The two women crept through the smoke-stained attic, holding the skirts of their maid's uniforms to avoid the thick layer of dust on the floorboards. Water dripped from the storm's damage to the roof while they wound around furniture draped in white cloth.

"We shouldn't be doing this," whispered Annie, thin as a reed and just as tall. The hints of perspiration beneath her starched cap revealed her terror.

"We have to do something," hissed Molly, florid face pinched in determination. "She's out of control."

One of the massive support beams for the ceiling groaned like a dying beast. Both women flinched. Molly caught Annie's arm when she tried to flee for the ladder back down. "There it is! There on the wall."

They approached a circular object hanging next to a mottled window, as ghostly in its cloth as the other forgotten things.

"Do you know how to wake it up?" said Annie, making sure to stay behind the other woman.

"It seems easy enough. When I was a parlor maid at another house, the master there would use his every day." Molly reached out and pulled the cloth free. A mirror cast back their tense reflections, imposing in its size and obvious age. The elaborate bronze frame had tarnished green yet the glass itself glimmered in the soft morning light, its surface spotless as though just polished.

Now what?" said Annie, and then gasped when her reflection rippled as though she gazed into water.

"Shh." Molly positioned herself to be in the center of the mirror and spoke very carefully. "We need to talk with Miss Francine Wheeler."

The glass clouded over, magic sparking across its surface like fireflies over a dark pond. Then an image formed, a mere silhouette that flickered with color and light until it hardened into the displeased figure of the elder Miss Wheeler.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the woman. Despite the great distance between the attic of the mansion and Francine's presence in Charnak, her voice sounded as crisp and near as though she stood in the same room with the maids. Although she could only be seen down to her shoulders, it was apparent from her hair rollers and silk nightgown that she was readying for bed.

A final sheen of magic surged over the mirror before Francine said, "Who told you to contact me, and through a priceless family heirloom at that?"

"We're sorry, Miss Wheeler," said Molly, her former confidence fading into hunched shoulders and a quavering voice. "It's just that the younger Miss Wheeler—she's..."

"Out of control," burst out Annie, all reticence gone. Indeed, she sounded almost feverish while adding, "We had to reach out to you. There was no other choice."

"Now, really. Hilda is well-equipped to deal with Florence and her tantrums."

"She's been in bed all morning with a headache, miss. She even told us not to disturb her. Oh, she's been so upset from Miss Flossie's behavior. The girl won't follow any of her routines."

"She flaunts them," said Molly. "Why, yesterday she refused to get up with the rest of the household at dawn."

"Yes! She said she was tired and wanted to sleep more. She didn't get up until ten that day. And before that—"

"She wouldn't take the morphine," finished Molly. "Threw the bottle right out a window to make sure it smashed to pieces. And with the storm, none of us could go out and get more medicine. She wouldn't even move into the wine cellar afterward no matter how carefully Hilda explained to her that our lives were at risk. She's changed, Miss Wheeler. Nothing cows her."

"And worst of all, her other nature is coming out more and more," said Annie.

Francine's voice sharpened. "She's changing form without the full moon?"

The maids glanced at each other before Molly replied, "No. Not exactly. But she insists on eating meat. Refuses the usual tea and soup. All she'll say about it is that chicken tastes much better than dandelions."

Annie's words rose in hysteria. "The way she tore at the meat with those teeth—she'll be eating us to the bones next. I know it!"

"For God's sake, control yourselves." Then Francine sighed and added, "Very well. I'll speak with her."

"But we haven't even told you about—"

"It doesn't matter. Call her here."

"There's no need," said Florence, finding a path around the covered furniture in near-silence. "I noticed the ladder to the attic was down and came to see why."

"Leave us," said her sister to the maids, who curtseyed at the mirror before hurrying away, each avoiding Florence's gaze. From their expressions, they didn't know whether to feel relieved or further terrified.

