Page 23 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

The paper bird hovered by her nose. “Well, that was spectacularly unhelpful, thanks very much.”

Aidan was not in need of her help. The spell should not have woken a bird to lead her to him.

His head snapped up as if he’d sensed her presence, but she had already stepped back into the stacks, heart hammering for no good reason.

Time to go.

She darted away, breath coming fast, as though she were being chased. She wasn’t, of course. Aidan would never chase her. He was too well mannered for that. And far too indifferent.

This was all far too much to contemplate on a breakfast of toast with blackberry jelly.

She headed to one of the side doors. Pippa would understand. In all likelihood, Pippa had already forgotten Sorcha was here at all.

Sorcha picked up her pace. She would not be caught mooning like a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. No blushes. Not for the likes of him. She could approach him later, with a little dignity.

Assuming one could purchase dignity at the shops.

She murmured an apology when she startled someone’s sleeping ferret familiar. The air felt different. Her skin prickled. She hurried, feeling followed, hunted.

Had someone read aloud from a restricted book without the proper safeguards or authority? It happened sometimes. A rhyme read aloud, and suddenly magic made it snow inside the Library. Once, every patron grew a tail that did not fade for a fortnight. Lady Soliloquy had shut herself up in her house and refused to leave, not even for her sister’s wedding. Sorcha had only been mildly disappointed that she had not been there to get her own tail. Most of her friends had tails, after all.

Sorcha ran headlong into a warm, sturdy chest.

She might have bounced right off again had equally strong hands not gripped her by the shoulders. She made a little “oof” sound that was neither ladylike nor dignified, nor likely to have been approved of by Granny. The air changed again, electrified, shimmered.

“Sorcha.”