Page 7 of Lady Petra and the Wolf

“Stephen ought to have been better. He was very good with his hands,” Jillian noted as a flash of something like wistfulness crossed her face.

“Have you—have you heard from him?” Jillian’s brother had disappeared from England after Lord Beckforth declared him the murderer of Lady Beckforth. Yet Petra could not believe such a thing. Stephen had been the closest thing she had to a brother, always patient and kind with her. Protective in a way that she had wished for from—

“Pet!” Her father’s voice cut through their conversation and Petra had to force herself not to grimace at the diminutive. “We will be late for the theatre if you two continue squawking like peahens.”

Petra gave Jillian an apologetic smile as Jillian frowned at her uncle’s intrusion. Petra wondered if Jillian noticed her grimace or the way Petra’s skin crawled at that awful nickname. Tonight she would be safe, she reminded herself. They would be in a public space. While her father had an exclusive box at the theatre, surely it was public enough that he would not risk his usual schemes.

Petra prayed that her discomfort was not palpable as she rose and kissed her cousin on the cheek.

Mayhap Jillian’s presence would safeguard her, however briefly, from being a pawn in her father’s larger chess matches.

One could only hope.

Chapter Three

That evening, Wolf wheedled his way into Lord Kemberley’s box at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Seeing Lady Petra on the way back from the docks set off something curious and feral inside of him, telling him instinctively that he must rush this faux courtship along.

Wolf had not yet crossed the threshold of the newly fashioned theatre, which was recently rebuilt following the devastating fire that had swept through several houses of drama the year prior. Indeed, a full quarter of the neighborhood remained either a site of reconstruction or sat as a collection of scorched, skeletal remains. Wolf observed that the newly fashioned theatre was an edifice of sleek modernity, yet it somehow retained the echoes of its predecessor’s grandeur. There was a singular, almost mysterious quality to theatres, he mused, with their intricate machinery and hidden lives concealed forever behind the heavy velvet curtain. They remained quite unlike any other structure fashioned by human industry.

He offered a small, self-deprecating huff at his own maudlin attempt at philosophizing as he surveyed the interior from the confines of Lord Kemberley’s box, resolving to subject the exterior to a more thorough perusal when the hour permitted.

Reclining within the confines of his seat, Wolf observed the collective hush that descended upon the assembly the very instant the heavy velvet rose to unveil the battlements of a Danish castle. He had long possessed a singular appreciation for the acoustic alchemy of the theatre, in which a jarring, overwhelming cacophony was transfigured into a state of sharp, relentless focus within the span of a heartbeat. He savored that moment as the players assumed their positions, reflecting that the interval immediately preceding the rise of the curtain remained unlike any other, a rare instance in this life where the weight of anticipation was so bountifully rewarded.

Wolf had been intent on questioning Lady Petra over the mystery of why she had been in Covent Garden earlier in the day. However, from his seat behind her, he was instead captivated by the opportunity to observe her unmasked. Her fascination with the unfolding tragedy of Hamlet was absolute, her dark eyes remaining fixed upon the stage with a singular, rapt focus throughout the entirety of the first two acts.

He found the opportunity to speak with her during the entr’acte after Act Two. Offering to retrieve her a lemonade, he handed the drink to her and inquired:

“What is your opinion of the play, Lady Petra?”

“As it is considered one of the greatest plays of all time, I’m sure my opinion will hardly contribute to or damage Mr. Shakespeare’s reputation.” Lady Petra’s face was impassive as she took a small sip of lemonade. Wolf’s lip ticked as a burst of something like pleasure spilled through him at her response.

“I am hearing both an unbecoming self-deprecation and an indication that this is not your favorite work of art in that response.”

Wolf could almost feel Lady Petra will herself not to roll her eyes at him. He could not explain or quantify the delight this knowledge brought him.

“I am aware this is considered one of the greatest works of all time. What it says about mortality and humanity is unparalleled. But I suppose I just prefer a little—” Her voice dipped quite low so that he could hardly hear her in the echoing room. “Mystery.”

“Mystery,” he repeated, for the moment, without a witty comeback. Something dipped and twisted in Wolf’s chest as he recalled that moment before the curtain rose. The uncertainty and buzzing expectation of the unknown. Perhaps that feeling was not solely about the stage, but about the world, and perhaps it was the puzzle of this lady herself.

This perfectly lovely paragon who also disappeared around corners of Covent Garden. Who apparently longed for greater mystery in her life.

“We know very early on what happened in the story. The ghost of his father literally tells the prince that his uncle killed him in Act One. Why not allow the audience the opportunity to divine the answer for themselves? Give them more potential killers, more motivation.”

Wolf tried very hard to fight the oncoming smile her critique of Hamlet brought him.

“Do you read stories of mystery, Lady Petra?”

She regarded him with those large brown eyes for a long moment. At first he thought they were doe-like, but now he realized they held hidden depths, that perhaps there was more to her than the perfect lady he had observed for years.

“I can hardly admit to that amongst all of Polite Society, Lord Wolfridge.”

“Come, come, my lady, surely you can tell your betrothed. And you can at least call me Wolf.”

“My false betrothed.”

“False sounds as though I have done you a great disservice.” Wolf pressed a hand to his chest as though she had caused him a fatal wound to the heart.

“Fake?” She offered.