In silence, Florence took their place before the mirror, refusing to show her nerves.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

In truth, Florence had expected something of this nature to happen and had already decided to be frank about her actions—to a point. "I suppose it's simple enough. I've discovered wearing silver keeps my body in one stable form. As my presence no longer puts others in danger, I can now enjoy whatever I previously avoided. Furthermore, I'm determined to find out what's wrong with me and what the cure is."

Francine studied her coolly. "You look as though you've been crying."

The abrupt change in subject startled her. "Yes. There was a storm here. It ruined the garden and split the old oak in two."

The brief words hid her devastation. Merciless winds had attacked the mansion and its property for three days, leaving nothing unscathed. Even now, she heard Luther's footsteps somewhere above while he replaced tiles ripped from the roof. He must have already nailed boards over the kitchen windows, which had shattered on the second day and drawn a string of curses out of Cook that Florence had never heard her use.

Florence knew there was no use in asking Luther for help with the garden, and in truth, there was little left to tend to. She had gone outside at dawn and found it scoured by the storm. Trees and bushes stripped of their leaves, branches reduced to stark twigs if not snapped clean off the trunk. The roses climbing the breakfast pavilion had been torn off their marble columns, while the plants surrounding the structure had been ripped out by their roots. The vibrant reds, purples, pinks, and yellows of her flower beds had been crushed into the dull brown of mud, and even the grass had washed away in places.

Somehow, she had kept her composure until reaching the old oak. It had been split in two, the pale heartwood not only exposed but twisted and splintered from the great weight of the two halves falling apart from each other. At that, the tears had been impossible to hold back, as had the urge to run hands over rough bark while circling around the tree, her heart cramping at the sight of a few still-green leaves hanging sadly from their branches.

Her sister's question broke through the lingering grief. "What happened to the swing Father hung from it?"

"Crushed." Soaked rope and shattered wood had been partially buried beneath a massive limb. Despite the futility of moving anything on her own, she'd found herself grabbing at the remains to pull them free, cheeks hot even in the chill of a clear morning. Her father's hands had carved the roses into the wood—had tied the knots in the rope. Losing the swing felt like losing him all over again.

Only the dampness of mud soaking into her gloves had stilled her feeble attempts, a sensation that shocked her into remembering they were fine kidskin instead of the sturdy boar of gardening gloves. She had stared at her hands as though blood stained them, a painful awareness joining her grief. If she wished to start a new life, then she could no longer obsess over the past, even when it felt agonizing to leave behind.

The thought now renewed her courage to face her sister in the mirror, and she matched gazes with Francine. "You look pleased by the fact."

"Why should I be? The swing meant nothing to me. Your paranoia seems as strong as ever. I had hoped that might fade during our separation."

"Maybe there's good reason to be suspicious. I went into Father's study and found his journal for the first months I transformed. Several of the pages have been ripped out, all of them from the final days before he died."

Francine's expression didn't change. "And?"

Florence refused to let the dismissive tone intimidate her. "I want to know why."

"I don't have an answer. I didn't realize Father wrote throughout those months, considering his distress over the situation."

It was a calm enough response, yet then Francine spoke again, brimming with an anger she rarely revealed. "He wasn't troubled over Victor's death, mind. Not even from hiding his body to protect you. Father never liked Victor. In other circumstances, he would have been well glad to be rid of him."

Florence remained quiet. She hadn't known that. Father had always been pleasant toward Francine's fiancé, although it was true that Mother had been much more excited about the match and upcoming marriage.

Francine refocused on her and added, "After you transformed for the first time, Father didn't know what to do. It was Mother's suggestion to keep you in the wine cave in case you changed again. We had no way of knowing you were connected to the full moon, of course. Not at that point. If you can believe it, Father refused to lock you in there, even after seeing Victor's body and what you looked like as a rabid beast. He reluctantly agreed to isolate you from the household but insisted on turning the cave into a furnished room, sleeping outside the door every night so you wouldn't be left alone. It sickens me to think of how he willingly spoiled a murderer, a mad dog, and let the rest of us fear for our lives."

