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“Alwyn, do not!” Tabitha struggled against the snake Shifter’s hold and found it as pointless as she suspected.
“Men in love,” Asquith crooned. “So predictable.”
Without hesitation, Alwyn Changed in front of everyone into his magnificent lion: he shook his spectacular mane and roared, his fangs like razors, his paws enormous and bristling with his claws, his shoulders and chest wide, his coat gleaming a tawny brown. He stood head and shoulders above all present, his height and breadth bigger than that of alionlion—muscular, lethal, enraged.
Asquith laughed. “I shall simply kill two birds with one stone.” She pricked Tabitha’s neck with the blade and coaxed a line of blood to flow down her neck.
Alwyn leaped in front of her, paws on the edge of the stage, roared again; the other large predators in the crowd Changed, wolves and stags and one enormous chestnut horse, in an explosion of aggression, as each snarled and howled and reared up on their hind legs. The show of force concealed the actions of three small creatures gone unremarked during the spectacular transformation: all at once, a frog hopped onto the hem of Asquith’s skirts, a bee swarmed around Asquith’s head, and a goat nipped her on the knee. In that second of inattention, Tabitha slipped out of the snake’s grasp. The bee stung Asquith in the eye; she screamed and dropped the knife; the frog promptly sat on its handle.
“That will do.” His Highness, entirely forgotten, stood and gestured to his nearest attending footmen, who took the lady author, shouting and thrashing, into custody.
The wolves and the stags and the horse bowed to the bee, the goat, and the frog; the audience followed their lead to honor their ingenuity. His Highness nodded his head in tribute, infinitesimally, it had to be said, but it was noted by all.
The lion stood at her feet as Tabitha rose; she touched the graze on her neck, the blood flow already slowing. She waved off her brother, her friends, and stood at the edge of the stage. The lion shook his mane and growled.
“Silence!” Tabitha exclaimed. The lion froze. “Were I able to growl, Your Grace, it would be I who ought to do so. How dare you? How dare you put yourself in such a position when you knew her intent? You are reckless and thoughtless and rash.” The lion looked to his comrades, who backed away slowly, then looked to his liege, whose slowly blooming smile promised no help from that quarter. Tabitha limped one step forward, winced, and the lion growled again.
“Hush! You accuse me of such rashness, of not considering you and your feelings, and did you even for one instant think of me, what it would do to me if you were taken? You claim I am yourvera amorisand yourconio—conincto—that Latin word, and make the choice you made? You claim me before all without allowing me the same courtesy? All of that, and yet you would throw it away in a fit of, what? Pride? Arrogance? If this is how you behave—”
To the astonishment of the audience, who had watched Tabitha as avidly as though she were Miss Elizabeth Yates enacting the role of Rosalind, the beast rolled onto his back, exposing his belly. He tilted his head, showed her his neck, and purred at her. All of a sudden, she was in complete and utter sympathy with O’Mara: she raised her voice as she had never in her life.
“Do not! Do not do whatever that is you are doing, in front of all here, not after the risk you took!” Oh, dear: that was far too strenuous on human vocal cords. “We shall speak, sir, believe me we shall, and it will be at my discretion and at my convenience.”
Tabitha’s exit was impressively executed, and a burst of applause saw her off.
As she limped away, she heard Mr. Peasley cry, “Is there any need for traveling players in this locality at all?”
Twenty-One
Tabitha stood at the paddock fence. Felicity’s alpha mare was making a show of ignoring her, letting her know whose turf she was on. Tabitha respected that. She had come with an appropriate offering; she knew who owed obeisance here.
Tabitha unwrapped the chunks of carrot in her handkerchief. She had dressed with some care, as after she visited with the mare, she was expected at the Hall for tea with the Osborns, by request of the dowager duchess.
No complaints from her: anything that put off the inevitable confrontation with Alwyn was welcome.
“Here, lady,” Tabitha called. “I bring you tribute as one who is an admirer of the Duke of Llewellyn yet also lacks patience with masculine hijinks.”
It was the carrot, not the sentiment, that drew the mare over…wasn’t it? “Honestly, if I did not know you were ahorsehorse, Delilah…” The mare nipped the proffered treat and chewed slowly, assessing its quality and, Tabitha imagined, her own character.
The next chunk was duly accepted, and Tabitha was bold enough to reach out and pat the horse’s neck. This resulted in a nuzzle of her shoulder. She gave Delilah a good scratch on her withers, and the horse laid her cheek against Tabitha’s own.
Tabitha leaned against the fence and the horse, who had moved as close as she could. Slowly but surely, she let the mare take her weight along the breadth of her neck. What a relief, to lean on a creature so much bigger than she, so much stronger, who invited it, welcomed it. Tabitha inhaled the scent of horse, of grass, of earth, breathed again, and the events of the previous day and weeks slotted themselves into perspective.
It was as she had said to Timothy: every step along the way had led her here. Every time her mother had been in danger of dying in childbed, Tabitha learned how to tend her more effectively. Every time she was treated as less than by her parents, or by those who sought her aid, she determined to learn a better cure, a more palatable tonic. She expected to be loved by her mother and father in return for her facility, but that had not been the case. So she thought the world might at least reward her for her knowledge, and it had and brought her here, where nothing she had learned was useful in its practical sense but more in the essence of it: in her approach to talking to people, through her calm, and—yes, Timothy—her composure.
It was in her nature to be all these things because circumstance had deemed it so. She would no sooner let a villain hold sway than she would allow someone to remain in pain if she could alleviate it…if they asked her to do so. Both were choices, the first hers, the second theirs.
So she had no right to dictate anyone else’s choices.
“Oh, Delilah,” she sighed. “More apologies are in order today.”
The horse nibbled at her shoulder as if in agreement and stepped away. Tabitha produced the last portion of carrot and stroked a hand down the mare’s face. “I think you are a greater healer than I could ever be.” Delilah snorted and, with one last brush of her muzzle, pranced off to boss around the rest of the band.
***
Was this place good enough for his mate? Alwyn had asked favors throughout the Close and been met in excess of what he asked: the bee had provided candles and honey for her tea; the goat brought his excellent cheese as well as offerings from other farmers and cultivators in the pack, so there was food enough for a day and a night and a morning; the frog, to Alwyn’s everlasting surprise, had arranged beautiful sprays of long grasses and wildflowers set in ceramic vases thrown by Mrs. Grice the potter, with whom Tabitha had bartered.
The sheets were pristine and delivered by a bold little mouse, and he’d replaced the utilitarian curtains with the delicately embroidered set she’d brought. How they had been sewn up so quickly, he did not know. He wished he had a coin or two to give, but she was able to practice her curtsying on him, so he reckoned they were even.
