Page 72 of A Wolf for Winter

Except Allen wasn’t here.

And Prue had an accomplice that he obviously hadn’t found yet.

As Darren Morton arrived, selecting a stag mask and sending Rose a lustful look, Lilac suddenly had second thoughts about picking a doe mask. She’d selected it in hopes of further rousing Allen’s prey drive, but now it seemed like she was meant to partner with Darren. She shuddered at the thought. She’d leave the brute to her sister, but only after a warning.

Lilac grabbed Rose’s elbow, pulling her in close. “Be careful tonight, just in case.”

“Always am,” she replied, smiling. That smile was for her mountain man, who had the crowd parting like minnows before a shark as he made his way over to them.

“Rose, I’m serious.”

Rose wiggled away. “I know, Lilac. Yeesh, lighten up.”

Darren stopped a respectful distance away, bowed, and extended his hand. “Lady Hawk,” he greeted, referencing her mask.

Rose practically jumped at him, taking his hand and allowing herself to be twirled away. Her girlish giggle was a lance through Lilac’s gut, jealousy rising that her own beau was nowhere to be found.

Alone, Lilac suddenly found herself at the mercy of a dozen suitors, a recovered Landen and a two-sheets-in-the-wind Brandon among them. She gave them all pretty smiles and weak excuses before a new wave of people demanded her attention—repeat customers. Lilac’s delight at being barraged by endless inquiries as to when she would have new stock available for purchase soon turned to dismay. These people were near-rabid for her potions, and they weren’t taking “I don’t know” for an answer. Edith, ever the clever friend, diverted their attention to another sign-up sheet and vague promises of when the next wave of Potions by Lilac would hit her shelves in the Fireside Tales Book Shoppe.

Freed from both suitors and customers, Lilac fled to the mask table under the guise of assisting the newcomers. In reality, she was smuggling a new mask into each pocket of her ostentatious Victorian dress. She even stuffed one into her satin purse. If James Bond could change out a license plate to avoid detection, then surely a mask switcheroo would keep everyone guessing until Allen arrived. With his towering, strong build and that wolf mask, he’d scare anyone away from her, keeping her all to himself.

She shivered at the prospect.

“Lilac.”

Her name came harshly to her ears—someone had been trying to get her attention for some time.

She whirled. “Boar?”

Her brother in his tusked mask (how fitting) held out his arm. The candlelight glittered on the green velvet and gold brocade, turning the tips of his brown curls golden.

“The Lighting of the Stars?” he prompted.

“Oh thank the Green Mother,” she muttered, quickly taking his arm and leaving the pack of bachelors behind. As they walked to the center of the ballroom, she rose up on tiptoe. “Do you see Rose?”

“Of course not. She’s probably in a corner somewhere trying to suck that man’s tongue out of his head. She’s randier than a rabbit.” He snorted. “But she knows the cue music and this is her favorite part of the Gala. She’ll show up.”

“Let’s hope,” Lilac grumbled. “Have you seen Allen yet?”

“Lilac . . ..”

“I’m not wrangling that hog off the spit in this dress,” she shot back. “The man needs to show up and do his job. There’s no use patrolling anymore. Everyone is here.” She only meant half the vehemence she put into her words—of course she wasn’t above slicing off pieces of roasted pig and serving her guests, she was just desperate to put eyes on the caretaker, to steal a reassuring touch from his hand.

“After the Lighting of the Stars, I’ll go find him,” Boar said, nearing the end of his patience. “Relax.”

“A word of advice, Boar, since you’re on the marriage mart yourself? Don’t ever tell a woman to relax.”

She released her brother’s arm and stalked off to her position on the ballroom floor. The villagers knew to back up, creating a large circle of space under the chandelier. The string quartet struck up a short but merry jig—the cue music—allowing everyone to stop what they were doing and jostle into the best positions possible to watch. It took a second or two, but Rose did appear, chugging the rest of her punch cup before shoving it into Darren’s hands. Then she pressed a passionate kiss against his mouth, rousing a bawdy cheer from the crowd. Flicking her skirts like a flamenco dancer, she flounced—a little wobbly—to her mark.

Lilac rolled her eyes. Oh my Green Mother. She’s drunk.

The music changed into a waltz, and on the fourth beat, the Hawthornes began to dance. There was no male or female part, just a single form of sweeping steps and outstretched arms. The three danced in shrinking concentric circles towards the center of the dance floor amidst the murmuring crowd. Lilac was a picture of grace, they said, Boar proud and masculine, Rose delightfully eccentric.

It was a dance Lilac knew by heart, allowing her to cast glances along the ballroom without fear of stumbling over her feet. It was a sea of masks, to be sure, but she could still distinguish a familiar body or two. But no Allen. His mask and his suit still hung on the library door nearest the Hall entrance.

Worry gnawed at her.

“Be careful,” Allen’s phantom voice warned her. “Be prepared for anything tonight.”