As soon as Lane returned to Wardshire, she was greeted by the very excited Ms. Davon, the housekeeper. “We have a visitor, Milady” she announced. “A gentleman visitor. And quite a handsome one, too,” she added in a conspiratorial tone of voice.

Lane sighed inwardly. Not another one.

Pretty much the last thing her father had done before Morgulon had killed him, was to marry Lane off to a high ranking official of the Church, no doubt in the hope of finally being allowed to go to the First Trial and become a true priest. Maxence had been almost thirty years older than Lane at the time of the wedding. He’d also been about three times as heavy as her, with hands like hammers. The night in which they had consummated the wedding still crept up in her nightmares sometimes.

Lane hadn’t shed a single tear when his first act as lord of the manor had been to go out to cleanse the old battlefield at the border of the earldom off the Rot, never to return. She had put on a show, though, vowing to wear black for seven years out of respect to the great fighter of Mithras that had left them.

But seven years had been too short, way too short. She should have vowed to grieve for three times seven years, Lane told herself, as Ms. Davon took her coat, and one of the girls did their best with Lane’s hair. Then she would have been ugly and old by the time her mourning period ended, and even the prospect of a title and an earldom couldn’t have drawn in the suitors.

“It’s you!”

When Ms. Davon finally allowed her to enter her own sitting room, it was only David Feleke waiting for her. Lane stopped in surprise when she saw him. She had to admit, he did look good. It had been ages since she had seen him anywhere but out in the wild, tired and sweaty in his heavy hunting leathers.

Today he wore a quite fashionable double-breasted vest, narrow at the waist, with the shoulder pads that were seen all over Loegrion recently. His riding boots and breeches, too, were a lot nicer than what he wore out hunting. His curly hair was braided close to the scalp, and his face, clean-shaven and for once clear of blood and mud, was actually not unattractive, either. For a man, in any case.

Lane exhaled deeply, letting go of the aloof poise she had taken in preparation of yet another clumsy attempt to woo her. “Good evening,” she added, a little calmer.

“To you, too,” David said, and bowed deeply, as it was expected of a lord greeting a lady of Lane’s standing. “You’re looking very good tonight.”

Lane could feel herself blushing right away. Of course, he hadn’t seen her wearing a dress in forever, either.

Ms. Davon beamed, and retreated, no doubt to tell the kitchen that they would have a guest for dinner.

“Please, have a seat,” Lane said and dropped into a chair herself, quite un-ladylike. “Is this a courtesy call?”

“Not exactly,” David said. “The duke wrote to us, that he received word from you. He said, your last hunt was a successful one?”

“Oh yes,” Lane said and grinned. “You’re not going to believe who I brought back from the mountains. But I can show you tomorrow. How did your hunting go? Is Greg still with the railway?”

David hesitated before answering that question. “Not right now,” he said slowly. “There are three others now, so they have been able to split the crews and keep working over the winter, as much as the weather allowed it.”

“How old?” Lane asked. “The new ones, I mean.”

“Porter is at least in his fifties,” David said, obviously confused by the question. “Ruadh about forty, I’d guess. Oli is just a kid. Eleven, if I remember right.”

“But how long since they were bitten?” Lane clarified.

“Why do you ask?” David wanted to know.

“Something I learned over the past few months,” Lane said. “Any werewolf can kill those smallish Rot creatures that are everywhere, but the bigger ones are a fight, as Greg proved. Until they have seen about a hundred full moons. And after a thousand, even Rot queens are no struggle.”

“What’s a Rot queen?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Lane had to admit. “I’m pretty sure they’re bad, though. I came across an old battlefield, where the Rot had gathered all the bones of the dead soldiers, piled them into something like a huge anthill. That’s the kind of place where you can expect to find a queen.”

“So how do you know this?”

“Cause the werewolf I found? I watched as she killed a creature like the one Greg struggled with. Took her two bites, even after three days with a silver bolt wedged into her shoulder. When I asked how that was possible, she explained about the age. Said there was an ‘Old One’, who had protected the spring of the White Torrent. Apparently, he died a couple of years ago.”