"Why can't I remember?" murmured Florence, struggling to find any memory from that time. Something stirred deep in her mind, faint as an echo, but her sister chased it away again.

"Then you've truly forgotten those early months?" Francine's tone cooled to mere skepticism. "Dr. Goddard believed you had lost your memories from the trauma of your transformations. Frankly, I thought it too charitable a view of his and you were merely pretending ignorance."

Florence held her temper, aware that an argument would derail the conversation. "I remember some of the morning after my first shift in form. That's all. My next memories are of taking flowers to Mother and Father's graves for the first time."

"Perhaps Dr. Goddard was right. Regardless, those days are far past us. Why question me about them?"

Florence studied her sister's face. The enchanted mirror truly did reflect Francine as clearly as a normal looking glass, revealing the frown line always present between her eyebrows and the thinness to her neck and fingers while she wrapped a scarf over her hair for the night. She looked... human. As imperfect as Florence herself. "I want to know what Father believed to be the root of my affliction. He spent the most time among wolves out of any human, and must have had some knowledge of what was wrong with me."

"He never came to a conclusion before you killed him."

The throb of guilt from the words erased some of her determination, but not all. "He must have had theories, or at least an idea of the cure. Did he think it was a curse from one of the artifacts? Or perhaps something caused by the rites of the pack we lived with?"

"All I know is that he wrote to those creatures in the Ulflands. I never saw the letter, so I can't tell you what it said. The animals never replied, just as when we later tried ourselves."

"But he thought it had something to do with the wolves?" Florence tried not to sound desperate. "Did he have any idea why? Please, Francine. He must have discussed something with you or Mother."

Her sister glanced away, as though checking a clock for the time. "I'm growing tired of this interrogation. Do you truly believe your affliction can be cured?"

"Yes." The firmness in her own voice surprised her.

"Why?"

Instinctively, Florence knew better than to mention Tobias and how they had met. "Because we live in a city full of wolves, and some of them must know what I am. And—and I don't see why you wouldn't want to find a cure, either. You've never masked your resentment about being my keeper. Or do you prefer me to be forever punished for my deeds?"

Fraincine raised an eyebrow. "Do you believe you have any right to enjoy life? To work on your silly plants and live with the comfort of a warm bed and reliable meals now that the three people you murdered have rotted away?"

"Stop it," said Florence, shaking. "There's no reason to say a horrible thing like that."

"It's the truth, and it is horrible. You tore them to pieces. It's why I allow you to visit the cemetery despite the risk to innocent bystanders. I always hope the graves will give you the humility to accept your situation instead of complaining to me that you aren't happy."

"Then it truly is punishment."

Losing her composure had only reinforced Francine's, who replied, "For Victor, perhaps. If he had survived, we could have left and been happy. Yet Mother and Father... in all truth, I wouldn't have wanted them to be forced into caring for you. It was terrible that you killed them, yet if you hadn't, their lives would have diminished to the endless misery I now live in. Mother couldn't have had her parties. You know how she loved having company over. Then there would have been the stress of lying to her closest friends about why you couldn't travel or even be seen. As for Father, he never would have left you to go on expeditions. You would have trapped them in that mansion just like the rest of us. Love isn't unconditional, Florence. With the level of attention and sacrifice you demand from people, our parents would have grown to hate you as quickly as I did."

Numbness chilled Florence from head to toe, but she managed to say, "That's not true."

"Of course it is, especially with Father. He could never stay home for more than a few months at a time. The wanderlust, he called it. You would have taken his life no matter what. Simply, a gravestone can't resent you like a man breathing yet hollowed out by obligation."

"No." Her voice rose in anguish. "You're just trying to upset me."

Francine's eyes glinted with scorn. "How is it that you still don't understand yourself? You aren't merely dangerous but also a burden that can't be passed on. A blight to anyone you know. If you tried to make friends or find a companion like a normal woman, you'd only ruin their lives until they regretted the day they met you."

"No!" The word echoed throughout the attic. For several breaths afterward, Florence shook in silence, no longer numb but instead agonized beneath the weight of her sister's attention.

