Wolf's Bane - Nancey Cummings Page 0,2

Marechal ancestors gave their blood to protect others, and Godwin could add his name to their ranks.

She lifted her chin, stubborn to her very core. “You deserve compensation. Goodwill and smiles do not put food on the table.”

“Indeed. I will gladly accept a tin of your rosehip tea.”

Solenne nodded, her pride assuaged.

“Another reply.” Luis broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter. “Miss Marechal, we are saddened to learn of your father’s injury. As you know, ours is a dangerous profession…this goes on for a bit,” Luis said, skipping ahead. “Regretfully, we cannot spare—” He balled up the letter and tossed it in the fireplace. The paper crackled as it burned. “That was Bornau.”

“We’ll write to others,” Solenne said, though honestly she did not know to whom. In the last week, she had written to the closest towns with hunters. All sent their regrets. They, too, were strapped for time, money and manpower. Fallkirk’s letter came back unopened with a note that the town had been without a hunter for nearly a year.

A year.

“There are no others.” Luis sank into the chair by the worktable.

The familiar scent of dry herbs and lemon filled the room. The stone floor was still cool, but the fire would warm the room soon enough. Part of the original house, the room had once been the kitchen but now served as her workshop.

“Get to grinding if you’re going to sulk,” she said, waving a hand to the mortar and pestle on the table next to her brother. She turned her attention back to her own mortar and pestle.

There was one other person she could write.

Her pride demanded the idea be rejected. Aleksandar—

She sighed, setting for the pestle and rubbing the ache in her wrist. The old injury always twinged and complained in the damp weather.

Her pride didn’t matter, nor did the lingering heartache of a sixteen-year-old girl. She barely even remembered being the girl who had fallen for her best friend, the boy her father took as an apprentice, and they swore to a secret engagement as they knew Godwin would forbid it.

How her father discovered them, she did not know. What she did know was that Godwin turned Alek out from their home when she broke her wrist turning a training mishap. He held Alek responsible, despite it being an accident. Alek swore he would return for her when she was old enough to do as she pleased. She believed him.

More fool her.

Years had passed since she received even a letter from him.

Hurt had faded with time. Even her anger eventually left. All that remained was a sense of loss over her oldest friend. She didn’t care about anything else, the pity over being a spinster or the gossip about dabbling with plants and herbs. None of it mattered.

She knew what she had to do.

“I could send a letter to Snowmelt,” she said, breaking the silence.

“Snowmelt?” Luis scrunched up his nose. “Does the post even go that far north?”

“I daresay we’ll find out.” If Aleksandar was even still alive.

Aleksandar

Snowmelt

Hardwick House - The Beast’s Den

* * *

Embers grew cold in the grate, and the lights dimmed. Rain pounded against the window. The room, once elegant, lay in tatters. Great gashes tore into the wallpaper and plaster. Furniture lay smashed on the floor. Iron chains and a collar sat in the corner, waiting.

This room had been his jail for some years. The housekeeper left food outside his door and, more importantly, ignored the snarls and howls that came from his den.

The rest of Hardwick House was not in such shambles, though it was far from a fashionable or even a comfortable house. Closed for several years, a small team of staff kept the house repaired and free of vermin. The estate manager handled the business with tenants. The housekeeper did as she pleased. Alek cared not. If anyone had concerns over the landlord’s reclusive behavior, no one dared mention it to him. They left him alone, especially during the solstice and equinox events, which was all that mattered.

Sitting on the bare floor, Alek reread the letter. Again. The name signed at the bottom claimed to be his old mentor, Godwin Marechal, but he knew who truly authored the letter.

Solenne.

Each time, he swore he could smell perfume, a clean mix of fresh-picked herbs and ink. Years had passed, but he could still hear her laughter, bright and clear as a bell. He held the letter up and breathed deeply.

She had been his friend then, but it’s easy