STEP EIGHT

Never, Under Any Circumstances, Make a Public Scene

Like a good girl, Teddy waited to turn into a jittering wreck on the way home, thank heavens. Her first comment explained why she’d been so quiet throughout the evening. “Oh, those werewolves, so blunt with their implications. Around the dinner table, no less. I declare, I hardly knew where to look or what to say.”

Faith hid a smile and imitated Teddy’s accent. “To be sure, cousin, even breathing seemed a risk at times.”

“Now you’re teasing me, Faith darling. But be serious, we are like sisters now. Do you really want such a thing as that? I mean to say, should you marry Major—”

“Now, Theodora, don’t tempt fate,” interjected Mrs Iftercast.

Teddy corrected herself. “Should you marry into the London Pack, then, well, that would be your life. Every night sitting around that table with those big loud men.” She shuddered. “Hardly bears contemplating.”

Faith thought it sounded wonderful.

Colin said to his sister, “Teds, don’t be a ninnyhammer. I’m sure Faith feels the same about your prospective future spent mucking about with horses and mulch and oats and sheds and bally whatnot.”

Faith nodded vigorously.

Colin gestured. “See there? Mother, now that you’ve got the girls sorted, could we get on to me and Miss Fernhough? She’s such a marvelous pip. I tell you. The pippiest.”

Teddy took Faith’s hand while the rest of the family attempted to convince Colin that no matter how pippy his Miss Fernhough, she was still too young.

“Of course, Faith dear, if you like him, then I am with you ’til the bitter end.”

“Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that, but thanks, Teddy.”

Accordingly, Faith became even more determined in her pursuit of one arrogant blond werewolf. The pack was on her side. The Iftercasts were on her side. Surely even Major Channing could not stand against all of them?

Faith decide to seriously strategize. She began to research. She made enquiries. She learned all she could about werewolves in general and the enigmatic Major Channing in particular. His war record was extensive. His reputation was colorful. His previous relationships were temporary. His history before he became a werewolf was… absent. Oh, there were rumors: that he’d been a sculptor and then a soldier, and that he’d been bitten in battle during one of Napoleon’s many wars.

She learned that his current place of business, BUR headquarters, was located in Fleet Street. She sourced his other haunts. His club was Claret’s. He preferred to walk and to run on Blackheath and not in Hyde Park. His contacts and compatriots were primarily within the War Office, the Home Office, and the military barracks.

She found a painting of a white wolf bent and drinking at the edge of a half-frozen lake, the world white around him. The artist was skilled, breezy in his brush strokes so that the very stillness of the image hinted at a burst of motion soon to come, the moment that the wolf looked up and noticed he was observed.

It cost more than she could afford and less than it was worth, but she bought it anyway and sent it ’round to Falmouth House, directed to Major Channing.

He had sent her courting gifts. Hunted rocks and laid them at her feet like fresh kill. She would do the same.

She found a pair of slippers made of rabbit fur and, highly amused at her own daring, ordered a size she hoped would fit, and sent those next. Directed to Major Channing, with no inscription, and no return address.

She thought it likely that he’d find such trinkets very annoying, and that the others would laugh at his expense. But then, late at night, he might put on the slippers and look at the painting and think of her.

Her campaign was probably going as well as she could hope. She hadn’t seen Channing in several days, but Biffy positively beamed at her when she dropped by the hat shop.

“What are you up to, little American?” he teased. “Our boy is flustered. I’ve never seen him flustered before.”

“Killing him with kindness,” said Faith.

“That’s no joke. With Channing, it might actually kill him.”

So, she was feeling almost optimistic.

Until her parents came to town.

It was Teddy who told her.

“Oh, Faith, you’ll never believe it, but your mother and father have just arrived in town. They are downstairs in the hallway.”

Faith felt sick. “What?”

