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7 | Dinner and Conversation

Seeing the Crimsonshadow Pack makes me long for home. Its landscape is filled with scrub brush and large forests of fir, pine, and aspen. A massive sand-colored cliff rises in the distance, looking as if the goddess reached down Her hand and pulled a rock from the earth. Deep furrows mar the surface like giant claw marks. The dusty road that leads into the village takes us past a massive cattle farm, hundreds of slab-sided red roan and white beasts milling around watering holes, their heads crowned with large horns as wide across as their bodies. The farm gives way to a vibrant, sprawling village with roads paved with strange red tiles. A hollow, bell-like sound rings out as the horses' hooves pull the carriage through the streets.

The air here is sweet and clean—not a hint of smoke from factories or the wretched miasma of thousands of bodies packed into too tight of quarters.

Through the open window, I hear the rush of water, then the carriage is crossing a wide bridge. Leaning against the side, nose nearly pressed against the glass, I peer out to see the river flowing beneath us, white-capped waves slapping against smooth clusters of rocks. Oh, it's beautiful!

"We appreciate your admiration of our land, Lady Wintergale," Alpha Thorne rumbles.

I pull away from the window to look at the old wolf, studying his face for the usual courtier's blandness. But he appears genuinely pleased. "It reminds me of home," I tell him. "Obviously, Stormrider Pack lies in a cooler climate, but it feels the same."

"The trees are smaller," Morgana remarks, picking at the knee of her trousers.

I chuckle softly. "Yes, but this river is much like the one back home, don't you think?"

A softness comes over the alpha queen's face and she tilts her head slightly. "Yes, it is rather like home ..."

We smile at one another, remembering our childhood splashing through the Selene River in all seasons, even though its waters would chill us to the bone. My mother would always chide us about catching a cold, but Morgana quickly assured her we were always in wolf form when we played.

"Wet fur retains the cold," was my mother's usual retort. But she'd smile and rub us down with towels before giving us hot cider to drink before the fire.

Crimsonshadow Estate looms ahead, surrounded by a high sandstone wall. We clatter off the red tile road and pull onto a wide gravel courtyard, coming to a halt before a grand stone staircase hewn from pale, sand-colored rock. Dozens of liveried servants line the staircase on both sides, waiting to spring into action.

"Welcome to my home, Your Majesty," Alpha Thorne announces.

The carriage rocks as the footmen descend. The door opens and a gamma male holds out his hand. "Your Majesty," he says politely, not looking at Morgana directly.

I squeeze back against the seat, pulling my legs tightly in as Morgana rises and exits the carriage; Alpha Thorne follows behind. Letitia exits, then the alpha's son and nephew, leaving me for last.

I drop to the gravel courtyard, stones crunching beneath my boots, and look up. The main building is a grand, two-story mansion constructed of red wood and what looks to be thousands of river stones. Its wide, peaked roof, thick beams, and large windows call to mind an elaborate hunting lodge.

It's almost identical to Morgana's estate in Stormrider territory, but a cliff looms in the background instead of an ancient forest.

A prickle of sweat upon my brow reminds me how hot it is. I sigh and tug at the collar of my jacket, turning to see the rest of Morgana's entourage exiting their carriages. Elaine, Petra, and Thara spill out, faces flushed, the starched pleats of their skirts hanging limp. Did no one think to open a window?

"You have a grand estate, Alpha Thorne," Morgana compliments, craning her neck to take it all in. "You should be proud."

Alpha Thorne smiles. "Oh, I am, Your Majesty. Shall we go in?" He extends his arm.

Morgana's lips stretch politely and she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. Like goslings following their mother, the girls sweep into position behind Morgana. And I, the handmaiden, trail after them, ascending the sandstone steps a pace behind.

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A few hours later, I'm back in a dress, being escorted to the estate's dining hall. My slippered feet pad over a deep burgundy carpet that stretches the length of the hallway. Flower designs picked out in gold and silver thread are woven throughout the carpet, a motif echoed in the huge, heavy curtains that border the wide windows. Tables both long and short with thick, scrolling legs are spaced along the hallway, each one topped with a vase of flowers, a sculpture, or a set of old books, their leather covers cracked and worn. I pause to examine the spine of one set, but it's too faded to read properly. I don't understand why books are out in the open like decorations instead of in a library. Why wander the halls looking for a particular volume?