The heaviness of the silver bracelet steadied her, as reassuring as if its weight had briefly transformed into the warmth of Tobias' fingers. When she could speak without screaming, she met Francine's gaze once more and growled, "I don't care what you say. I won't spend any more of my life waiting to die in this decaying mansion. Don't try stopping me."

"You know I can't," said her sister, unruffled. "We're thousands of miles apart."

"We both know you could turn me over to the police. There's a houseful of people here who witnessed the murders."

"And bring scandal to Mother and Father's name? Tish. I loved them as well, you know." Francine's tone hardened as she added, "Yet I'll no longer protect you from any future acts on your part. Go out and do as you wish. I won't shed a tear if your impulses bring you to the hangman's rope."

Florence nodded stiffly and draped the cloth over the mirror, aware that it would break the spell. She stared at the folds of white fabric obscuring the glass, aware of her heart pounding fast and hard. If she had held any doubts about moving out to live on her own, Francine's spite had certainly erased them. The uncertain plans she'd made in the boredom of the storm now felt like a guiding light that might flicker out at any moment, infusing urgency into her movements while she ran for the ladder down.

Anger, not confidence, compelled her into the city. The newspaper she'd bought on her previous outing had proved helpful in finding an employment agency within walking distance, and visiting it seemed like the best first step. Francine locking away her inheritance wouldn't spoil her schemes; she could find a job and make money on her own.

Fallen trees and swathes of mud blocked the path in several places, turning a twenty-minute walk to the city's outskirts into a near-hour. When she did reach the first businesses, she found that they also suffered from damaged roofs and flooding. Many were closed, and she hoped that wouldn't be the case with Miss Riker's Employment Agency.

Thankfully, it was on the second floor of a seven-story building, which was well-kept enough that all debris had been swept away from its sidewalk and the shrubs at the front entrance had been clipped into new shapes to hide any damage. Worry rippled through Florence as she took the stairs up to the agency, well aware that she had to present skills rusting since girlhood to a stranger.

Miss Riker was downright terrifying. The woman's dark hair framed her face in kiss curls, a playful style at odds with her grim mouth and severe black suit. She looked to be in her early fifties and lit a fresh cigarette each time her old one burned to a nub, smoke streaming from her nostrils while she asked questions that dissected what Florence offered prospective employers.

Her verdict was as flat as her inner-city accent. "You're not good for much, honey. Let's get that right out there and deflate any false hope. Typists, bookkeepers, and librarians all require skills you lack, and few people will take you on as a housekeeper or servant without references. That leaves you with hard labor. Factory worker, charwoman, that sort of thing."

"Oh." Florence tried not to sound shocked. "I thought that, with my knowledge of plants, perhaps floral shops..."

Miss Riker was already shaking her head. "Those kinds of businesses want bubbly girls for clerks. Pretty, pleasing, and excellent at small talk. You're likable enough and can dress well, but aren't the type to keep anyone's attention."

"What about some sort of position as a translator? I'm fluent in several languages."

"Don't bother listing them out again. You need references for those jobs, too."

"I see. What are the typical wages for the positions you mentioned?"

The answer was disheartening. The amount wouldn't be nearly enough to rent a room on her own. Some of her worry must have shown on her face, because Miss Riker added, "It's still a paying job. Save up for typing classes, and you can climb your way into working at an office instead of cleaning one. There's an instructor one floor above named Miss Sturgess. Go see her for prices and times."

Well, it would be a start to things. "All right. I'll take whatever I can get."

"Here." Miss Riker handed over a piece of paper folded like a letter yet left blank inside. "It's spelled. Whenever I find you a job opening, the name and address of the business will appear. So will the appointment time. Brighten up a little, will you? Factories are always hiring."

She left the agency feeling humiliated more than anything, pausing on the stairway at the sound of typewriters clacking from somewhere above. A droning voice could be heard as well, echoing off the yellow walls. Miss Sturgess, possibly. Yet the sting of being scrutinized and declared of little worth drove Florence down to the building's exit and out through it.