“Apparently, Mums wrote them. Ages ago, right after we visited the hat shop the first time. Mums was so chuffed, you see? After such noted attention from Lord Falmouth, she felt certain we would be announcing your engagement imminently. And to a werewolf, no less, exactly as your parents wanted. Then, when Major Channing began to avoid you, she forgot to write again to warn them off. It likely wouldn’t have done any good. They had already set out across the Atlantic. They came by steamer, if you would believe it? Not by dirigible. In this day and age, so old-fashioned. No offense.”

“Well, they are old-fashioned, but really, Mother hates floating.” Faith was still in shock. There’re here. Why are they here? Mother hates London. It’s full of monsters.

“Oh, heavens!” Faith collapsed back onto her bed. “Do they expect to stay here, too? Is there room for them? And if not, will I have to go with them to a hotel?”

“Why, Faith, you’re trembling. Of course you must remain with us regardless. You will stay here with us! You’re proper family.”

“But… appearances.”

“Hang appearances! I’m sure Mums will make the offer, but it would be very cramped quarters if they accepted. You’re already in Charlie’s room, so Cyril and Colin would have to double up. They hate doing that.”

“My parents can afford to stay somewhere else.” Faith was upset on her host’s behalf. “Trust me, Teddy dear, you don’t want them here.”

Teddy nodded, glumly. “I told Mums they were perfectly horrid to you. I thought Mums understood what that meant. But you know how absentminded she gets. And she never takes me seriously. She’ll invite them to stay. We can only pray your parents understand the limits of this household and decline on the basis of convenience.”

“Agreed,” said Faith.

Teddy eyed the door. “Should we go down, do you think?”

“I suppose it would look strange if I didn’t. They’re my parents, after all. Save yourself, Teddy, and stay up here.”

“I should never let you go into battle alone!” Teddy was fierce.

Faith pressed her cousin’s hand. “You are a dear and loyal friend.”

So it was that Faith and Teddy marched down the grand staircase together. Faith clutched Teddy’s burly little arm for support. Teddy wore a militant look upon her round face. Faith looked calm and collected, only the dampness of her grip betraying her weakness.

It’s silly, really. It’s not as if I didn’t live with them for twenty-four years. But for the last few months, in London, Faith had felt both free and safe. It was the best she had ever felt. The Iftercasts had given her a home for the very first time in her life, a true sanctuary. Now, knowing it was possible to find family a comforting environment, the very idea of returning to the withered bosom of her former life seemed not only unfair but cruel.

Fortunately, Faith’s parents still did not want her. But they did want to see what she was up to.

They had taken rooms in the Beaumont Hotel, and there was no space for Faith there.

“We hope you don’t consider us officious, imposing our wayward daughter upon you a little longer? Only until this engagement, at which you hinted, comes to fruition.”

Mrs Iftercast blanched and looked desperately at Faith. Faith shook her head slightly. By all means, let my parents think I have the protection of a pack along with a prospective husband.

“Speaking of which, Faith, where’s your maid?”

It was such an entirely unexpected inquiry, and such sudden focused attention from her mother, that Faith started. “Minnie?”

“Why, do you suddenly have some other maid?”

“She’s not here.”

“Not here. What do mean, not here? Have you misplaced her? Are you going around London randomly scattering maids to the four corners?”

“No. She’s on loan to my seamstress.”

“What?” Mrs Wigglesworth went positively purple about the face. “Why on earth?”

“Minnie is handy with her needle, and my need for dresses outweighed my need for her assistance at home.”

“Well, that explains the appalling state of your hair.”

Faith touched her coiffure, a perfectly innocuous twist pinned to her crown with a few curls arranged down one side. Nothing offensive or particularly special about it.

Mrs Wigglesworth persisted. “Where is this wayward maid, exactly? Give me the address of your modiste. I’ll go retrieve her immediately.”

Faith blinked, surprised. Never had her mother taken much interest in Minnie. A daughter’s maid, once safely situated, was beneath Mrs Wigglesworth’s notice. They were not at odds, not even after Faith’s disgrace. Minnie had never been blamed. Faith supposed, if she thought on it at all, she would have said her mother utterly indifferent to Minnie’s very existence. Why the attention now?

