Page 94 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“Green. Yours?”

“Red.”

“Naturally.”

“Your first kiss?” He raised an eyebrow. She refused to blush and raised hers back. “A couple would know these things about each other,” she pointed out.

“Aye. It was Molly Mackinnon, behind the blacksmith’s forge in a village in Orkney. I was fourteen. Her mother chased me with a broom. Molly threw a fish at her.”

“A fish?”

“There is an abundance of fish in Orkney. And she was very cross with her mother.”

“Over you.”

“Aye, but most of the time as well. We were fourteen, you ken.” His brows lowered. “Your turn.”

“I can’t remember.”

He growled softly. “Play fair, songbird.”

“No, I truly can’t remember. I traded the memory so I could buy the spell on my red cloak. And Turkish delight for the Pegasus. It turns out he doesn’t even like Turkish delight.” She shrugged. “Do you play any musical instruments?”

“Not a one.”

“I can play the pianoforte. Well, I could play it. It’s been many years. I might be rubbish now.”

“Do you miss London?”

“I miss the ices from Gunter’s and the ducks on the Serpentine. Do you miss it? Being here on Lyonesse?”

“No.” He did not elaborate. And he did not look away from her either. She felt rooted.

“When did you decide to become a curator?”

“When I was on a trip with my idiot friend from Oxford in the Black Forest. He found a box marked with sigils. And then he opened it.”

She whistled. “He was an idiot. I thought Oxford students were supposed to be frightfully clever.” Everyone knew you did not open a buried spell box or a witch’s bottle. And you definitely did not disturb the graves of old witches. They tended to be peevish.

“Now, what is it you really want to know?” Aidan asked. “I can smell the hesitation on you. It’s like dandelions.”

“Dandelions have a smell?”

“Everything has a smell to a wolf.”

“All right, then. When were you turned?” she asked. “Is it rude to ask a Lycan that?”

Aidan stared out at the waves. Several gulls landed nearby, waiting for Sorcha to provide them treats. “It can be, but you can ask me anything, Sorcha.”

“But you might not answer.”

He inclined his head. “But I’ll answer you now. It’s been four years.”

“Four years?” She was surprised. He wore the wolf as if he had always worn it. She didn’t know how she knew that; she just did. Or perhaps the wolf wore him.

“I was bitten.”

“Oh. I should have realized.” Lycan who were not born Lycan were turned. She wondered if he had sought it, as some did, but she suddenly did not want to ask.