Whispering Wood.

And so our Glorandal Night begins.