“Great. And how old is this ‘she’ of yours?”

“I don’t think she knows,” Lane said. “But nine full moons more than you would think.”

There was a long pause. “You’re kidding, right?” David finally said.

“Not at all,” Lane replied, and couldn’t quite stop herself from grinning. “But I’ll show you tomorrow, I promise.”

David frowned, but accepted that. “Oli has been a werewolf the longest, for all that he is just a kid,” he said. “His parents hid him for years. Porter has a couple of years on him, maybe three. Ruadh, you should actually know. He was a hunter, too, bitten a few months before Greg.”

Lane nodded. She remembered the name dimly.

“So, Oli should be strongest.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” David said. “He’s only a little bigger than a great boarhound yet. Terribly cute, though.”

“And how did he survive?” Lane asked, ignoring the quip.

“His father is a knacker,” David explained. “Kid got bitten when he brought food to him, out by the pits where the dead animals are dumped. Nobody but his father saw the attack, and his parents decided to hide him. I guess there were no direct neighbours or anyone else to notice that he wasn’t around anymore, the parents apparently had him in the coal-cellar all the time. Only let him out at night.”

“Probably not something we’ll see a lot of,” Lane said.

“Unlikely,” David agreed. “But it does show that Mr. Levi had merit. We didn’t find Oli. His parents brought him to the Company.”

“It’s still risky, spreading the word like that,” Lane pointed out. “Sooner or later the viceroy or the Church will find out.”

“Funny that you mention the viceroy,” David said. “Duke Desmarais has called father to a meeting, to talk about the White Torrent. As soon as I’m back, we’ll leave for Castle Blanc. I’m not sure you need to worry about the viceroy, though. If we can convince him that a werewolf on his lands will increase the harvests and thus his profits, father reckons he might be quite in favour.”

Lane opened her mouth to protest but closed it again. Would a Valoisian official really allow a werewolf to survive?

But Duke Desmarais war famously uninterested in Church matters and religion. Feed the body, not the soul, was his motto.

“You need to be extremely careful,” Lane said after a moment. “But it might be worth talking to him, yes. Let me know what he says?”

“You’ll hear from us, sure,” David promised.

Ms. Devon was standing in the door to announce dinner. She beamed again when David offered his arm to Lane. At the table, they talked about the advancing railway lines and all the advantages they might bring. Only when they were alone again in the sitting room did the conversation return to the Rot, and how many werewolves Loegrion might need, how they might be regulated, made safe over full moon. Possibly even paid.

Early the next morning, Lane and David were waiting for their horses to be saddled. It was still dark, and Ms. Devon was worried, so everything took longer than it needed too. Lane was just about to start yelling at the old woman when a boy finally led up the two mounts. So Lane just glared at the housekeeper, until she was out of sight.

David, in the meantime, craned his neck, trying to pierce the darkness underneath the trees with his gaze.

“You won’t see her,” Lane said. “She’s very shy.”

She whistled several times as they rode on, the signal she had agreed on with Morgulon. The werewolf didn’t show, though.

“Are you sure she didn’t run off?” David asked. Probably in jest, they could both see the traces everywhere.

“Yes,” Lane said, though her heart felt like it was beating in her ears with worry. “Wait here.”

To her surprise, David obeyed as she spurred her little roan mare on. Lane whistled again, as soon as she was out of sight. Within a few minutes, Morgulon stepped out of the shadows. Lane smiled in relief.

“I need you to come with me,” she said. “To see this man, okay? So he can report to Duke George Louis that I didn’t lie about you.”

Morgulon swung her head left and right, pawing the ground nervously. After a moment, she stepped closer to Lane, gripping her crossbow gently with her teeth.

“He used to be a hunter, like me,” Lane said. “His younger brother is the werewolf I told you about, Greg. I promise it’ll be fine.”

Morgulon didn’t seem convinced. Before Lane could think of anything else, though, David stepped forward.

