A true Luna princess

Just a boy

*Isolde*

I scarcely finish my discussion with Brielle regarding the desirability of peaches over celery when our mother enters the room.

Most she-wolves in their forties allow themselves to take on a soft roundness. But, as if in reproach to her unsatisfactory elder daughter, Mother eats like a bird and ruthlessly confines what curves she has in a whalebone corset.

Consequently, she looks like a stork with anxious, beady eyes and a particularly feathery head.

Brielle instantly rises to her feet and curtsies. “Good evening, Mother. How lovely that you pay us a visit.”

“I hate it when you do that,” I put in, pushing myself to a standing position with a little groan. “Dear Goddess, my feet hurt. Rupert trampled them at least five or six times.”

“Do what, my dear?” Mother asks, just catching my remark as she shuts the door behind her.

“Brielle goes all gooey and sweet just for you,” I say, not for the first time.

Mother’s frown is a miraculous concoction: she manages to express distaste without even twitching her forehead. “As your sister is well aware, ‘A She-wolf’s whole pilgrimage is nothing less than to show the world what is most requisite for a great personage.’”

“Show unto the world,” I say, making a feeble gesture toward mutiny. “If you must quote The Mirror of Senseless Stupidity, Mama, you might as well get it right.”

Mother and Brielle both ignore this unhelpful comment. “You looked exquisite in your plum-colored sarcenet tonight,” Brielle says, pulling a chair closer to the fireplace and ushering Mother into it, “particularly when you were dancing with Papa. His coat complemented your gown to a turn.”

“Have you heard? He is calling on us tomorrow!” Mother breathes the pronoun as though Rupert were a deity who deigned to enter our mortal dwelling.

“I heard,” I say, watching my sister tuck a small cushion behind Mother’s back.

“You’ll be a Luna by this time tomorrow.” The tremble in Mother’s voice speaks for itself.

“No, I won’t. I’ll be formally betrothed to a future Alpha, which isn’t the same thing as actually being a Luna. I’m sure you remember that I’ve been unofficially betrothed for some twenty-three years.”

“The distinction between our informal agreement with the Alpa and the ceremony tomorrow is just what I wish to speak to you about,” Mother says. “Brielle, perhaps you should leave us, as you are unmarried.”

I find that surprising; Mother is fluttering her eyelashes in such a way that suggests she is in the grip of deep anxiety, and Brielle has a talent for soothing aphorisms.

In fact, just as Brielle reaches the door, Mother wave her hand: “I’ve changed my mind. My dear, you may stay. I have no doubt but that the Alpha will dower you shortly after the marriage, so this information may be relevant to you as well.

“A formal betrothal is a complicated relationship, legally speaking. Of course, our legal system is in flux and so on.” Mother looks as if she hasn’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about. “Apparently, it is always in flux. Parts of the old law, parts of the new… your father understands all this better than I.

“Under current interpretation of the law, your betrothal will be binding, unless the future Alpha suffers a fatal accident… when, of course, it would be invalidated by his death.” She snaps open her fan and waves it before her face, as if such a tragedy is too terrible even to contemplate.

“Which is all too likely,” I say, responding to the fan as much as to Mother’s words. “Inasmuch as Rupert has the brainpower of a gnat and he’s apparently going into battle.”

“‘Civility is never out of fashion,’” Mother says, dropping the fan below her chin and dipping into The Mirror of Compliments. “You should never speak of the peerage in such a manner. It is true that in the tragic event of the future Alpha’s demise, the betrothal will come to nothing. But there is one interesting provision that falls under the provenance of an older law, as I understand it.”

“Provision?” I ask, creasing my brow… unluckily just as my mother glances at me.

“‘Cloud not your brow with disdainful scorn,’” Mrs. Darkwood says automatically. Apparently, lunas remain wrinkle-free for life, doubtless because they never frown..

“If you were to...” Mrs. Darkwood waves her fan in the air. “To… to...” She gives me a meaningful glance. “Then the betrothal would be more than legally binding; it would turn into a marriage under some sort of law. I can’t remember what your father called it. ‘Common,’ perhaps. Though how a common law could have any application to high packs, I cannot say.”

“Are you saying that if I tup the FF, I become a future Luna even if he dies?” I say, wiggling my sore toes. “That sounds extremely unlikely.”

The fan flutters madly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you intend to say, Isolde. You must learn to speak the English language.”

“I expect that the law is designed to protect young she-wolves,” Brielle interrupts, before our mother can elaborate on the subject of my egregious linguistic lapses. “If I understand you correctly, Mother, you are saying that should the future Alpha lose his composure and commit an act unbecoming his rank as a peer, he would be forced to marry his betrothed bride, that is, Isolde.”

“Actually, I’m not entirely sure whether he would be obligated to marry you, or whether the betrothal would simply turn into a marriage. But most importantly, should this occurrence result in… in an event, the child will be declared legitimate. And if the betrothed were not deceased, then he would not be allowed to alter his mind. Not that the future Alpha would think of such a thing.”

“To sum it up,” I say flatly, “bedwork is followed by bondage.”

Our mother snaps her fan shut and comes to her feet. “Isolde Mayfield Darkwood, your incessant vulgarity is unacceptable. The more unacceptable, because you are a future Luna-to-be. Remember, all eyes will be upon you!” She stops to take a breath.

“Might we return to a more important subject?” I ask, rising reluctantly to my feet once more. “It seems that you are instructing me to seduce Rupert, although you unaccountably neglected to give me a tutor in that particular art.”

“I cannot bear your rank vulgarity!” Mrs. Darkwood barks. Then, remembering that she is the mother of a future Luna-to-be, she clears her throat and takes a deep breath. “There is no need for any… exertion. A man… even a gentleman… merely has to be given the impression that a she-wolf is ready for intimacy and he will... that is, he will take advantage of the situation.”

And with that, Mrs. Darkwood sweeps out the door without so much as a nod to either of us.

I sit down once again. My mother has never been very interested in shows of maternal warmth, but it is painfully clear that quite soon I will have no mother at all… merely an irritated, and irritating, lady-in-waiting. The thought makes my throat tighten.

“I don’t want to make you uneasy,” Brielle says, seating herself as well, “but I would guess that Mama and Papa are going to lock you in the root cellar with the FF.”

“They could move the matrimonial bed down to the study. Just to make sure that Rupert understands his duty.”

“Oh, he will understand,” Brielle says. “Men come to it naturally, as I understand.”

“But I never had any particular sense that the FF was of that sort, did you?”

“No.” Brielle thinks for a moment. “At least, not yet. He’s like a puppy.”

“I don’t think he’ll mature by tomorrow evening.” Puppy isn’t a bad description of Rupert, given that he turned eighteen only the week ago. I will always fault my papa for leaping into matrimony before the Alpha, and then proceeding to procreate at the same headlong rate.

It is tiresome to be a she-wolf of twenty-three, betrothed to a lad of barely eighteen. Especially a boy who is such a callow eighteen.