Beatrice’s heart was halfway through breaking, sure the stone would refuse her, when it began to grow warm. Where the gem touched her skin, it tingled. And then there was the oddest sensation she’d ever known as the stone sank in, fusing with the bone beneath. She peered down at the oval of it that remained outside her flesh, holding her breath. Even now, she was still unsure which color she most hoped it would become.

But the hue resolved quickly, and it wasn’t gray, the color of Coyote, Spirit of Sky. Nor was it white, green, blue, black or yellow. It was…it was every color, or seemed to be. Shifting iridescence beset with flecks of flashing brightness like a smattering of stars.

Madame Marrionberry gasped as a shimmering mist crystallized in the air around Beatrice, swirling faster and thicker until it was all she could see. The next thing she knew, her entire body was tingling in the way the skin around her new stone had only a moment before. It was an ecstatic feeling. A shimmering, magical, dancing-in-gold-dust sort of feeling. So deliciously all-consuming that she didn’t notice her clothes vanishing, nor did she feel it as the particles of her body flew apart and reformed.

When the glimmering sensation cleared away and the iridescent haze dissipated, Beatrice stood on four black-tipped legs. A tail swished behind her, sandy hued down the length but snow-white at the end.

She blinked up at the crowd through eyes that saw the world in strange new colors. She took in their shocked whispers with ears keener than she ever knew ears could be. The shift of mood was a sickly aroma that thickened in the air by the second as the audience reacted to her transformation. But she couldn’t make sense of the word that echoed around her like a curse.

Fox.

She could not have become a fox, because no one became a fox. The Seventh Spirit was locked away from humanity, forbidden from laying claim to any of their kind. As she had been for hundreds and hundreds of years.

What was more, Beatrice could not have become a fox because that was just about the worst thing that could possibly happen to her. Worse than not transforming at all.

Panic raced through her blood, gaze flying from face to face and finding shock everywhere she looked. Belatedly, the Master of Ceremonies bent to whisper to her, but her control seemed to be slipping.

“Return to your human form now, Miss Baraclough,” she said, voice wavering. “Just imagine yourself standing on two legs once more, and it will be so.” The blanketing calm conveyed through her voice and scent had become an uneven thing, threadbare and tattered at the edges.

Beatrice struggled to focus on the thought, though the riot of whispering was hard to ignore. But after several attempts, she managed at last to hold the concept in her head for a few uninterrupted moments, and a heartbeat later found herself standing once more on two feet in a cloud of dissipating glimmer. She turned to face Madame Marrionberry, pleading with her eyes for reprieve, and the woman gave her a small nod and gestured for her to go. But her steps were stumbling, her vision blurred with tears.

Bond-father Fitz darted through the gaps in the rings of seating, coming forward to meet her with comfort on his lips and an arm about her shoulders.

“It’ll be alright, darling. We’ll set this all to rights. You’ll see.”

But Beatrice just hiccuped through her tears and shook her head. How could it possibly be alright? There was no place for her in this world. She sagged into father Fitz, who held her steady as he guided her back to the rest of the family. Sniffing and rubbing at her eyes, she looked up, stumbling a bit in her bond-father’s arms.

She scented him before catching sight of him—the feral man, Theodor’s brother. How she’d known before seeing him that it was Charles, and not the true object of her affections, she had no idea. She’d been unable to discern between their scents before.

But there he was, deep in hushed conversation with her blood-father.

The two drew apart as Fitz brought Beatrice back into the fold. Turning from Arthur, Charles’ gaze snagged on hers, left her pinned to the spot as though turned to stone. There was something coldly considering in that gaze, like a hawk sizing up its prey.

Then her family was closing in around her. Their comforting chatter and reassurances walled out the storm of scandalized discourse building about them until the bell rang again, calling an end to the disruption. With the slightest tremor in her voice, Madame Marrionberry summoned the next debut.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. One debut failed to shift, a girl from the city that Beatrice didn’t know. She wondered if what had happened to her made the other girl feel any better about her own predicament. She hoped so.

As everyone streamed back inside, the music resumed. Shortly after, the dancing began. Even then, the mysterious misfortune of the Fox debut was the topic on everyone’s tongue. Her parents huddled together, whispering fiercely to one another, Beatrice straining to catch what she could of their conversation. Were they deciding her fate, and if so, what could it possibly be?

Her sisters clung around her, the elder two politely declining the few offers they received. She urged them all to go, to dance, to enjoy themselves—and was lovingly ignored. Stubborn creatures.

“Who was that stranger who came to speak to Papa Arthur?” Wondered Helena, a fingertip trailing through the scented water of the indoor fountain whose edge they sat upon.

In answer, Beatrice obliged them all with the story of her first sighting of the man, after which each of the sisters present swore off further acquaintance with the Blackstones and abused their characters roundly.