Returning home felt like giving up. Instead, she decided to buy fresh flowers for her parents' graves, aware that the storm had surely swept away the old bouquets. There was a floral shop very close to the cemetery—in fact, it was across from the café Tobias had taken her to. Even as she put a hand on the door into the florist's, she couldn't resist glancing at the elegant customers sipping from porcelain cups and eating sugar-dusted pastries, searching among them for a familiar figure.

The bouquets were all very professionally arranged. Florence chose white lilies, ruefully noting to herself that the clerk was very bubbly. Outside, their rich, heavy scent couldn't quite drown out the revitalizing smells of coffee, anise, and buttercream from the café. It felt very tempting to cross to that side of the street despite how light her purse felt. There was so little coin left in it. The wisdom of pinching every penny struggled against the wish for something simple and pleasant. Perhaps she could have a final act of indulgence and add a touch of sweetness to the day before she visited the cemetery. When her stomach rumbled, impatient from skipping breakfast, she gave in.

She certainly fit in among the other customers in her new clothes, and her voice didn't tremble as she ordered a hot chocolate, determined to enjoy it this time. Her table was one of several beside the large windows that overlooked the street, and she found herself watching the traffic and pedestrians even after her drink arrived.

There in the quiet of the café, with only the rustle of newspapers and murmurs of conversation to be heard, it was easy to lose her anger over Francine's words and feel lost instead. She had spent so long following a routine set and maintained by others that she wasn't sure how to create her own. Being trapped in a life she despised still offered the cold comfort of knowing what to do each day, and now, on the threshold of making so many changes for herself, changes that she desperately wanted, her heart shrank in fear. Fear of being too sheltered and useless to make it on her own. Fear of forming an independent existence only to ruin it through her affliction.

And of course, there was the fear of being as lonely in a new life as she was now. Her stubborn heart refused to devote itself to the clear, concrete needs for money, lodgings, and stability. It begged to find Tobias and be with him, to be given the chance to beat in time with his own heart. The grief of watching him leave hadn't faded in the slightest. In every waking moment, she felt raw and incomplete.

After shaking her head at her foolishness, she sipped at the hot chocolate, determined to enjoy herself. She had just set the cup back on its saucer when a shadow fell across her from the other side of the window, as though someone peered through the glass. Hope ignited in her chest, hot and bright, and she looked over with the absurd expectation of seeing Tobias and his smile.

A very human man stood there, glancing in and then checking his watch. A female voice further down the sidewalk called his name, followed by the quick tapping of heels, and his confusion warmed into a smile as a woman appeared in view, her own expression aglow.

When they entered the café together, Florence refocused on her drink, disappointment fighting with the urge to laugh. What had she expected? That he would suddenly appear to soothe her fears and solve her problems? She couldn't afford wasting time on such fantasies anymore.

She finished the chocolate before reaching for her purse to pull out her little notebook. If she couldn't be sensible about her thoughts, then she could at least be dutiful toward her plans. The list of steps to successfully move out on her own, brief though it was, brought no reassurance as she read through it.

Find job. Find way to store earnings. Find lodgings. Find way to avoid others during full moon.

Through the window, a shadow fell over her once more. Her heart was ridiculous enough to jump again, especially when her next breath contained traces of cedar and sandalwood. She resolutely ignored the shadow as another normal man with a nice cologne, even when it lingered, and jotted down a new note.

Save up for typing or bookkeeping classes.

The shadow stepped away as she turned the page to study the amounts she had written in her first attempt to set a budget. She added class fees with a question mark, resisting the urge to chew on her pen.

The bells above the front door of the café rang with a new customer, reminding her of how she lingered over a single drink to delay a visit to the cemetery. Muffling a sigh, she put away the notebook and gathered the two bouquets. Gaze on the lilies, she rose to her feet and immediately ran into someone.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she gasped, one hand jumping to the man's chest on instinct to keep from stumbling. Then she looked up into his face and froze as gold eyes stared into her own.

