Page 21 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Two hundred years later, his descendants were still paying the price. And the water still ran purple out of the well deep under the Library.

Which was why Sorcha was consistently surprised that anyone dared to cross Pippa. They insisted on equating a certain shyness with weakness. She had a soft voice, golden hair.

They had no idea of the damage she could wield.

Would never wield. But absolutely could.

Sorcha was far less restrained. And she did not have the patience for the trio of assistant professors with delusions of grandeur who huffed irritated sighs when Pippa emerged with apologies that she was not currently on duty but would send for someone.

“I don’t care—you’re here, aren’t you?” One of the patrons had a lion familiar who circled Pippa threateningly. “We need the seventh grimoire.”

“I’m afraid that grimoire is already on loan,” Pippa said, gentle as whipped meringue. Her white muslin gown lent to the effect, fluttering in that strange breeze that sometimes went through the stacks of books. Uncovered candles were, naturally, a hanging offense.

One of the Library’s cats, Cheese, leapt down from a shelf. He sat next to her, wrapping his tail elegantly around his paws before hissing. Sorcha mentally promised a saucer of milk. An entire salmon.

“It was reserved for Professor Marwick,” the most impatient of the three said. He was as handsome as a Roman statue. It clearly had done nothing to improve his personality.

“I do understand,” Pippa said softly, though her chin lifted. “But Professor Bootle had a prior hold.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

“Foisting us off on a novice.”

Sorcha sent Elderberry to dive-bomb his head. The resulting yelp was very, very satisfying. The trio turned toward her as one, all equally outraged. She smiled. Unlike Pippa, there was no gentleness to her smile, no tentativeness. She was all teeth.

One of them blinked, recognizing her. “Lady Sorcha?” Having a duke for a grandfather might not be as impressive as being a professor in Hallow, but it still offered some significance.

“Yes,” Sorcha said. “Miss…?”

“Miss Howard,” she supplied tightly.

Sorcha was perfectly aware of the woman’s name, but her time in the trenches of Mayfair had not been forgotten. Or wasted. “Ah,” she said dismissively. “Miss Cavendish, I am still in need of your help. No one else has your understanding of the books.” Novice, my backside.

Pippa turned to Sorcha, covertly rolling her eyes.

Sorcha pinned the three with a haughty gaze. “Thank you, you may go.”

“But—”

“That will be all.” Frost edged each syllable. A pigeon pecked at the window pane. Something scurried underfoot.

The assistant professors departed. Hastily.

Sorcha smirked at Pippa, who only sighed, nudging her back into the storage closet. “I sounded just like Granny there, didn’t I?” Sorcha asked.

Pippa’s real smile was like the glow of the moon on a lake. “She is rather fearsome. It clearly runs in the family.”

“Why do you let them talk to you like that?” Sorcha demanded.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” she muttered darkly.

“Have some more tea while I search for that book.”

“You said Bootle had already borrowed it.”

“And so he did. But Professor Marwick might find another, similar title equally helpful. I’ll be just a moment. You don’t mind, do you?”