“I’ve never liked a one of them, honestly,” declared Aribella, a little drunk by then. “A bunch of pompous, self-obsessed, empty hea—”

She stopped short and looked up just as all the other girls did. It was the scent that called them to attention. A scent of vanilla bean and pine needles edged by the indefinable pull of a Silver.

And again, somehow, Beatrice knew which face to expect.

“Ms. Baraclough,” drawled Charles, lips twisting in a smile with the words, arrow-sharp gaze struck on Beatrice. “If you’ll forgive my introducing myself?” At her nod, he continued. “I am Lord Charles Stagston, of Hygard. I believe you know my half-brother, Theodor.” He said this almost as though it were an apology. “Would you deign to honor me with a dance?”

Beatrice stared at him. Her lips parted, simply gaping at first, but with every intent of forming a response…just as soon as she could think of one. At first, she meant to refuse. She wasn’t well. She was in shock. She…

She was curious.

“You may,” she said, fighting to push her voice above the quavering whisper that she feared it would be. The result was that she practically barked the words. Unperturbed, he smiled and offered his arm.

Beatrice did her best to ignore the stares and gossip that followed them on their way to the ballroom’s vaulted central space and the cloud of couples that drifted there. As they walked, Lord Stagston spoke without looking at her, eyes fixed instead straight ahead. His arm was firm around hers, as though he thought she might faint straight away at any moment.

“I know you must be very frightened right now,” he said. “You’re wondering what’s going to happen to you. Why I spoke to your father.”

She nodded, then—realizing he might not have seen—swallowed.

“Yes,” she said, this time managing a reasonable volume.

“I’m going to make you an offer, Ms. Baraclough. One that I can’t say I feel entirely good about as, frankly, you have no alternatives.”

“I…what?” Beatrice faltered, stopping just short of the dance floor to catch his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

Breathing deeply and evenly, Lord Stagston withdrew his arm to let his hand rest lightly on her waist. The other he clasped with hers, finding confused resistance at first, and then acquiescence. Her free hand faltered for a moment, fluttering in the air between them before she let it come to rest on his chest. At his guidance, they flowed into a slowly whirling dance.

“I’m offering you a place in my home as a prospective member of our pack. A long engagement. Should you prove a poor fit, I can’t say I know where you might go next. But there would be time, at least, for some other option to be found.”

Beatrice balked, losing her footing completely as she stumbled into the next step. “Mist—Lord Stagston! We’ve only just met! I still have finishing school and…and…” Beatrice faltered, the words falling away from her like deadened leaves. All her hopes, all her plans, all her dreams. Gone.

“And what? Courtship?” His brows twisted together into an expression that looked dangerously close to pity. “Ms. Baraclough, the purpose of courtship is to give a debut her chance to get to know her prospects, that she might choose rightly among them.” He paused, as though the taste of his own words was sour to him. “But you have but one prospect. Since you are no Coyote, you cannot live with your family. There are no finishing schools for foxes, no others of your kind at all.”

He didn’t have to say the rest. The thought was already eating away at her.

No others of my kind means no pack. Ever.

“How, then, can you claim to make me such an offer?” Demanded Beatrice, doing nothing to hide the bitterness in her voice, certain now this man had no intentions beyond making further mockery of her.

“As I said, I am of Hygard, merely visiting on family business. My pack and I live outside the provinces, where there are no laws against multi-species arrangements. They may not be celebrated, but nor are they forbidden.”

For a long time, Beatrice was lost for words. They danced in silence, Lord Stagston patient as he awaited her response.

“You…you are joking, aren’t you?” she managed at last.

“I assure you, I am not,” he said. “I will swear it in any way that you like.”

“And my father…my family…they gave you permission to make this proposal?”

“They did.” He whirled her outward, her skirts blossoming around her as she spun away and then back to him, coming to rest against his chest a bit too hard, so that the impact clouded her with a heady dose of his scent. “Of course I don’t expect an answer now. Talk to your parents about it.”

She shook her head as they continued to circle one another.

“I can’t help but wonder what compels you to make such an offer, and I, practically a peasant,” the words soured on her tongue. And what kind of person was she, wondered Beatrice, to have taken such insult at that?

Stagston’s eyes widened briefly, then his nose curled in a sneer.

“I am not my brother. I have my own failings. My pack is incomplete, it eats at us all. I felt—well, you’ve heard of the Call, though you’re too new yet to have felt its edge. I hope you’ll allow me to leave it at that. As you said, we’ve only just met.”

Silence billowed between them, rich with implication. Beatrice flushed.

“How many are in your pack?” She asked, still not sure she believed a word he said.

“Five, including myself.”

“And, what kind—?”

He drew in a sharp breath through his nose, and for a moment she could have sworn she’d offended him.

“Two wolves,” he said finally. “A hyena. A tiger. And then me.”

“And you are?”

“Just me,” he said, smirking. “Just Charles Stagston, single-formed Silver.”