Tobias grinned, one hand slipping to her waist to keep her close. He looked as magnetic as ever, in a crisp navy suit and a woolen overcoat of light grey. "I guess that's one way to reunite."

Then he lowered his head toward hers until his next words nearly brushed her lips. "Missed me?"

Her answer was something between another gasp and a laugh. "Yes."

At his soft growl, heat inflamed her, overwhelming as a shift in form but so much sweeter. Then his mouth was on hers, rough and exhilarating. The flick of his tongue left her lightheaded.

"Really, now," muttered an older, female voice somewhere to her right. "The girls these days."

Florence broke off with a blush, aware of the impropriety of her actions, but still loved how the disapproval hadn't troubled Tobias in the slightest. If anything, his irises had darkened to the color of honey in amusement. "These are for you. I figured the pansies had wilted by now."

Then he pulled back enough to show her what his free hand offered: a lush bouquet of pink and white camellias, delicate baby's breath peering out between their glossy leaves.

"They're beautiful." The pleasure of receiving a gift from him rushed through her, as delicate as spun sugar.

"I told the florist which flowers I wanted."

Then the bouquet was also a message. Her fingers brushed the blooms as she studied their colors. Baby's breath was always an easy interpretation; unwavering love and devotion. Pink camellias often symbolized longing for someone. White camellias were more complicated in what they could mean—platonic admiration, chaste purity, or sometimes the more playful message of calling the recipient adorable.

Her cheeks felt beet-red as she looked up from the flowers. The intensity in his gaze was unmistakable; he studied her as though only the presence of the people around them kept him from tearing off her clothes to taste at her skin.

"I have your devotion," she said, softly, hardly able to believe the words even though they came out of her own mouth. "And you missed me while you were gone. You think I'm... adorable."

"Especially when you blush like that."

"Thank you." Her fingers couldn't resist brushing the camellias again. Impulsively, she added, "I missed you, too."

"I'm here now." He stroked her cheek with a feather-light touch, leaving her dizzy, and then jerked his head toward the door. "Want to get out of here?"

Outside, the cold air cleared her mind somewhat, but she couldn't stop staring at him as though he might disappear the moment she glanced away. When she shivered at the idea, his nearest hand moved to the small of her back, soothing her again.

"Are the lilies for the cemetery?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

His tone grew teasing. "It's either that or I have competition."

"No, of course you don't." The idea of any other man trying to woo her felt unpleasant, even repulsive. That was strange, wasn't it? She should have taken the comment as playfully as Tobias had spoken it, especially because she had always wished for romance.

Her mind cast about for a different topic before she could grow too worried. "This might be a strange question, but did you go to the florist across from the café?"

"No. Argento's on Fifteenth Street."

"Was the clerk a pleasant, pretty girl?"

He laughed. "The clerk was a grouchy, old man. Why?"

"I'd thought of applying to florists for work before hearing that they expect certain qualifications."

Tobias nodded at the large oak they were passing by. "What type of tree is that?"

Florence studied the leaves for a breath, counting the number of their lobes, and then craned her neck to see how the upper branches extended from the trunk. "Quercus rubra. A red oak. They aren't native to this area, yet are quite common as shade in parks and urban areas because their leaves turn into stunning hues of red or orange throughout autumn."

"I think you're fully qualified to handle plants," said Tobias, wryly. "Why are you searching for a job, anyway?"

"It turns out I don't have an inheritance. Well, that's not right. I have one but can't access it without Francine's permission. You see, I decided you were right and that I needed to move out and get away from her. I visited the bank before the storm to learn the state of my accounts. And I did."

He looked grim yet unsurprised. "Thorough, isn't she? I'll help you get a place and pay the rent until you find something."

"That wouldn't be fair at all. I would be a—a burden to you." Francine's words echoed through her mind.

"Think of it as a loan if you want."