Before Faith could protest or make excuses or anything else in an effort to protect poor Minnie, Mrs Iftercast, in a desperate move at mollification, gave Faith’s mother Mrs Honeybun’s address.

Faith could only hope Minnie was able to hold out.

Faith had, truth be told, been anticipating a conversation regarding termination of services. Minnie seemed far better suited to Mrs Honeybun’s employ. The shop had grown popular amongst the more daring set of sporting young ladies. After the original Miss Wigglesworth, favored intimate of Lord Falmouth, was known to acquire all her dresses there, the orders fairly floated in.

Minnie loved it. Faith was happy to see her so pleasantly situated. There were far more opportunities for a girl in such a skilled position than there were as a lady’s maid. It would be nice if one of them got what they wanted out of London.

Mrs Wigglesworth, address in hand and apparently satisfied, returned her attention to the matter of Faith’s position. “So, this engagement?”

Mrs Iftercast said in an effort at diversion, “There is a reception of some note at the National Gallery this evening. Would you like to attend? Many of London’s celebrated supernatural luminaries will be there. You know, vampires and werewolves. Art events are considered neutral ground.”

Mrs Wigglesworth pursed her lips. “Sounds awful.”

Mrs Iftercast blanched. “Oh, but if you wish to see Faith’s…”

“I suppose, if we must.”

“You go,” said Mr Wigglesworth. “I’ve business to conduct while we’re here.”

His wife looked even more sour than usual at being thrown to the wolves. “Oh, but—”

Faith braced herself, prepared for her mother’s temper to make an appearance.

“Very important business, my dear. Remember?” Only that tone in her father’s voice could quell her mother’s wrath. Faith winced. What were her parents up to?

She simpered. “Oh, yes, Hubert dear. I remember.”

Accordingly, it was with a heavy heart for all concerned, even the Iftercasts, who were beginning to understand how lucky they were to have received Faith (and not one of the other Wigglesworths) into their happy home, that they set out for the gallery that evening. The party was composed of Mrs Iftercast and her daughter accompanying Mrs Wigglesworth and her daughter. The gentlemen, to a man, had bowed out.

Channing had no good reason for being at the National Gallery that night, but he was grateful for it, in the end. He was not surprised when Faith entered the gathering along with the Iftercast ladies. If anything, he was delighted, although he did not let that show in word or deed.

There was one other female with them – an older, sour-faced rabbity woman with beady eyes. Much to his shock, instead of playing any kind of game, Faith led this new female directly towards him.

Ulric was standing next to him. “Who’s that with our little Faith?” He was already sounding protective. As if she were pack.

“Another American,” snorted Channing.

“How do you know? Have you met her before?”

“No, but would you look at her? Americans always gesture the biggest and walk the slowest.”

“Our little Faith is not like that.”

“Stop calling her that.”

“You would prefer I said your little Faith?”

“Hush, Ulric, they’re approaching.”

Faith had desperate eyes.

Channing instantly wanted to do anything to make that look go away. He made a small bow to her and the strange female, as did Ulric.

“Gentlemen, allow me to make my mother known to you? Mother, this is Major Channing and Mr Ditmarsh, of the London Werewolf Pack.”

The female gave them both a highly offensive once-over. Her narrowed eyes seemed to judge them lower than dirt.

My lovely, bright girl came from this creature?

“You’re a werewolf?” Her voice could strip wallpaper.

Channing was too old to bandy insults, but he did enjoy it so. “You are a human female?”

The lady bristled. “I bleed red, sir!”

“It was not the human part I questioned.”

The woman did an interpretive fish expression before going red about the ears and whirling to her daughter. Her voice was now cold and vicious. “He’s not what I expected, daughter. Not at all what I wanted. I don’t know about this.”

Channing went to say something even worse, to bring her attention and anger back to him and shield Faith, but Ulric beat him to it.

