Then she saw him, a huge creature loping across the grass of the park. He was gray, the color of slate and steel, with a touch of mist on his muzzle and belly. His fur stood thickly from his body. His long, rangy legs carried him toward her. His eyes were icy. She should have been terrified, but she was not. She should have imagined the creature leaping and biting into her throat. Instead, the wolf slowed, stopped, and watched her.
He was lost, angry, and terribly sad. She wanted very badly to touch him, to say that all would be well.
At the edge of the wooded park, she sat, hugging her coat around her against the dewy grass. The wolf sat, too. They regarded each other as a couple in a dance might, looking across a space just barely too far apart to reach out and touch, not knowing what to say to one another. The wolf—she felt him being oh so careful; he did not trust himself to move any closer.
Moments passed, and she found she was satisfied to sit, and listen. The wolf bowed his head, his ears pressed back. There was apology in the gesture. Shame. She had seen hounds look like this after being scolded.
“Don’t be sorry,” she assured him. “Oh please, don’t be sorry. It is such a pleasant evening, I am happy to sit with you like this.” The air was cool, but with her coat she did not feel the damp.
The wolf settled, lying down and resting his head upon his paws. He sighed a breath that sounded like a whine.
Elizabeth waited.
“Bloody hell!” Francis cried out when he came out through the trees. “I beg your pardon, Miss Weston, you startled me.”
The wolf had not startled him; she had.
She blinked awake—she had nodded off. The wolf—he was truly asleep, curled up, tail to nose. She flattered herself that she had given him some comfort, to allow him to rest.
Vincent came up behind Francis. Both stood, wearing coats and looking harried. The masks were gone.
“Mr. Wilde . . . and Mr. Wilde,” she said, thinking that she ought to stand, but she did not want to disturb the wolf’s rest. Something was happe
ning—she did not look away for fear of missing it. The creature’s fur seemed to thin; his limbs seemed to lengthen, claws fattening into fingers. The changes happened with the gentleness of mist fading at dawn.
“Miss Weston,” Vincent said. He seemed tired; his brother stood wary. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”
She hugged herself. “I do not know. A voice drew me.”
“Edward—” Vincent said wonderingly, and she nodded. “But how?”
“Again, I do not know.”
Francis laughed, and the sound was a relief. The merry version of him was more pleasant. “Do not take this as an insult, my dear lady—but what are you?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
The wolf was half man now, a naked face with pointed ears, sharp teeth behind curled human lips. The fur continued to thin.
Vincent said softly, “He spent too long in a crowded ballroom.
We . . . we are not so used to polite company.”
“He said you had decided to come in from the woods.”
“Yes,” the taller brother said. “Francis and I have more . . . fortitude. For Edward, it is difficult. He lasted in company longer than I thought he would, and I believe we have you to thank for it.”
“Oh?”
“You give him a reason to be civilized.”
He does the same for me, she thought.
Edward Wilde lay before them now, nude, back bowed in the curled shape his wolf had lain down in. He seemed tense, muscles taut, as if dreaming some difficult dream.
“He will sleep for some time,” Vincent said.
“He is exhausted,” she said.