"I don't know if it'll be possible to pay you back, at least not quickly. I went to an employment agency earlier this morning and she wasn't very optimistic." Her cheeks flushed at the admission, yet somehow it remained so easy to look at him as they walked through the cemetery gates. "It seems prospective employers aren't interested in someone who's done nothing for the past sixteen years of her life. I'll have to develop useful skills. Bookkeeping or typing cost money to learn, so Miss Riker suggested I start off with menial work to pay for classes."

Tobias raised his eyebrows. "Classes taught by someone she knows? An instructor just across the street?"

"One floor above her office, actually. How did you know?"

"It's a common tactic. The instructor will overcharge you and split the profit with the agent. Did you sign up for anything?"

"No. I felt too bewildered to make a good decision." She had never considered a trick like that. "Well, even if I don't use that agency, I still know where to apply. She told me that factories are always hiring."

"Because they go through people like a meat grinder," said Tobias, with a hint of a growl to the words. His voice relaxed again as he added, "We'll get you something better."

He sounded so confident. So protective. The mere sight of him beside her, movements smooth and powerful, undid her. Every fiber of her being begged for the relief and reassurance of him guiding her through the pitfalls of living in an indifferent city among indifferent people, but she knew she had to be honest about her hesitancy in letting him help. "I'm not sure we should spend that much time together."

When he looked at her in disbelief, she added, "If we do, I'll only grow more obsessed with you."

Now she did glance away, ashamed of her next words. "I'm sure I seem sheltered and innocent, and it's true. Yet I don't want you to mistake my behavior as infatuation. It's much darker than that. I'm... I'm obsessed. You're always in my thoughts regardless of what I'm doing at the time. A painting's gold frame will make me think of your eyes. My skin memorizes your slightest touch. I now hate falling asleep because I don't want to wake up alone. These things only affect me, but I have dangerous urges as well. Before the storm, I went out among others and tried to enjoy myself. It seemed safe enough until some of the ladies began talking about you. Listening to their lust drove me as mad as a full moon. I wanted to make them bleed for simply being interested in you. My nature is too violent and greedy to accept your help without reacting badly, and you need to know that."

Their next several steps were in silence. Florence stared ahead in the direction of her parents' graves, knuckles white against the bouquets. "I fully understand if you're reconsidering your offer."

"I'm not," said Tobias, musingly. "In fact, I'm thinking of how I'd behave if any fella touched you."

"What would you do?"

"Tear him to pieces."

He sounded so casual about it that she had to pause. "You're joking."

"No." Then he sighed and faced her. "Look at my teeth if you don't believe me."

They had grown out into a deadly bite. When she reached out without thinking, fingers ready to brush his jaw, the feral gleam in his eyes darkened with a different urge.

"You're just as affected as I am," she breathed. "How is this possible?"

"I don't know, but there's no use denying it. If you're reacting badly, then I'm right there with you."

A weeping family passed by, driving them to resume a path to the Wheeler burial plot, but after a moment, Tobias said, "It gutted me to leave you and go to a client. She asked me to act like a chauffeur for a few days, so I thought I had time to cool my head and feel nothing as usual. Instead, I grew angrier over being away from you. The moment I was expected to fuck her and her friends, I snapped. Dumped them on the side of the road and drove all night to see if you were safe."

"Will you be in trouble over it?"

"Probably, but I don't care." Then Tobias laughed, a humorless sound. "You want to talk about obsession? I'm ready to drop a job I've built all my plans on for the last ten years, and it's because from the moment you smiled at me, you became the most important thing in the world."

"How is this possible?" she whispered. "We're acting as though we're..."

"Mates."

"But I'm human."

"And even if I believe I was fated to be with someone, my mate would have died with the rest of my pack."

Dimly, she was aware that they had reached the headstones for her father and mother. Her mind spun. "Then it must be the curse. You became ensnared in it just from meeting me."

The graves blurred over as her eyes burned. She remained very still, flowers clutched in her hands, because her body felt ready to break into pieces at the slightest movement. "She was right."

"She?" Tobias' voice roughened to a near-snarl, as though he already suspected the answer.