Ulric might enjoy abusing Channing as much as possible amongst pack-mates, but he would never stand idly by and permit anyone non-pack to abuse him. Ulric glared at the repugnant female. “Major Channing is a decorated soldier, the head of a powerful government body, reasonably tall, and passably good-looking. He has all his teeth, all his hair, and all his limbs. What more could you possibly wish for in a son-in-law?”

“Oh, but Mr Dickswamp—”

“Ditmarsh.”

“Mr Dickmark. I meant no offense to your – how do you say it? – pack-bud.”

“Pack-mate,” Ulric gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Whatever. I meant to say that I expected something less. Even with that attitude, he is probably too good for my worthless daughter.” Faith’s mother whirled back to face Channing, looking up at him, her face contorted with disgust. He was not sure if that was for him or Faith.

“You don’t know my daughter very well, do you, sir, to be actually interested in marrying her?”

Nothing upset Channing more than a mother abusing her own child. This woman was beyond repulsive. They were in public! To say such a thing about her daughter when others could overhear? Is her intent to humiliate me or Faith or both? “I know her as well as can be expected, given the restrictions of polite society.” He would not defame Faith’s character, no matter what had been done to her in the past.

“He’s a good man, Mother. Please don’t make a scene. Please, your temper.”

Mrs Wigglesworth wrinkled her lip. “He is not a man at all. I’m shocked you caught him, girl. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Channing blinked a moment. She sent Faith here believing she would fail? Why?

Faith was looking ever more desperate. As though she was trying to hold her mother back, hold her silent through sheer force of will. Channing hurt with the need to fix this. But he did not know how. Mrs Wigglesworth would not shut up, and she was Faith’s mother, after all.

People were listening in now. Mrs Wigglesworth’s voice was strident and nasal, carrying throughout the gallery. Channing had grown accustomed to Faith’s accent, but Faith’s voice was calm and smooth, nothing like that of this woman.

He looked down his nose at the female in front of him. She didn’t smell right, either, drenched in perfume – chemical flowers and some dead animal’s musk. That kind of thing was banned at parties in London. This whole situation was, well, appalling. Channing should know; he had done a number of appalling things in his day.

“My daughter won’t make you a good wife, sir.”

She continues to sabotage her own daughter? What is going on here?

His Lazuli looked down at her feet and whispered. “But, Mother, I thought you wanted me to marry a werewolf.” Clearly, she was confused, too.

Channing growled at Mrs Wigglesworth. “She is perfect. Do hush yourself, woman. No one here cares for your good opinion.”

“You’re making a mistake,” warned the lady. Although Channing hesitated to use the word lady. Creature suited her better. Or was that an insult to other creatures?

Faith obviously did not know what to do. Admit to an attachment, which her mother had once wanted, and prove she had succeeded as instructed, yet be totally undermined? Or admit to no attachment, which her mother now wanted, and be told off for failure? Mrs Wigglesworth had put her daughter in an untenable position. No matter what Faith said, her mother would have an excuse to attack. Which Channing suspected was the woman’s real objective.

Finally, Faith admitted, to her slippers, “We are not engaged.”

“Well, fine, he’s safe from you and your corruption, isn’t he? Good thing I arrived in time to warn him, isn’t it? Did he have his way with you, too? Did you let him, you whore?”

“Mother!” Faith’s voice was cracked and quiet.

“She is broken, Major Channing. If your intent is honorable and decent, you should know that she is neither.”

Faith had begun to cry now. Silent tears rolling down out of those blue eyes. Her fists were clenched as well. The tears were humiliation; the fists were fury.

Channing felt sick. This, then, was Mrs Wigglesworth’s objective. To humiliate her daughter on two continents. Revenge for some perceived slight to family name or her own petty vanity. Channing would not have it!

Mrs Iftercast made herself known at this juncture. She put an arm about Faith’s waist. “I thought you came to see her settled, cousin. To give your blessing. We all thought you had come to London so the correct forms could be observed.” Mrs Iftercast’s voice was trembling. Her round face and cubby form fairly vibrated with offence.