“She’s right,” he said, raising his empty hands. “I’m not here to harm you.”

He had left his horse and crossbow behind, and Morgulon froze. She seemed just as surprised as Lane to see the Feleke unarmed. Or maybe she was surprised that she hadn’t heard him walk up.

Damn, David had to be good, to get the drop on Morgulon like that.

“May I have a closer look at your face?” David asked.

When Morgulon didn’t move, he came closer slowly, carefully, hands still raised. The werewolf stood stiff-legged like a young foal, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to bolt or not. When David reached her, she pulled her head up and back, but still didn’t run or attack. It looked quite comical, really.

David hummed softly to himself as he stepped a little to the side, so the weak light of pre-dawn wouldn’t be blocked by his body.

“Burn scars,” he finally said. “So it really is you. Morgulon, yes?” Morgulon nodded. “Or is there a different name you prefer?”

He looked at Lane, who just shook her head. Inwardly, she cursed herself for never asking that question herself. She should have realized that Morgulon was just a stage name, something with a suitably sinister sound, not the name that loving parents gave to their first daughter.

David hummed to himself again, reaching out for Morgulon. Slowly, gently, he placed a hand on her neck, stroked the uneven fur there. When he began massaging her ear, Morgulon actually leaned into the touch.

“So the legend lives,” he said finally, stepping backwards. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We need to think very carefully how much we tell George Louis about this,” he added. “I’ll let him know that your hunt was successful, of course. But Morgulon here should be by far the oldest werewolf, and if what you said last night is true, it might be much smarter to send her up the river.”

He paused and turned to Morgulon. “Do you have a preference?”

Morgulon tilted her head quizzically.

“Lane told you about the duke and the railway?”

Morgulon nodded.

“And you told her about a werewolf protecting the spring of the White Torrent? Who died?”

Morgulon nodded again.

“So would you prefer to keep the river safe, or the workers?”

Morgulon shrugged.

“I see,” David said. “I’ll call my horse now, okay?”

He whistled and the brown gelding trotted up quickly. He didn’t even seem very bothered by Morgulon.

“You said something about breakfast in the forest,” David said, grabbing the reins.

Morgulon’s ears snapped forward at that, and Lane grinned. “Sure,” she said. “Barbecue for breakfast.”

So they swung by the main house, to pick up the game. A nice young buck, well hung. David prepared the cuts they wanted to roast, while Lane tended the fire. Morgulon was already feeding on one of the haunches.

“I’ll let you know what Duke Desmarais says,” David promised before he rode off right after the meal.

“His lordship seems like an honourable man,” Ms. Devon mentioned, as she brought Lane a letter a few hours later. “I’m just saying,” she added quickly before Lane could tell her that it was none of her business. “You can’t play the grieving widow forever, Milady.”

Ms. Devon was right, of course. A woman without a man was only half a person, as far as the Church was concerned. Lane was lucky that her closest male relatives lived hundreds of miles away and had no interest in taking the land and the title out of her hands. In fact, they had no interest in setting foot onto Loegrion at all.

The old laws of Loegrion saw no issue in a woman ruling an earldom, Lane mused. So perhaps, if Duke George Louis was quick enough, she wouldn’t have to remarry to keep what was hers.

Maybe she should make that a condition of her help to the duke’s cause?

And in the meantime:

“There is a good chance that the Honourable Feleke will be around more often in the future,” Lane said. “But it’s a little early to talk about it.”

Which wouldn’t stop the housekeeper. Lane did not doubt that word would get out fast that she and David were courting. He wasn’t exactly her rank, but the family was extremely respected and fairly wealthy. And she was a widow, used goods, as some would say...

At least, this way she would have an excuse to turn down other suitors.

A smile crept onto Lane’s face. William deVale had promised to challenge any man to a duel who dared to court her. DeVale was a Count, but a chinless, spineless, gormless peacock. Handsome, some ladies said, but vain. Lane would love to see him challenge David Feleke, one of the best – if not the best – werewolf hunters of Loegrion to a duel.