Page 48 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

He’s a jovial older man, and when he says that, he tosses a smile my way, as if expecting I’ll agree that some chores are only suitable to the “weaker” sex.

The guide continues, “Everyone here is assigned their tasks. It’s a matter of hierarchy. You have your Alpha and then your betas and so on, down to your omegas. Just like in a wolf pack.”

“Ah,” Bishop says, and I bite back a smile. More than once we’ve discussed this aspect of werewolf life, and his theories—which I agree with—that werewolves have patterned themselves after conceptions of wolf behavior, rather than actual wolf behavior.

“Is that not how the Albion Pack works?” the guide asks.

“We allot outside jobs based on skill, and of course, a wolf—a Pack member—can prove himself worthy of an easier or more influential position. Those jobs don’t always align with their position in the Pack. One might have an enviable job but not enjoy any particular status within the Pack. And status within the Pack—once beyond the inner circle—isn’t clearly defined.”

“It should be,” the guide says. “That’s what keeps everything in order. It’s all about where you come from. You’re a Danvers, and even I know that name. If you came to the Caledonian Pack, you’d automatically have status. It’s like the human world. You have your kings and then your princes and your dukes and your lords, right down to your serfs and peasants.”

“The omega wolves,” Bishop says. “Those are the ones who work in the castle here, cooking and cleaning.”

“And in the fields, doing the worst of the jobs,” the guide says cheerfully.

“So they are hoping to prove themselves and earn better jobs?” I ask.

The guide frowns at me. “No, miss. Their job is their job. You can’t start as a serf and become a duke.”

“Is that how the Caledonian Pack has always operated?” Bishop asks.

“There used to be some room for moving up, but Hamish got rid of that nonsense. He likes structure and discipline, and look at how we’ve thrived.” He throws open his arms as we pass through the courtyard. “Full to bursting. Werewolves are pack animals. They understand structure and discipline. They crave it.”

“I’m guessing you come from an old and established family?”

The man’s chest puffs. “I’m a Campbell, miss. Second cousin to Hamish himself.”

Which certainly explains why he sees no problem with such a strictly family-based hierarchy.

“Your Pack is enviably large,” Bishop says. “A testament to your Alpha’s excellent management.”

The guide beams, as if Bishop is complimenting him personally.

“And everyone’s happy with that?” I ask.

Bishop gives me a hard look, but I know it’s for show. He’s established himself as the young and admiring Alpha, so it falls to me to ask less comfortable questions. Being a mere woman, I am expected to say silly things.

“Oh, you can’t please everyone,” the guide says breezily. “There are omegas who leave. The young ones mostly. I know Hamish worries about that—the Cambrian Pack is a thorn in his paw. But I say let them go. Good riddance.” He winks over at us. “Even if it means some of the gammas need to work in the fields. They’ve had it easy. Time to get their hands dirty.”

“Gammas being above omegas,” I say. “Do they complain about working the fields?”

“If they do, we throw them in there.” He waves at a windowless stone building. “Give them time to realize how good they’ve got it.”

“Indeed,” Bishop says. “Might we take a look inside?”

The guide grimaces. “Best not, with the lady. There isn’t anything to see. Just a bunch of malcontents learning a valuable lesson. Now, over here is the main dining hall, where the men take their meals…”

The Caledonian Pack wolves are not lying dead in a ditch somewhere. They are exactly where we were told—at work. Yet even when they return, the keep doesn’t get much livelier. In late afternoon, the higher-ranking wolves return in coaches and on horseback, dressed in a way that says they do not toil in the fields.

Bishop is helping me dress for dinner when the field laborers return, and the volume increases somewhat, but it’s mostly voices, with very few whoops of laughter and certainly no pounding boots or joyful hoots and hollers.

I open the window and gaze out to see dirt-streaked men trudging to the smallest cottages, the ones I’d presumed were individual homes and I learned on our tour were more like army barracks, filled with bunks.

When I lived in Cornwall with my mother, we’d sometimes see men returning from the mines, and my mother always sighed and lamented the hard lives they had to lead to survive. That’s what these wolves look like. Marching along with dirty faces and empty expressions.

When one wolf stops to look up at me, he stares and then shakes his head sharply, as if clearly seeing a mirage and not a woman in a fancy gown. I step away and close my curtain.

Bishop motions me to a chair, where he sits with my hairbrush and pins.