Channing said, wishing it was his arm offering comfort, “I begin to think this female crossed the Atlantic merely to shame her daughter in my eyes.”

He leaned forward so his mouth almost touched Mrs Wigglesworth’s ear. He wrapped one large hand about her upper arm, holding her in place.

“Don’t touch me,” she spat, “you beast!”

He spoke so quietly, only she could hear him. Well, maybe Ulric could, too, with his supernatural senses, but he was pack, so that was fine. Although with all the murmuring and shocked exclamations at the public scene, his words were masked.

“Madam, you are the mother of the woman I love, and all the things you think I do not know about her, I know. This act of sabotage of yours is petty and foolish, for it will no more dissuade me from anything I chose to do than your piss could divert a river.”

She gasped at his crassness and struggled against his grip.

“Stay still, or you will see what kind of monster I am.”

She froze.

He continued to hiss in her ear. “Faith is ours now. You will leave this country and never return. You will not speak to her. You will not write to her. You will not even look at her again. You think what you have done here, now, ruins her in the eyes of London society? We control society.” He tilted his head towards Ulric’s imposing form, hovering protectively near Faith. “I will drag your name through the gutter as a liar and a mad zealot who comes to destroy her own daughter’s relationship out of hatred for the supernatural. Do you think they will side with an American over me? Over us?” He flicked the fingers of his free hand once more towards Ulric, who was at his most gorgeous and pompous. “We are the London Pack. You are nothing. And if you think we will try to preserve your reputation because it is tied to Miss Wigglesworth’s, well, then even as I dirty your name, you can be certain I will change hers. I will give her mine. And I am one of the Chesterfield Channings.”

He let Mrs Wigglesworth go and stepped back.

“Faith,” he said, turning to the trembling girl.

She was not afraid; she was humiliated and furious. She was holding it all in, though, and looked only sad. He applauded her for this. Because while he knew her true feelings, others saw only her pretty face, her apparent fragility, and an unwarranted attack.

“Faith, come to me now,” he commanded.

She would not look at him, her head resting on Mrs Iftercast’s shoulder. Her little round cousin stood at her other side, patting her back and glaring.

“Lazuli.”

She raised watery blue eyes to him.

He held out a hand.

She took a step across the divide that separated them within a circle of gawking onlookers. She brushed past her frozen, vibrating harridan of a mother.

He tugged her to him, against his chest, in front of all the assembled.

She gave a little sigh and relaxed infinitesimally. Her smell, sweet cake and candied fruit and intoxicating spirits, flooded his senses.

Ulrich stepped after her, bracketing and shielding her figure with his bulk, hiding her vulnerability from the eyes of others. His brother warrior, protecting his love’s unprotected back. As it should be.

Channing said, “Mrs Iftercast, take your cousin away from here.”

Mrs Iftercast nodded, still disgusted with Mrs Wigglesworth, but they had all come in the Isopod together. They must leave that way.

Mrs Iftercast was made of solid stock. “Come with me, Mrs Wigglesworth, and I will return you to your hotel. Theodora, stay with Faith. You, sir, Major Channing, I expect a formal announcement in the Times for tomorrow.”

Channing grinned. He had thought Mrs Iftercast quite silly, but there was iron in her.

“Of course.” He nodded, arrogant and regal. She is mine now. Curious that his reluctance to remarry was so easily put aside when his Faith needed him. Needed rescuing from her own family. He had realized it must be bad. Not only her childhood growing up amongst such people, but the way they treated her after she fell from grace. The apparently unpardonable sin of exploring her own passion.

Even if I fail her in marriage as I failed my first wife. Even if I am not strong enough for this. She will have the pack. She will have my pack. I can give her that. They will take care of her if I cannot. He looked at Ulric; his pack-mate’s face, so impossibly handsome, was furrowed in concern even as he scanned the crowd. On guard for further attack.

But the crowd was with them. They either did not care or, more likely, did not believe the strange older American woman who had hurled abuses at Miss Wigglesworth.

