When we arrived at Thorny Walk House that evening, it was to find that Warrick wouldn’t be joining us for dinner.
“The boy isn’t feeling too well,” his father informed us.
I wondered if Warrick really was ill, or if he had already locked himself in a priest’s cell in the cellar. The original door had been six inches thick, with a small, grated window. Had he replaced it with one as sturdy? I could only hope so. If it wasn’t strong enough to contain the wolf, I feared for the events of this night.
Both Roddy and I were armed with weapons that were charged with silver bullets.
Two other guests would be dining with us and were already there: Delicia Corbyn, who, to my surprise, flashed the Synclaire betrothal ring on her finger, and Major Paul Vaughan, the D.C.I. who’d been assigned to de