A soft cough interrupts my musings. I look over my shoulder at the omega footman who is my escort tonight. The other girls are ahead of me; I can hear their names being announced by Alpha Thorne's herald. Their ribboned bottoms quickly disappear into the dining hall.

"Excuse me," I apologize, turning away from the table.

When I reach the door, the herald, a thin gamma male wearing a black eyepatch fixes his single grey eye on me. His nostrils flare briefly, catching my scent.

Yes, we're the same rank.

I reach into my clutch—a green and gold drawstring bag—and pull out my card. The herald takes it from my hand and holds it out. "Lady Isabel Wintergale of Stormrider Pack, Handmaiden to the Queen."

The ceiling in the dining hall is wide and open, criss-crossed with massive, rough-hewn beams. Three gold chandeliers hang from the rafters with dozens of candles illuminate the room. The walls are papered in white, with green vines printed on them. The mounted heads of bears, bighorn sheep, elk, and antelope, trophies from long-ago hunts, are displayed prominently alongside portraits of past alphas and their lunas. Against the far wall is a great stone fireplace, constructed with the same river rocks as the outside.

A long table covered in gold cloth sits in the center of the room. My escort shows me to my seat; as he is about to pull out my chair, the male to my right suddenly stands up.

Alaric Blackwood.

"I've got it, thank you," the alpha's nephew tells the footman.

My escort bows and departs to stand with the other servants along the back wall.

"Thank you," I tell him as he slides me close to the table. "But shouldn't you be closer to the front?" I've been placed far down the right side, nearly at the end, whereas the other girls are further up—two on each side. I recognize a deliberate slight when I see one, but I can't say the same for the alpha's nephew.

Lord Blackwood smiles and shrugs, taking his seat. "I suppose my aunt didn't consider me important enough tonight."

"Ah." That is odd, knowing what I do of pack protocol. Perhaps he did something to warrant a demotion. It's not unheard of.

My eyes scan the table: fine china plates with vines and violets painted on them, long-stemmed glasses, polished silverware, red napkins held in place with gold rings. Garlands of fresh flowers weave between statues of leaping elk and jumping salmon.

An omega serving girl is making the rounds with a bottle of wine. She fills Lord Blackwood's glass, then mine, before moving to the beta woman on my left.

"So," Lord Blackwood begins, taking a sip of his wine. "You and Her Majesty grew up together?"

"Yes. My parents are the pack herbologists and Morgana was often sick as a child. We just fell in together."

"Indeed?" He takes another sip. "You don't seem altogether serious, like Her Majesty."

I take a sip from my glass and chuckle. "No, Morgana was fun and carefree. The crown is a heavy burden, you know. As for me, I've always been quiet and studious."

Names continue to ring out, announcing other ranking members of Crimsonshadow Pack. The table is quickly filling up; the only ones yet to come are Alpha Thorne, his luna, son, and Morgana.

"You certainly have many eyes on you, Lady Isabel," Lord Blackwood remarks, "for someone who is 'quiet and studious'."

I don't need to look up to know what he is referring to. I snort softly and shrug bare shoulders. "Then you would be the only ranking pack member in the kingdom who doesn't know my status."

"Handmaiden to the queen?" he inquires. "It is not a new title."

I lift my eyebrows. Either he doesn't know or he is being polite. I hope for the latter. "The queen's tester? The Whore of Daroonga?" The woman next to me leans over to her left, whispering furiously.

"Ah. That." He shrugs, cocking his head slightly.

I'm not sure what to make of his reply. "Does it bother you?"

"Bother me? Why would it bother me?"

"Because many believe I am not fit for polite company."

Lord Blackwood blinks, then laughs softly, covering his mouth with one hand. "No, my lady," he says quickly as I stare at him. "I mean no offense. I just find it amusing that you would be the subject of censure for doing something we all have."

My shoulders loosen, having been mollified by his reply. "You would think so, but the wolves around Daroonga and among the great packs think differently."

"Let them talk, then," he tells me. "You have the ear of the queen. You are her oldest friend. They are simply jealous."

I have never found beards attractive in males, but Lord Blackwood is beginning to enchant me. I find myself enjoying his easy smile and kind eyes. "Yes," I say, raising my glass to my lips. "Jealous."

"All rise for Her Majesty the Queen!"

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