Miss Wigglesworth was the toast of the town. London had adopted her. She was their American! How dare another American threaten her? She had taken it upon herself to tame one of the most untamed werewolves in all the ton. It wasn’t as if Channing had ever been considered eligible. She was welcome to him, no one else wanted him, and they were happy to have her. A Channing tamed by an American was better than an untamed Channing.

Besides, while it made for an embarrassing scene to witness, it was also particularly juicy gossip. Not the least of which being that everyone who was present at the National Gallery that evening knew now that the one werewolf who’d sworn never to marry (well, never to marry a second time, for those whose memories were long enough) was actually engaged.

Faith had never suffered through anything more mortifying in her life. After Kit and the discovery of the full repercussions of her indiscretion, things had been very, very mortifying. Her mother had been privately cruel, her temper had flared even more than was normal, but she had never publicly shamed Faith before. Faith supposed that in Boston, her mother cared, while in London she did not.

Then to have Mrs Iftercast and Teddy come to her defence, and Channing come to her rescue. Now to find herself engaged! Why, it was as if successive waves of different emotions crashed over her, buffeting her, until all she felt was saturated, shipwrecked, and gasping.

She awoke from the deluge to find herself still curled against her werewolf. His arm, strong and sure, was around her. His scent, wild and masculine, was all she could smell.

“Ulric,” said Channing, “clear us a path. Let’s get our girl out of here.”

Faith found herself moved carefully through a hushed crowd, out of the gallery, and through other showrooms until they were in some small forgotten part of the museum.

“Shut the door, Miss Iftercast.”

“But, sir!”

“A moment alone with my betrothed is all I ask. It will not be long enough for me to ravish her, I promise.”

The door closed.

Faith said, with confidence learned from her own mistake, “It doesn’t take all that long.”

Channing snorted. “It does if you do it properly.” Cool fingers pressed her chin up. “Lazuli, look at me.”

“My eyes are all red.”

“Your eyes are beautiful and you know it. Here, blow.” He pulled out a handkerchief, and Faith made it soggy and tried to repair herself a little.

“So, you won,” he said.

“This isn’t exactly how I wanted it to go.” Faith trembled. They had had such a game going between them, and now it was all over and she had trapped him into marriage, because he had a kind heart and he pitied her.

She took a deep, shaky breath. “I owe you an explanation, Major.”

“I think you may call me Channing now that we are engaged.”

She was arrested. “What’s your first name?”

“That is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Channing is both my first and last name, because my parents thought they were being particularly cheeky or because they were idiots. I don’t know, I never asked them. They died in an experimental yeast fermentation accident when I was three.”

She blinked. “There’s so much I don’t know about you. And there’s so much you don’t know about me. I should tell you. I must tell you, now, before this engagement is made public.”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“Fine, before it’s made any more public.”

“I know the worst of your sins, my Lazuli.”

“No.” She marshaled her courage. “You don’t. That wasn’t the whole of it. Otherwise, I would have contradicted Kit’s boasting. I could’ve lied. Werewolves have so little standing in Boston, and Kit was only a claviger. He could’ve said I flipped my skirts for him, and I could’ve denied it, truth or not.”

“That is not your style.” He had such confidence in her.

“No, it’s not. But you’ve seen my mother. She would’ve hidden me away, kept me trapped in my room, stopped me from saying anything, and denied it all publicly. In fact, that’s exactly what she tried to do. But it wasn’t possible, you understand?”

He stopped breathing and drew away from her.

Faith’s skin went all over tight and tingled with fear. But she would do this. She owed him honesty. She owed him all her truths. He might keep his own past hidden from her, but she would not be so reticent. If they were to have anything together, it must be based on honesty.

“What happened?” She knew that he did not want the truth, but he asked because she needed him to. Faith loved him for that.

“There was a child.” She flopped her hands open in a helpless gesture. “It only takes one time, did you know that? Well, I didn’t. But apparently, only once.” She gave a humorless little laugh. “Lucky me.”

