Page 63 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“Where did you come from?” Sorcha asked the goat.

Another bleat.

“I see.”

“Do you understand goats as well as birds?” Aidan asked.

“No, but I did not wish to be impolite.” She crouched down, and the goat hurried closer.

“Someone tied him to the gatehouse yesterday,” Simon called out.

The goat meandered closer to Sorcha, opened his mouth, and screamed.

Loudly.

Like someone getting stabbed.

Repeatedly.

Startled, Sorcha fell back on her bottom. She huffed a laugh. “I see.”

“I imagine they heard that in London.” Aidan frowned. “Do people often leave you screaming goats?

She smiled when the goat let her scratch his ears. “Goats, donkeys. A chicken someone spelled to sing naughty sea shanties every midnight and could not undo it.”

“Is that what I heard last night?”

“Everyone knows Sorcha will take them in,” one of the boys explained as he passed by, dragging an armful of twigs.

“I imagine you have work to do today?” Sorcha asked Aidan. “Something for the museum? Or the wolves?”

“I am doing what you are doing.”

“You don’t have to protect me,” she said softly.

He grunted. Clearly she brought out the best in him. “I go where you go.”

“In that case, I believe I shall go for a walk.”

“A walk,” he repeated. He looked suspicious. Exceedingly suspicious.

Clever man.

“But first, the feeding of the beasties is not over.”

“Isn’t it? Are there monsters left to feed on the island?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And we’re nearly out of pineapple jelly. It’s the only thing the hippogriff will eat, and it costs a fortune.” There were dukes who could not afford to eat so much pineapple jelly.

Resigned, Sorcha ducked into the drawing room, still hung with the green brocade her grandmother had favored, the ceiling trim ornate and brightly gilded. Snakes carved from jade and marble and crystal lined the mantelpiece. Among them sat a crystal horse.

“Don’t you dare sell that.” Granny appeared with a pop of irritated light. Her snake eyed Sorcha judgmentally. “It belonged to your grandfather’s grandfather.”

“You didn’t like my grandfather,” Sorcha pointed out. “Nor, I expect, did you care for his grandfather.”

“All the same.”

“All the same, I have more mouths to feed. The hippogriff is almost as fussy as the unicorn. Only worse, because he is sad.” A mournful hippogriff was surprisingly difficult to ignore.