A gypsy caravan was parked in the lane behind Eira’s shop. The two Irish Cobs that were harnessed to it gave me an unconcerned glance—I knew they weren’t for eating, and they knew I knew that. The mares resumed munching the oats in their feedbags. I scratched at the door and whined, but there was no one to open it for me, and I didn’t have the fingers to reach for the key under the mat. I sat back on my haunches, raised my muzzle to the moon and howled, a mournful ululation.
The window was thrown open, and Syeira’s head and upper torso appeared. “Hush, my son. I dare not leave the lady. You must make your own way in.”
I remembered how Nicolae had bounded in through her bedroom window the night we three had made love and my cub had been conceived. Where he had gone, I could go also. There
