I take him at his word, for I have no other choice. If he isn’t concerned, then I won’t be either. “All right, then. Breakfast.”
We head downstairs, where we find Catherine’s had the cook prepare an enormous meal the likes of which I’ve never imagined. As my eyes feast upon the extravagant display running the length of a polished wooden table that must seat a dozen, I try not to drool. My stomach betrays my enthusiasm with a gurgling rumble.
“Good morning,” says Bowie to his sister, who’s already seated at the head of the table.
“It’s evening,” she corrects with a flutter of her lashes to accompany her eye roll.
“Not to me, it isn’t.” Bowie sweeps around the table to greet her with a kiss on her cheek and gestures to a seat. “Come along, Andras, help yourself.”
I’ve frozen, watching the two of them interact with each other. They’re so alike, even decades apart in age. Or—a thought occurs to me—perhaps Bowie hasn’t actually aged since he was…bitten? Turned? I must ask him later.
As I make my way to the table, my gaze drifts over the options. Smoked meats, fried potatoes and beets, hard breads, an assortment of cheeses, and dried fruits present a colorful array of choices. I spot candied figs and wish Ava were here to enjoy this with me.
“Did you sleep well?” asks Catherine.
I’m momentarily embarrassed because I slept wonderfully—with her brother—and I’ve no idea if that information has reached her ears yet or not. I mumble, “Yes, thank you,” while keeping my focus on the food.
“You’ll have to excuse Jakob,” she says with a fond smile. “He’s out on an errand but sends his regards to our guest.”
Bowie hands me a plate, and I’m immediately glad to have something to do with my hands. I serve myself some of everything and sit next to him. The place setting before him is empty, of course, and makes me all the more curious about his meal schedule and how that must work.
Breakfast, or supper really, is uneventful except for the whirlwind of yellow skirts and golden curls as Cecily bursts in to say good evening. She then dramatically apologizes for having kept us waiting (I hadn’t realized we’d been waiting, and by the looks of it, neither had Catherine or Bowie.) and apologizes further for having to leave right away on urgent business.
As I’m wondering just what nature of urgent business a twelve-year-old girl could possibly have, she explains, though no one has asked.
“Lilith has got a new racing hound, you see. A puppy! She’s calling him Imre. But that is a silly name for a dog, don’t you think? I’d rather she call him Fire Feet or Lightning Strike, but she won’t listen. Anyway, we’re teaching Imre to fetch, so I really must be off.”
Cecily grabs a handful of mint candies from a glass dish on the table and stuffs them into her dress pocket.
“Be careful, darling. Don’t rush,” says Catherine. “Be home before bedtime, or I’ll send your father after you.”
I get the impression this isn’t the threat her mother thinks it is by the jovial expression on Cecily’s face as she races from the room. “Yes, Mother!”
I turn to Bowie. “I see she has the same knack for naming animals as you do.”
He swats my arm. “There’s nothing wrong with the name I chose.”
“Did he tell you about Toast and Butter?” Catherine asks with a chuckle.
I grin and side-eye him. “You had a horse called Toast as well?”
“Um-hmm,” Catherine answers before Bowie can defend himself. “Butter’s younger sister. Together they were Buttered Toast.”
Bowie leans back in his chair and gives an impish shrug. “She was the perfect shade of brown to be called Toast. Was I supposed to resist?”
“You could have.” His sister flashes an indulgent smile. “But you never do.”
Chapter 7
We’re on our way to visit the homes of the missing girls from the surrounding villages. Bowie carries my satchel, and I walk as a wolf on all fours by his side. I won’t have to worry about being exposed as a werewolf if I’m simply a wolf. Atrained wolf, as Bowie suggested—his pet. That’s the story we’re going with. I’ll get the most scent information in this form anyway.
“May I pet you on occasion?” asks Bowie as we approach a small log hut. “For verisimilitude, of course.”
I rub my cheek against his leg and huff, secretly enjoying the fact he smells like me.
He reaches down and strokes my fur. “My goodness, you’re soft.”
Oh, that feels nice. I tip my head up for more, and he offers it with a smile. If this is what being a pet wolf is like, sign me up.
