With the fire then crackling merrily away, the pack sat all together at their cushions, and the wedding feast began. Beatrice had meant to abstain as discreetly as she could, depriving herself further in the hopes she’d remain too weak for portal-calling. But she was famished by then—a feeling she was most unaccustomed to—and the food was simply too good.

So she had her fill of fine cheeses and fig preserves and honey-glazed duck, eating it all on butterbread toasted over the fire. And when Arron took his sharpened sticks and cooked spiced sausages in the flames, she ate those too, and happily.

The moment began to glow, as special moments do while they crystallize into cherished memories. Gathered in the lantern-strung gazebo alongside her pack, with Arron just then beginning to pluck at his lute and night birds calling in the distance and the mountain laid out at their feet, Beatrice realized that she was truly and completely happy. As the others finished with their food and began to joke and talk, she quite nearly forgot the threats looming at her back.

Jemison bantered along with Darcy, recalling a misadventure in accidental art theft in the first week of their acquaintance. Charles watched the fire and fed the crows bits of sausage, clearly lost in thought but smiling absently.

If I could just squash down my power forever, I could have a whole lifetime of moments like this, Beatrice bribed herself. It was strong motivation indeed, and she hoped it’d be enough. That she would be enough.

And not too much.

“And now the dancing!” announced Darcy as the closing comments on the account of the theft were made, standing up and clapping her hands together. Stepping away for a moment, Darcy and Jemison worked together to clear aside most of the blankets and cushions. And when they were done, Darcy offered both hands to Beatrice, who of course accepted them.

Arron’s tune took a more lively turn, and before she knew it Beatrice was whirling around the fire, clinging to Darcy for dear life. The knight danced like a demon, furiously and beautifully. The fire was a blur at the corner of her vision, Darcy’s hands warm points of electric contact on her skin.

And then there was laughter and grumbling as Jemison dragged Charles up to join them, while Gray’s crows flew overhead in circles about the fire, weaving mesmerizing patterns through the air. Arron swayed as his deft fingers worked the strings of his lute, a warm smile curling at the fullness of his lips as he watched all the rest of them.

And then he began to sing, a bitter-honey ballad of longing and loss and love and new beginnings, and Beatrice’s knees grew weak.

Darcy tightened her grip on her.

“Ah, he still sings as well as ever,” she said.

“Yes,” panted Beatrice, working to catch her breath now their pace was slowing. “And it hurts my heart all the more to think at how I’ve offended him.”

“Oh?” Darcy’s brows drew together. “He’s said nothing of it.”

Beatrice frowned. “He won’t speak to me,” she explained. “Or even in font of me, though now he’s allowed.”

“Ah,” breathed her wife. “You have not offended him, my lady. He cannot speak in front of you, it’s no choice he’s made.” They slowed still further, circling the fire and each other with a lazy fluidity that with Darcy, was easy.

“It’s just…how he is, as though his speaking voice is stolen away whenever anyone is about to whom he isn’t entirely accustomed or for whom he doesn’t care.”

At Beatrice’s obvious distress, Darcy smiled.

“He likes you, I promise,” she whispered, leaning in so close that her lips nearly brushed Beatrice’s ear. She shivered as Darcy drew back. “In time, his voice will come to him. But then, I haven’t known him to be particularly loquacious, and he warmed up to me some months ago.” She pulled a face. “Ah, well, eight years and some months.”

Arron began the opening chords of a new song, and, having danced twice together already, Darcy released her to the others. She partnered first with Jemison, who took great delight in her blushes and stammering. Their song was altogether too lively for much conversation, and she was glad of it, so badly did he tie her tongue. Though he actually wore a shirt and waistcoat for the occasion, he’d left off the cravat—and his spirit stone glinted bare and blue, a mere hands-breadth from her face. What was more, his scent bloomed stronger the longer they danced together, flooding her senses with its tart and sugary sting. When it was over and Charles’ turn had come, he brought a hand up to cradle her face.

“Welcome to the pack, Lady Fox,” he said, scuffing her chin a bit with his thumb. Then he was off, clasping hands with Darcy for the next dance.

“So, Lady Stagston,” began Charles as one song flowed into another, his voice a murmur only just audible over the music as they circled one another. “What think you of your new pack and home?”

She blinked, and met his gaze, and had no idea what she would say. And then she spoke.

“In the short time I’ve been here, my lord, I’ve been terrified and confused at turns, rebuked and welcomed, threatened and consoled. Told I must leave as soon as possible one day, and that I must stay forever the next.” The words streamed out of her, and she wondered at her candor. “I have been, unendingly, baffled and overwhelmed. And yet, right now, I truly am happy. And I am grateful.”

He listened with dawning despair, though he didn’t miss a step in their dance. But at the last, hope sparked in his eyes and he smiled cautiously.

“I never did promise we were an easy lot, or ours a simple life,” he said. “But for all our scars, and all our troubles, I’d take no other.”

One of the crows swooped low, brushing her shoulder with a velvet feather as it passed, and she frowned. Would that I could dance with Gray, as well.

“Perhaps it is uncouth to ask, my lord,” she began, her voice a hush. “But I wish to understand. Why does Gray not shift, and what…what happened to him? And Arrons eye—”

Charles’ expression grew clouded.

“Forgive me, my lady. Those are not my stories to tell, nor my wounds to bare.”

“O-of course, my lord,” answered Beatrice, feeling keenly the sting of her misstep. “My apologies.”

He assured her no such thing was necessary, and they spoke no more. But when Jemison wrested the lute from Arron’s grasp, Charles kissed her hand before giving it over to the flustered wolf shifter. He looked surprised with himself as he turned away, as though he hadn’t meant to do it. But it made Beatrice smile.

