“As do you.” Priscilla’s gaze shifted to me. “Abby, the Council is happy to see you.”
“Is it, though?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Victoria’s left eye performed a micro-twitch. Priscilla’s mouth curved.
“I appreciate your candor,” the Holtmatriarch said lightly. “It’s refreshing. Most people in this room wouldn’t dare speak their honest opinion.”
Her emphasis on “most people” drew a couple of stiff looks from down the table.
Pearl claimed her usual spot on Victoria’s lap as we took our seats. Bo stationed himself under the table near my feet and began his not so subtle reconnaissance of the floor for crumbs.
I scanned the faces around the table.
Helen Sheridan was already eyeing me like I’d tracked mud across her Persian rug. Isobel Lynton sat with her arms folded, cool and watchful. Martha Claymore and Felicity Newfield were wedged together at the far end, Martha looking bright-eyed and Felicity clutching her walking stick like a weapon. The elderly witches greeted me with warm smiles and a twinkle in their gazes that promised scandalous trouble.
The chair that had once belonged to Camilla Lynch now sat occupied by an elder I didn’t recognize—a sharp-featured woman who introduced herself as Rosemary Pike and immediately returned to inspecting the china on the table.
A waiter arrived with a serving cart loaded with tea, sandwiches, biscuits, and cakes.
Bo started drooling. I carefully moved my feet out of the way.
Priscilla called the meeting to order and the Council settled into its usual rhythm.
Agenda items were raised. Territorial disputes were aired. Somebody’s nephew had been caught howlingafter curfew for the third week running and was facing a formal reprimand. A lengthy debate erupted over hedge maintenance responsibilities along the boundary between two pack territories, during which Helen Sheridan referenced a precedent from 1943 and Felicity threatened to wallop someone with her walking stick.
I was twelve minutes into mentally redecorating the room when Helen decided to lob her grenade.
“Before we move on,” she said in clipped tones, dabbing her mouth delicately with a napkin, “I feel compelled to raise a concern about the younger generation’s recent… associations.”
The atmosphere cooled considerably.
Helen’s gaze swept the table with the precision of a sniper. “It has come to my attention that certain young wolves from prominent families have been—how shall I put this—seen to be fraternizing in a rather inappropriate fashion.”
I didn’t need enhanced senses to know she was talking about Hugh and Beatrice.
Isobel Lynton stirred. “Helen raises a valid point. Pack reputation is a delicate matter. One would hope the younger generation would show more discernment in their conduct.”
Victoria’s teacup met its saucer without a sound, which was more menacing than if she’d slammed it down.
“If you have something to say about my son,” the Hawthorne matriarch stated, her voice lethally pleasant, “I’d prefer you do itplainly, Helen.”
Bo gulped. Pearl twitched her tail. I swallowed audibly.
Helen’s chin lifted. “I simply think that the Hawthorne heir gallivanting around town with a Lupton girl and the pair of them behaving indecently sends a certain message.”
“And what message would that be?”
Priscilla spoke before Helen could answer. “If we’re discussing our children’s romantic choices, I should point out that my son Marcus is happily courting Lauren Lupton.” Her tone was mild but her eyes were granite. “I don’t recall anyone at this table having a say in the matter. Nor should they.”
The united front landed with the subtlety of a sledgehammer wrapped in silk. Helen’s mouth pinched. Isobel’s expression cooled further, which I hadn’t thought possible.
Felicity jabbed the air with her walking stick. “Oh, leave the young ones alone. At least they’re dating within the supernatural community. My granddaughter brought home a human once. A vegan human.” She shuddered. “Now that was a scandal.”
Martha leaned toward her companion. “Hey, remember when Helen climbed through Alexander Hawthorne’s bedroom window in a see-through negligee?” The elder’s whisper carried across the room like a foghorn.
Helen went scarlet.
“That was forty years ago,” she hissed.