"Francine. We argued earlier, and she said my very being is a—a blight that brings misery to others. And she's right. You thought I'd be a normal client and instead I ruined your life."

Warm fingers caught her chin, gentle as a kiss. "Florence, look at me."

She couldn't. Shame seared her heart like a brand. Her next words sounded thick and broken, just like when she begged the rising moon to spare her. "Not you. I can't bear destroying you, too."

"You haven't."

"But I have! Just like with—" Her voice choked to nothing as she blindly looked at the graves. When she spoke again, it was barely a whisper. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

The words drew her gaze to his face. She couldn't have heard correctly. Yet the deep gold of his eyes held none of the anger and hatred she'd seen in Francine and the others.

"I'm not sorry we met," he repeated. "It's true that I hate losing control and that meeting you affected my long-term plans. But you are the first bright spot in my life since coming to this city. That's twenty years of gritting my teeth among humans, trusting no one and turning myself into a dog to get by. When I'm with you, I remember how it feels to be a wolf. I'm happy. Sweetheart, don't tell yourself you damned me when the truth is that you woke me up."

Her breath hitched in her chest. When his thumbs brushed over her cheeks, she realized she was crying.

"Can you believe me?" he murmured, so gently, as though he understood how hard it was for her to accept her existence as anything besides a stain on the soul.

"Y-yes."

"Neither of us know why we're tied together. Maybe we're mates and that's unrelated to the magic attached to you. Maybe you're cursed and I can break it. Until we find out the reason behind your full-moon shifts, why fight our feelings?"

"My sister says..."

"Your sister says a lot of things to hurt you in the worst ways possible. Doesn't mean they're true."

"I just don't want you to end up like Father. He trusted me, too. Yet what if—" Her breath hitched again. "What if it's better that I killed him than if he had survived? Him or anyone else?"

Tobias sighed and kissed her forehead. "What exactly did your sister say?"

It was easy to remember the words; they were etched into her mind with the acidic bite of Francine's fury. When she finished, now nearly strangling the lilies, Tobias kissed her again. "It's not true."

"There's no way to know, is there? I was the only one in the family who shared his interests, and I'm sure he expected me to add to his legacy. Yet I didn't. I ended it, and would have even if he'd lived."

"No." Now Tobias caught her face in his hands, stroking the tender areas behind her jaw that ached so badly from her tears. "Believe me, I know the pain of wondering whether your father would be disappointed. I know how easy it is to imagine his face and feel like the lowest thing alive over what he thought you could do compared to what you turned out to be. Florence, your father wouldn't be disappointed in a damn thing."

She stared into his eyes, gasping for breath as though his every word kept her from drowning in guilt. Those beautiful irises managed to look both furious and loving as he said, "From everything you've mentioned, it's clear he loved you. No matter what happened, I don't think he'd want to see you starved, mistreated, and let out only for miserable visits to his grave. Your sister admitted he refused to leave you alone in a cage. Do you think he'd want that now?"

It hurt to say the answer out loud. "No."

Minutes passed while he cradled her in his arms. A jay bird called from one of the trees overhead. Sunlight warmed the sodden grass of the cemetery into smelling faintly like a bog.

Eventually, Florence pulled away to kneel at the graves and place the lilies upon them. With hesitant fingers, she touched her mother's name etched into the headstone and then her father's as well, the granite cold even through her gloves. It was hard to imagine what he might say to her at this very moment. What would he think about how she had lived and what she wanted to do instead?

Yet perhaps he already had told her through the inscription in her botany book, the one he had gifted her on her birthday. May your curiosity continue to bloom and one day bring great things to the world.

Her eyes felt swollen yet clear as she rose to her feet again, turning to Tobias. "I think Father would want me to build a new life, one where I can be happy. And I'm going to try."

"You won't have to do it alone." Then Tobias offered his hand.

When she took it, he pulled her close enough to nuzzle at her neck. Not a kiss, but a promise of comfort no matter how immense her grief might feel. And somehow, the warmth of his touch made the rest of the world far less threatening.