Then she looked up to Arron, and seeing her expression, his own glowed with pleasure. The hand which had laid as cold support beneath hers now curled warm and firm around it.

Jemison played horribly, and so they laughed and tripped their way through the dance as the crows squawked and cawed—perhaps thinking to improve the song themselves. Beatrice didn’t mind at all, for the merriment of her pack and Arron’s hands around hers and his scent filling her lungs were altogether as wondrous as his singing was, which was saying something indeed.

By the time they all made their way back down to the manor, Beatrice was most exhausted. She drifted in a hazy place between hope and apprehension, happiness and sorrow. But when they stepped back through the manor doors and all those who were shifted resumed human form, Darcy turned to her and extended her arms.

“May I?” She inquired.

“I beg your pardon?” Beatrice’s hand fluttered up to her spirit stone, as it was wont to now whenever she was flustered.

Off to her right, Jemison scoffed.

“She wants to carry you through the threshold.”

“But we’re already inside,” babbled Beatrice, more tired even than she realized. A moment later, she took his meaning.

“Oh, right. Yes. Of course.” she said in a faint voice, quite nearly swooning.

Laughing, Darcy caught hold of her bride and lifted her up off her feet as though it were nothing at all.

“Let us away, Lady Stagston,” she said, and with that turned on all the others and strode off with her as Jemison whistled and Charles and Gray called their goodnights at their backs. Beatrice relaxed, allowing her cheek to rest lightly against her new wife’s chest as she was carried away.

Darcy’s bedchamber was warm, the air fragrant with the scents of woodsmoke and of the mage herself. The rose petal notes in her aroma perfumed the air with particular strength as she set Beatrice down on the black stag’s hide rug beside her bed.

“My lady, I’m afraid this is where I must break with tradition,” said Darcy as she began to remove her jacket.

Beatrice stared at her without quite realizing it, rather distracted by the sudden strengthening of Darcy’s aroma and a much-improved view of her shoulders.

“Oh?”

“I believe the planned arrangement was that you and I should both sleep on the bed together, that our scents might mingle in the necessary ways. Perhaps not the full tradition, but certainly close enough for many arranged and reluctant couples.”

“Yes, madame,” said Beatrice, hesitant, eyes riveted on the lady’s bicep as she handed the jacket off to an attending Suit and set to work on the waistcoat.

“I’m afraid I must insist upon an alternative course. I shall sleep there.” She indicated the leather-cushioned couch that faced the hearth. “And you shall sleep for the first half of the night upon my bed. Then I shall wake you, that you might return to your own suite and I my own bed, thus merging my scent with yours.”

“Oh,” said Beatrice again, uncertain whether she was more disappointed or relieved by this proclamation. “M-may I ask why, my lady?”

“I would get no sleep, were I next to you,” she said, eyes darting away and to the fire. “And even were my attentions welcome, there are things I cannot…that cannot allow, wed or no, until I am absolutely sure.”

“Sure of what, my lady?” inquired Beatrice as her blood turned to ice in her veins.

Darcy took a deep, uneasy breath and shook her head.

“I know it’s remarkably unlikely. But regardless, I must be certain that you’ve no power before I can ever allow the full consummation of this marriage, should you even desire such a thing. Because I could never live with myself if…if…”

“Say no more of it, madame,” said Beatrice, fighting to speak easily, to maintain an ordinary tone of voice. “I understand perfectly.”

Passing her waistcoat off to the Suit, Darcy took up a decanter and a glass from a small table to one side of the hearth.

“Would you care to join me for a nightcap, my lady?” She asked, pouring a measure.

Beatrice hesitated, imagining for a moment herself curled up at Darcy’s side before the fire, the pleasant burn of brandy in her throat as she let herself just be, as she sank into her wife’s extraordinary presence, into the comfort and instinctive pleasure of the Call. But of course it could not be so.

“No, madame. I thank you, but I am most exhausted.”

And so Darcy inclined her head in acquiescence.

“Very well, Lady Stagston. I shall bid you a good night then, though I’ll be right here should you need anything, of course.” She moved around to the front of the couch, then paused.

“Oh, and I fear I must ask that you sleep undressed entirely, to release as much of your scent as possible. But on my honor as a knight, I shall keep my eyes turned away. And there is a dressing gown there,” she pointed to a hook near a door which Beatrice supposed must lead to a washroom. “For when you must return to your chambers.”

“Yes, of course,” said Beatrice airily, voice jumping upward an octave. Darcy smiled slightly and turned to face the fire, taking a seat at the couch.

Beatrice undressed quietly, as though that would somehow make her less naked in the knight’s presence. Then, slipping beneath the dark, heavy bed coverings, she lay on her side and hoped that Darcy could not feel her gaze at her back. When she dreamt, she dreamt of her.

She woke some time after to sudden movement and cursing, bolting upright with the sheets clutched to her chest. The hearthfire had reduced to bare embers, and Darcy was hunched over the bed like some towering ghoul, teeth bared.

“Who are you?” she demanded, those golden eyes of hers wild and only just visible as they searched Beatrice, her pupils contracting suddenly as they alighted upon her foxstone.

“Witch,” she growled.

“No! I’m not…Dame Stagston, it’s me!”

Darcy snarled.

“I’m Beatrice Bara—Stagston. Your wife. Don’t you remember—?”

But the look in Darcy’s eyes was all the answer she needed.

“Be still, witch,” she said, her left hand twisting into a sign of summoning. “And it will be quick.”