Werewolf fairytales

Unable to breathe

*Paisley*

Hour by agonizing hour, day by day, the week of my temporary reprieve creeps past. I try not to look out the window in the direction of the castle. Theo promised me a week. He would try. He would… try. I keep repeating that to myself though I go to sleep sobbing at the possibility that he won’t come.

Or at the possibility he will come to ask for my hand, but a day too late, a week too late, a year too late.

On the fifth day in the early afternoon, my father finds me, sitting in a back room without a view of the dusty road leading in the direction of the castle. I am tired of leaping to my feet every time I hear the slightest sound that might be a carriage.

“My dear,” he says, “would you do me a great kindness and take this book to the vicar? I borrowed it sometime ago, and I expect he’d like it back.”

I take the book from his hand. “The Hellenica, by Xenophon,” I read. “What on earth is it?”

“A most interesting account of military prowess,” my father says. “Xenophon was an ancient Greek warrior.”

“Of course, Papa,” I say. “I’m trying to finish hemming before suppertime, but I’ll take it to the vicarage first thing in the morning.”

“No, the vicar is waiting for the book,” my father states. “Please do so at once.”

I see that my father’s jaw is set. He seems to be vibrating with a kind of wordless excitement, one that I instantly interpret.

“You’re having another argument with the vicar, aren’t you?” I ask, with a sigh. “And I suppose The Hellenica proves your point.”

“Exactly,” my father says with satisfaction. “Riggs will be quite surprised.”

I sigh again, “Must I go this very moment?”

“You could… do your hair,” my father says, waving vaguely at me. “After all, no one has seen you since your return.”

I make my way upstairs, thinking about that. No doubt the villagers are agog with excitement. Certainly by now they know all about my stint as a nursemaid in the castle. The realization makes me put on my second-best gown, a fetching pale blue one caught up under my breast with navy ribbons. I have a bonnet to match, a silly little thing that emphasizes the color of my hair.

Once in Little Ha’penny the first person I see is the baker’s mate, delivering hot rolls to the Biscuit and Plow. “Aye, so you’ll be a Luna as of Saturday,” Mrs. Deasly says comfortably. “When I think of you as just a little scrap, coming in here with your nursemaid, I can hardly believe you’re all grown-up. Your hair was like sunshine, even then, and you were the prettiest little thing I’d ever seen. It’s a lucky girl you are, Miss Paisley!”

“Yes,” I say, smiling at Mrs. Deasly. Even if I have to marry Rodney, I have loved and been loved, and that is more than many a she-wolf could say.

As I approach the village square, I see the vicar in front of his church, chatting with the blacksmith. Father Riggs is a gentle, stooped man, as dear to me as a grandfather. He is standing under an oak tree. The sun is slanting through the boughs, and his black cassock is dappled, as if it has been spotted with rainwater.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, my dear Miss Paisley. And it will be my honor to perform your wedding ceremony on Saturday,” he says, rocking back on his heels.

I can’t quite manage a smile, but I nod.

The vicar draws a little closer and scrutinizes my face. “My dear, are you...” He stops and begins again. “Often those of the fair s*x feel a trifle reluctant to marry, but I assure you that the rewards of being a dutiful and loving mate are remarkable, and realized not merely in heaven.”

I nod absently. I’m wondering whether a broken heart ever scars over. I return my attention to the vicar when I see that his face has grown soft and regretful, as if he were consigning me to the gallows rather than the altar.

He puts a consoling hand on my arm. “I will certainly…” But at that moment I hear the clatter of horses’ hooves on cobblestones and my heart bounds. Surely it is Theo at last! I spin about so quickly that the priest’s hand falls from my arm. It is…

It is Rodney.

As soon as he sees me, he jerks his head to the two young men riding with him. They withdraw to the opposite side of the square, and Rodney swings off his horse. For a moment, he simply stands before me, his face tight, before by an effort of will, it seems, he regains his habitual sleepy look.

At last, he bends into a bow. “Miss Paisley.” At the bow’s lowest point, I see that he will be bald quite soon. Bald as an egg, likely.

I curtsy, and hold out my hand to be kissed. “Beta Rodney.”

“Ah, the dear betrothed couple!” Father Riggs chortles beside me.

We ignore him.

Rodney takes my hand in his, raises it to his lips, and doesn’t release it. “Paisley,” he says, with a windy sigh. “Ah, Paisley.”

I say nothing. Instead, I look at Rodney as a naturalist might examine a specimen, cataloging the thinning hair, the arrogant yet indolent slope to his chin, the genuine… yes, genuine… affection in his eyes.

“I am sorry,” he says finally, still clinging to my hand.

I force my mouth to curve upwards, but pull my fingers away. “It’s quite all right.”

“I… I didn’t understand. I was slightly mad, I think. Your beauty is intoxicating.”

I don’t think he is mad. I think that he is simply lustful, and that he will always be lustful. It is part of Rodney, together with his fleshy thighs and his warm eyes. I know in that second that he will not be faithful to me. Not Rodney, not once he is an Alpha. He will rove on, cheerfully deflowering maidens in barns, or perhaps even inns.

But at this moment, he is all mine, for good or ill. He snatches up my hand again, and holds it tightly. “I love you,” he says, turning his shoulder on the vicar. “I love you, Paisley. I’ll do whatever you wish.”

I can see that he means it. Rodney will frolic now and then with a willing she-wolf… in a barn or otherwise… but at night he will return to me, with that love shining in his eyes.

For a second I feel as if I can’t breathe, as if I am trapped behind a pane of glass, looking out at a world I can’t touch. Panic fills me, the suffocating fear that I will spend the rest of my life without ever being in the arms of the person I love.

And all the more suffocating for being always in the arms of a person who loves me.

Dimly, I become aware that I am swaying, my heart clenched at the thought of the life that lies ahead of me. Father Riggs squeals something, begins fanning me with his hat.

Rodney pulls me to his chest, smashing my nose into his coat. I smell starched linen and sweat. I am held there for several moments, lights playing behind my closed eyes, like the dappled sunlight on the vicar’s cassock. My heart is beating in my ears as loudly as if a hunting party is pounding through the forest.

No…

It isn’t my heart.

I pull away sharply and turn to see a great party, all on horseback, slow to a walk at the beginning of High Street. They are gaily dressed in the brilliant embroidery and silks of royalty. There are grooms in scarlet livery, and even a coach following, its scarlet trim glittering in the sunlight.

“the Goddess Almighty,” Rodney mutters beside me.

The horses prance down the street, their riders smiling and nodding to the villagers trotting from the cobbler and the smithy.

“It’s better than the fair!” I hear someone say shrilly.

But my eyes are fixed on the rider in front, a man who is not wearing the exuberant embroidery of his royal brother nor the scarlet livery of the groomsmen. Nor is he wearing shining armor.

He is riding a snowy white horse. His costume is one my own father would have chosen: a dark, dark green coat with a snowy neckcloth. It is not ostentatious, but it proclaims the wearer a gentleman.

Perhaps, even, a member of a high pack.

Perhaps, even, connected to a royal family, albeit a non-English royal family.

I step out from the shadow of the oak, my arm sliding from Rodney’s hand.