Werewolf fairytales

Coming home to what?

*Margaret*

“You’re married to a pirate?”

I nearly smile at Amelia Howell-Barth’s shocked expression. But not quite. Not given the sharp pinch I feel in my chest. “The future Alpha has been engaged in that occupation for years, as I understand it.”

“A pirate. A real, live pirate?” Amelia’s teacup freezes halfway to her mouth. “That’s so romantic!”

I rejected that notion long ago. “Pirates walk people down the plank.” I put my own teacup down so sharply that it clatters against the saucer.

My friend’s eyes round, and tea sloshes on the tablecloth as she sets her cup down. “The plank? Your husband really…”

“By all accounts, pirates regularly send people to the briny deep, not to mention plundering jewels and the like.”

Amelia swallows, and I can tell that she’s rapidly rethinking the romantic aspects of having a pirate in the immediate family. Amelia is a dear little matron, with a rosebud mouth and brown fly-away curls. Mr. Howell-Barth is an eminent goldsmith in Bath and likely won’t permit Amelia to pay any more visits once he learns how Fenrir amuses himself abroad.

“Mind you,” I add, “we haven’t spoken in years, but that is my understanding. His man of business offers me patent untruths.”

“Such as?” She asks.

“The last time I saw him, he told me that Fenrir was exporting timber from the Americas.”

Amelia brightens. “Perhaps he is! Mr. Howell-Barth told me just this morning that men shipping lumber from Canada are making a fortune. Why on earth do you think your husband is a pirate, if he hasn’t told you so himself?”

“Several years ago he wrote his father, who took it upon himself to inform me. I gather Fenrir is considered quite fearsome on the high seas.”

“Goodness me, Margaret. I thought your husband simply chose to live abroad.” She says on a small gasp.

I shrug, “Well, he does choose it. Can you imagine the scandal if I had informed people that I was married to a pirate? I think the Alpha rather expected that his son would die at sea.”

“I suppose it could be worse,” Amelia offers.

“How could it possibly be worse?”

She looks thoughtful for a moment, “You could be married to a highwayman.”

“Is there a significant difference?” I shrug inelegantly. “Either way, I am married to a criminal who stands to be hanged. Hanged, Amelia. Or thrown into prison.”

“His father will never allow that. You know how powerful the Alpha is, Margaret. There’s talk that Alpha Moncrieff might be awarded a second pack.”

“Not after it is revealed that his son is a pirate.”

“But your Fenrir is a beta in his own right! They don’t hang people with titles.”

I nod, “Yes, they do.”

“Actually, I think they behead them.”

I shudder. “That’s a terrible fate.”

“Actually, why is your husband a beta if his father is an Alpha and still living?” Amelia asks, knitting her brow. Being a goldsmith’s wife, she’s never been schooled in the intricacies of this sort of thing.

“It’s a courtesy title,” I explain. “Alpha Moncrieff inherited the title of beta as well as that of Alpha, so his heir claims the title of beta during the current Alpha’s life.”

Amelia digests that. Then, “Mrs. Crimp would be mad with glee if she found out.”

“She will be mad with glee,” I say, nausea returning.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s back,” I say helplessly. “Oh, Amelia, he’s back in England.” I hand over the *Morning Chronicle*, pointing to a notice at the bottom of the page.

“In England? Without informing you? And you’ve had no contact with him since…”

“The spring since we married, in ’02,” I say. “Fourteen years ago. And now he’s back in England, without a word of warning.”

“I know you’ve been living apart for years, but surely he will pay you a visit immediately,” Amelia says, reading the short piece.

“Quite likely they’ll throw him in prison before he has the chance,” I reply. My daughter Margurite runs by us, curls dancing about her shoulders. She’s lost her ribbon again.

“Did you tell him about the children?” Amelia asks, looking up from the paper.

“What was I supposed to do? Write him a letter addressed ‘in care of the South Seas’? I suppose I could have informed his man of business, but to be quite honest, I never thought he’d come home! Amelia, what am I going to do?”

“He can hardly complain about the children. He’s a pirate, for goodness’ sake. He hasn’t a leg to stand on… Oh! Do you suppose that he has a peg leg? I’ve heard of that. Or an eye patch?”

“What a revolting idea.” A shudder goes straight through to my toes at the thought.

Amelia bites her lip and puts down the newspaper. “Seriously, Margaret, you’re facing a terrible predicament.”

“I know it.”

“So your husband left England the night of your wedding . . .”

I nod.

“And now he’s coming home to three children!”