“What do you mean, the beast’s fangs?” she asked sharply, fingers tightening over the hagstone. An image flashed throughher head of that pamphlet, with the cruel drawing of Callum emblazoned across it.
The woman only chuckled, not answering, and Melody turned to Kat.
“Kat? What is she talking about?”
Before Kat could respond, however, a flash of furious gray fur shot out from under the stall, growling in rage. Claws sliced at Melody’s skirts, and she gave an involuntary yelp, backing away.
Kat swore and leaned down to snatch up the cat by the scruff of its neck, setting it down. The cat shot both women a malevolent glare before darting off into the forest.
The old woman gave a hoot of laughter.
“I bet she says that to everybody,” Kat responded, glowering at the old woman. “Did that cat scratch ye, Melody? Did it bite ye?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Melody responded, giving a relieved laugh. “I only thought…” She met the old woman’s eye and trailed off.
I thought she was making a prediction regarding my life with Callum. Silly, really.
“It doesn’t matter what I thought,” she said at last. “Thank you for the gift, madam.”
The old woman inclined her head, still chuckling.
“Come on, let’s get ye that whisky,” Kat sighed, looping an arm through Melody’s and towing her away.
The liquor stalls were all grouped together. One sold mead, two sold cider, there was a whisky seller, of course, and a man rolling a huge barrel of ale around. The customers here were, understandably, a little drunker than the rest.
Kat released Melody’s arm to go and haggle with the whisky seller, leaving Melody alone. She leaned against a tree trunk, turning her attention to the dance floor.
This was more like the dancing she’d imagined. It was joyful, ridiculous, and really nothing more than galloping around in the arms of another, kicking up one’s heels and shouting loudly. A far cry from the restrained, measured dances of Almack’s in London, this sort of dancing seemedfun. The music was good, too, a bouncing, merry beat, with the dancers shouting out the lyrics, out of time and out of breath.
Melody felt a smile creep across her face. She tapped her foot, humming along. The song was an easy one to catch, and as for the dance, there didn’t seem tobeany steps to consider. So long as you were having fun, you could dance as you pleased.
Would Kat dance with her? Maybe.
An image of Callum popped into Melody’s mind. She wavered, missing a beat.
“Well, well, I do hate to see a pretty lass standing alone,” slurred a low male voice, directly in her ear. Melody flinched and spun around.
A strange man stood behind her. He was clearly drunk, stinking of whisky, and the spiderweb of red veins crawling across his face implied that he was often drunk. It was impossible to guess at his exact age, but she suspected that he was between thirty and forty. Rocking on his heels, he leaned back until she thought he would fall over, then rolled forward again, pushing his face into hers.
“When a man calls ye pretty,” he enunciated, sending a gust of foul breath into her face. “It’s polite to thank him.”
Melody wrinkled her nose and turned away.
“I don’t know you,” she responded, and his eyes widened.
“Oh? A wee English lass? I imagine ye think ye are better than me, then. Are ye used to fine, soft gents? I think ye deserve to see a bit o’life, eh?”
Before she could respond or shuffle away, his arm shot out, more quickly than one might expect of a drunkard. Hard fingers wrapped around her wrist, squeezing hard enough to bruise.
“Let go of me,” Melody snapped, a tendril of panic uncurling in her gut. “You’re drunk, sir.”
“Oh, it’ssirnow, is it? I might be drunk, but ye are uptight. I bet ye are a wee prude, too, ha-ha.”
She tried and failed to tug her hand free, desperately glancing over his shoulder. Where on earth was Kat?
Everyone was distracted dancing and drinking. Noone paid her attention, and noone would hear her over the music if she screamed. Still, it was her best shot.
“If you don’t release me,” she managed. “I’ll scream.”
