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Downstairs, the front door flew open as only Timothy could make it fly; she heard it slam against the wall behind it even as he called, “Tab? Are you in?”
“I—uh.” She stood and shook her skirt and petticoat into place, her hair at sixes and sevens despite the ribbon, all her lovely looseness lost. She heard Timothy take the first stair, the second, and cracked open the door to shout, “I’ll be right down, uh, yes, just—caught napping,” she called.
“Alwyn—” Gone. No surprise there. He had not stirred the air with his departure, and no sound issued from his leap to the ground.
***
Mr. Quincy had the responsibility of the bear, and it was work he took pleasure in. It had been a strange thing, coming across this tame beast as they made their way south from Scotland. They had not been long on their journey out of Inverness when they encountered the poor thing, her skin hanging off her, dying of thirst. It was not as though they could drive on; what sort of folk would do so? It was Quincy’s opinion the bear had been abandoned by a circus, for no one else would have the keeping of such a creature. It was a disgrace was what it was, and while his brother-in-law and sister agreed they could not leave her, they were less keen to tend her.
But Quincy had a gift for it, and the bear seemed to prefer him.
“You do prefer me, don’t you? You listened to me over all them dukes and lords and whatnot. What set you off, my friend? Were you frightened? I think you were.” He added more straw to the horse stall in which the bear was being kept and laid out an extra share of feed; anything drenched in honey was welcome. If the price came out of his pocket, what of it? He lacked for nothing, was living his dream of performing across the British Isles, so a few quid here or there to give the bear something she liked was nothing to him.
“You seem full of life. I have not seen you so alert since you joined our little troupe.” He set the cleaned and filled water bucket next to the oats before he stepped out. “Now, then. That ought to set you right until the morrow. Sweet dreams, if dreaming is something you sort can do.”
He slid the bolt home even as the bear rose to her hind legs and snarled. “Here, here, what is it? You need your rest if we’re to do a play for the dukes and duchesses on the morrow. Imagine that, us playing before the highest in society—oh.”
Was the bear angry a stranger entered her territory? For someone had come upon them: moonlight limned a figure standing in the doorway of the stable. Quincy walked toward the intruder to prevent them from coming closer to the bear. “Hello there. May I help you?”
“Oh yes,” came a sibilant hiss, “you may.”
Seventeen
The day of the play was at hand. The lady author had been circumspect in her movements within the Close; Tabitha had lunched with Mr. and Mrs. Peasely, the strongman oddly absent, and quizzed the coach house Becketts about Asquith’s behavior, which was apparently above reproach.
Tabitha was not taking any chances, givenversipelliansenses, and decided her brooding place beneath the chestnut tree was the best spot to meet her putative suitors. The footmen Timothy set to their tasks had no sooner returned to the cottage bearing the fruits of their labors than Tabitha asked them to deliver three notes.
The recipients approached from different directions with glowing faces, but the closer they came, the less pleased they looked. Mr. Padmore’s face naturally lent itself to dolorousness, and Mr. Giles looked more cross than upset. Mr. Beckett sighed with resignation.
“I hope I did not give the wrong impression by corresponding with you.” As direct as her wording had been—I have concerns regarding the lady author and would discuss them—who knew if that could be construed as romantic to a male of any species.
“If we had hopes, they are dashed,” said Mr. Beckett.
“The duke has made his claim.” Mr. Giles stamped a foot.
“Without going into too much detail, miss”—Mr. Padmore blinked his great big eyes at her—“you are redolent of lion.”
“Didn’t think he could manage a scenting without his essential self in good nick,” the goat whined.
“For if he were in harmony with his lion, there would be no question as to his ability to Change,” Mr. Beckett explained.
Here was an opportunity for another point of view she had not thought to consult. “I had been told if His Grace didn’t Change, he would die.”
Mr. Giles shook his head, his little beard quivering. “Us prey don’t be Changing all over the shop, willy-nilly,” he said. “It’s not the end of the world if we don’t Shift even for a month at a time.”
“And if we Shift due to a big fright, like if we’ve been taken unawares by a predator,” Mr. Padmore explained, “we like to keep to our human Shapes for a good while.”
“Often, after a shock, our essential self goes off on its own to recover until they can come back to us,” Mr. Beckett concluded.
“Goes off?” Tabitha asked. “As on a journey? To a physical place?”
The three gents looked at one another; the frog shook his head, and the goat shrugged. Mr. Beckett grimaced. “Well, just goes to a place where it takes time,” he said. “To feel…not afraid anymore.”
Tabitha cast an eye at the canopy of the chestnut tree. “Yes, I understand that impulse.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, it is not impulsive but instinctual,” Mr. Beckett said. “The higher-ups would have a different view of it.”
“Like it was cowardly.” Mr. Giles scoffed. “But it is a necessity if one is to return to full strength and trust. In one’s instincts and the world.”
