For Lindsay though, the most difficult part of this journey was not the lack of sleep but the burning desire growing in him to tear back the curtain that obscured the carriage window and look upon the moon. He was painfully aware of the darkness outside, the scents and sounds of the nocturnal world they were barrelling through.
As the carriage sped onwards, he began to pick up the faintest whiff of the city, still some way off but just a hint of it on the breeze. That complex tangle of scents—a familiar reek to Lindsay—made him yearn and dread at once.
It was the smell of home.
There were a thousand layers to it: the unwashed bodies of the townspeople who lived cheek by jowl in tottering tenements. Lime and urine from the tanners and dyers. Yeast and hops from the brewers and bakers. Dung from the animals driven into King’s Stables Road to be sold alive, and blood from their carcasses, hawked in the Fleshmarket.
How could it smell exactly the same after more than a century?
Lindsay was frowning over that thought when a violent jolt to the carriage nearly threw him from his seat. It was only a passing lurch, caused, no doubt, by one of the many gaping holes in the road, but the jostling disturbed the curtain, the brass rings shifting on the pole so that a gap appeared, drawing Lindsay’s gaze.
At first, he saw nothing but clouds. But then—abandoned by a sooty cumulus on the move—the moon was revealed to his rapt gaze. The cloud scudded away, unveiling her, a fat half-pearl hovering placidly in the midnight firmament. She glowed with a warm, golden lustre that gently illuminated the darkness of the carriage interior, making Lindsay’s pacing beast still, attentive now.
“Sir? Are you... that is, are you perfectly all right?”
Distantly, Lindsay was aware of Wynne addressing him, his voice tight with worry.
“Hmm?” he responded. His gaze was still on the sky, though he felt Wynne leaning towards him.
“Forgive me, sir. I was supposed to keep the curtain closed. You were very clear about that.” When Wynne fell silent, Lindsay sensed the betraying quickening of the young man’s heartbeat. Wynne was nervous and his next words were whispered. “Shall I close it now?”
Lindsay dragged his gaze away from the window with difficulty. He regarded Wynne curiously. His servant was very awake now, and Lindsay could plainly sense his fear. He tried to say something reassuring, but as ever when his wolf was rising, found himself struggling to formulate a sensible sentence. Something about the way the beast surfaced made his mind a little slow, and often—as now—he fell helplessly into the antique speech rhythms of his youth.
“Poor Wynne,” he said softly, eyeing the dark shadows under the young man’s eyes. “Thou’rt trauchled.”
Wynne didn’t know what he meant—he could see that plainly—but with his beast scrabbling to the surface, clamouring for its freedom, he could find no better words. Cursing, he lifted his cane to rap twice at the roof of the carriage, the signal to stop. The coachman immediately began to slow the horses.
Wynne’s expression sharpened with anxiety. “Are you sure you wish to stop, sir? You were most insistent before we left that you wished to avoid this eventuality.” His gaze flickered to the window. “The moon affects—” He stopped without finishing the sentence, casting a worried look at Lindsay.
Lindsay concentrated. “My judgment?” he managed, and Wynne looked mortified.
Well, it was true. They both knew it was, and Lindsayhadspecifically instructed Wynne that he must be kept from any sight of the moon on this final stage of the journey. Having suppressed his wolf since they left Paris, Lindsay was desperate to shift, and even a passing glimpse might sweep away whatever fraying scraps of resistance he had left.
But really, why bother to resist? It was too late now, and already he didn’t care. Indeed, it occurred to him that shifting before he reached Edinburgh, rather than being a bad idea, was actually a perfectly sensible course of action. What better way to reacquaint himself with his home after so many years away?
He couldn’t imagine why he’d ever thought otherwise.
“Sir.” Wynne’s anxious tone interrupted his thoughts. “You were very clear that if this happened, I was to stop you—” He broke off as Lindsay made an impatient gesture in his direction.
“Hast thou brought the...” He frowned and twitched his fingers, searching for the word.
“The satchel, sir?” Wynne offered unhappily.
Lindsay nodded.
“Yes, sir, it’s ready to be left where you instructed.”
Lindsay offered a distracted smile, hoping he looked approving rather than predatory. “Very good,” he managed.
It was plain from Wynne’s anxious expression that he was worried, but whilst that was regrettable, it was of little consequence to Lindsay now. His wolf was well pleased with the turn of events and eager to be free. Denying him was out of the question.
When the carriage finally came to a halt, Lindsay unfolded himself from his seat and climbed out into the cold autumn night. The mizzling rain was the light, dense sort that could unexpectedly soak a man. Already there were puddles on the hard-packed road and water dripping steadily from the trees.
Lindsay’s fingertips tingled.
Wynne climbed out of the carriage behind him and followed him into a copse of trees out of sight of the coach. He stood quietly as Lindsay stripped, his face tight with anxiety as Lindsay handed each item of clothing to him in turn: coat, tricorn hat, boots, breeches, shirt, stockings. Smallclothes too. Even the velvet ribbon that secured Lindsay’s dark, unpowdered locks at the nape of his neck. Lindsay removed every stitch till he was quite naked and Wynne’s arms were full of his discarded garments.
With his clothes off and the ends of his hair brushing his bare shoulders, Lindsay felt the familiar rush of life-joy that the wolf filled him with—and then his other self was expanding inside him, reaching out to the very outermost points of his skin, barely contained now.