He closed his eyes, clearly horrified. “What happened to the baby, Faith?”

He is no longer calling me Lazuli. She swallowed, her throat parched.

He grabbed her shoulders, pressed her back so she must lean into his hard hands or fall. His gaze was impossibly cold and fierce.

“What did you do to it?”

Faith understood, then, some small part of his past. Not all, of course; he would have to tell her the rest. But she understood the signs of betrayal in others; she had felt it so often herself. “Channing, I’m not her. You know that, don’t you?”

“What. Happened. To. The. Baby.” A small shake each time.

“I lost it. Late in the pregnancy. Too late, they tell me. I wonder sometimes if the baby knew, somehow, that it wasn’t wanted. So, it rid itself of me.” She looked away, closed her own eyes. “There was a lot of blood. They wouldn’t even tell me if it was a boy or a girl.” She hated describing it. She wanted to shove the memory back where it belonged, locked away as if in the smallest corner of the bottom drawer of her specimen case. A deadly little treasure, like a chunk of cinnabar, that she knew was there, that she had collected, but that would destroy her if she took it out and handled it, dwelt upon it.

He made the funniest sound then, a lost whine-whimpering, and drew her back against him. Arms gentle. But she didn’t deserve comfort, so she pushed away, forced herself to go on. I’ve got to get this all out now, or I won’t have the guts to do it later.

“No,” she said, “Let me finish.”

“No more,” he begged.

She overruled him. “It damaged me. The baby damaged me, tore me open. Inside.” She took a little sip of air. Almost there now. “The surgeon – they had to call him to stop the bleeding – he said… He said I could never have another. Even if the seed took, I’d likely die in the attempt.”

“So, they set you to net a werewolf. Because a werewolf cannot get you pregnant.”

“See why I didn’t fight it? One moment, one stupid, stupid choice, with one stupid man, and this becomes my only option.”

“I become your only option.”

She shook her head, desperate for him to understand. “I still wanted something more, something better. Although I know I don’t deserve it.” Faith could feel her voice cracking, breath hitching. I’ll not cry any more this evening. Enough of that.

“Not that I think I’m worth any form of loving. I just didn’t want my existence to end as well, there, like that, with the baby. Do you see?”

“Oh, Lazuli.” He tried to reach for her again. His face was pained and pulled into harsh lines. Ice cracked open under stress.

She held out her hands, palms forward – wait. This was like lancing a boil and she must pour out all her confessions like pus, ruining herself in his eyes forever. I don’t want your pity!

“I wanted you. You know I wanted you. You were not a second choice, or my only option. You’re glorious and perfect, and grumpy, and angry all the time, and secretive with your past. There are horrors there. I know there are. But it’s different for you. It’s different because you’re a man. And you’re immortal. And you have a pack. You still have everything. No matter what happened to you, don’t you see how lucky you are?”

She looked down at her hands, struggling to keep the tears in. “And my baby died, bled out of me and taken away, stealing all my futures alongside. And I wanted you despite that, just a taste of what might have made it all worthwhile, do you see? Because I couldn’t imagine anything after that. I couldn’t imagine anything being good or kind or decent or whole ever again.”

“Lazuli, I am none of those things.”

She was fierce at him all of a sudden. Feeling her grief shift into something much easier to handle – rage, power, defence of that which she found worthy.

“No. You’re not. You’re not good or kind. You aren’t decent or whole – but that’s the point. Don’t you see? I think we could be those things for each other. Us. Together.” Her shoulders sagged. “Although I would understand now if, knowing all this, you don’t want me anymore.”

He snorted. A moment of his old arrogance, the tilting curl of a sneer that had first pulled her towards him.

“Wanting is not the problem, Lazuli.” He cocked his head. “May I touch you now?”

She nodded.

He pulled her close and cradled her against him, and pressed his face hard into her neck, inhaling her scent. He did not kiss her. His hands were chaste even as they rubbed her back.

Faith had never felt such comfort.