While the Marques de Burg, Lord Warden of Southshire, rode into the siege camp outside Port Neaf, his wife and daughter threw a formal dance at the palace. It made Greg feel odd as he followed his parents and Andrew onto the Grand Galerie, wearing his best suit and holding onto Thoko’s hand. He was grateful, too, grateful and surprised to even be invited to this event. Everybody who was somebody in the country was here tonight.

To one end of the gallery, there was a chamber orchestra set up, with a dance floor in front. The other half had long tables set up for a very later supper—to be served long after midnight. In the meantime, there was a buffet line to ensure no guests lost their strength. The event was to last all night, until in the morning, the attack on Port Neaf commenced.

It felt inappropriate, to dine on the rich buffet that the house the Burg had sponsored, and maybe dance to the soft, gentle violins while elsewhere the cannons roared.

Frivolous.

But such was life at the palace, and such were the politics played here: Music and dancing and socialising. And the gossiping about the missing guest of honour: Would Duke George Louis announce his coronation tonight? Or what else could the war council convene about on the night before the attack?

“They should have events like this on the first night of full moon,” Thoko commented when they passed by the rich buffet. “Are we supposed to spend all night eating?”

“You could also try to fill your dance card,” Greg suggested.

Thoko rolled her eyes at him. “As if anyone here would dance with me.”

“Their loss.”

Plenty of people did give them the side-eye: A werewolf and a common-born woman. No doubt the ladies de Burg were making a statement by including them, but Greg wasn’t entirely sure what the message was.

Or perhaps, there was no message at all, and Thoko and he were simply window dressing to distract from Charlene and Andrew talking far longer than his rank warranted.

Andrew was serving as the unofficial guard Greg totally didn’t need—Nathan had outright refused to come, Lane was taking David’s place at the war council, and Bram was working the room, Imani by his side. Greg pressed his lips together as he spotted them talking to a couple of young lords who no doubt dreamed of becoming famous “monster hunters” one day, too.

Greg and Thoko drifted across the Grand Galerie, Andrew sticking nearby. It was noticeably different from having David in the room. Starting a conversation was more difficult if there was no risk for the other party of angering the duke’s right hand man. The aristocrats present were more wary of Greg, and more likely to snub Thoko, too.

Even though she looked every part a lady. Better than most of the other women present, in fact, Greg thought. She had both a natural grace and beauty exemplified by the emerald gown Imani had helped her pick. And of course the elaborate hairdo. Yamikani had wrapped Thoko’s braids like a crown around her head.

Lady Pettau promptly asked who the hairdresser had been, then eyed Andrew with so much interest that Charlene materialised at his elbow.

Greg didn’t quite manage to fight down the jealousy as Andrew asked his lady to dance. It wasn’t like he wanted any of these smiling girls and women. But Andrew and Nathan were both suddenly highly desirable bachelors, simply for being David’s brothers.

That was another big betting pool: Was George Louis making David’s promotion contingent on his success on the battlefield, or was he waiting for his own coronation before he bestowed a new title on David? And which title?

No parents would pitch their daughters to Greg in any case. David could win the war for Loegrion single handedly and be crowned a duke, it wouldn’t change athing. And that was fine, really—he had Thoko by his side, and his daughters—he would have said no if any lady had asked him to dance.

But he knew they wouldn’t. Not even Berenice.

And yes, it was hard not to resent that.

Just as he resented not being allowed to the war council. He was sure all the other nobles there had aides and helpers. Not Lane. One didn’t take Nathan into a meeting like that, and she hadn’t asked Grooch. And Greg still wasn’t an option.

What were they talking about this long anyways? The big attack didn’t happen until tomorrow morning. How much could there possibly be to discuss at this hour?

“Stop craning your neck,” Thoko muttered when he checked on the doors again to see if Lane and the rest of the council were joining them yet. “Let’s hit the buffet?”

“Sure,” Greg sighed. It was half moon, but maybe having something to munch on would help his mood anyway.

It would have helped more if people hadn’t given him a wide berth, now that Andrew was gliding across the dancefloor with Charlene and not around to shadow him. But still, the food was nice—the de Burg’s weren’t cheapskates. There was some very nice seafood, making use of the new railway connections, and some classic luxuries, like the preserved wild mushrooms that accompanied a lot of dishes. Given how few parts of Loegrion were safe for harvest—or used to be safe to harvest—they were quite expensive.

Thoko wrinkled her nose at them. “I don’t like the texture,” she explained when Greg looked at her in surprise. “Fresh is fine, or freshly cooked, you know? But I don’t like them in vinegar.”

“More for me, I suppose,” Greg shrugged, and stole the slice she had pushed aside from her plate.

Thoko smiled and rolled her eyes at him. “Think there’ll be anything left by the time the dukes get here?”

“I bet the de Burgs are sending food up to the council,” Greg shrugged. “Asides,” he nodded towards a servant, “refills are coming in all the time. See?”

A man with a large serving platter was just refilling the trout canapés.

Thoko helped herself to one of them. “Not bad,” she decided. “Now what? Do we try to make nice or try to have fun?”

Greg blinked. They were here to make nice, of course, but… “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, we could dance. See if we can clear the floor.”

Dancing would be fun. Clearing the floor less so. But did she even know formal dances? He thought they had danced the night they had celebrated the completion of the line to Sheaf, but his recollection of that night was fuzzy, and in any case, it would have been nothing like what was danced at court?

“That’s a waltz,” Thoko said, rolling her eyes before he could even ask. “Don’t look at me like that! Who doesn’t know how to waltz?”

Right. He let himself be pulled along. No doubt that would already raise more eyebrows, that she had asked him, not the other way round. Then again, he was the werewolf. The lords and ladies of good breeding who wanted to disagree with his presence would do so one way or the other.

Thoko could dance well—better than he, probably. But they could not clear the dance floor, mostly because Charlene announced in what Greg recognised as a fake huffy that she wouldn’t be upstaged by a werewolf at her own party. Andrew obligingly offered her his arm again and a bunch of other nobles followed suit.

“How did those two ever avoid detection?” Thoko whispered to Greg. “They aren’t exactly subtle.”

“I suppose they used to be more careful?”

Even as the nobles tried to prove that they weren’t scared of him, a wide space stayed open around Greg. He finally found himself relaxing as he made use of the room to twirl Thoko around. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, to just enjoy the evening? If David became the Hero of Port Neaf tomorrow, did it really matter what everyone thought?

He refused to consider the option that his brother might fail.

As more guests found their nerves, the space around them grew smaller. Soon, Greg and Thoko were just one in a sea of twirling couples. Not belonging. But close enough. Not part of, but tolerated by the pack.

And where did that thought come from?

Greg listened into himself. Making sense of the beast’s thoughts was still hard, but tonight he felt—content. The wolf, too, enjoyed holding Thoko close, even if she wasn’t like them.

Interesting.

It could have been an almost perfect night, if the council hadn’t eventually finished their endless deliberations to join the party. The music stopped when they did. Lady de Burg gave a speech, thanking everyone for attending and toasting “to victory on the morrow.”

Which made Greg realise that he didn’t have a glass. Ah well.

When he looked around, George Louis was of course staring back at him. To Greg’s relief, the duke went along when Desmarais pulled him along to the buffet. Greg and Thoko got themselves something to drink from the waiters walking around, then returned to the dancefloor.

***

“Not going to toast to your own brother?”

Duke George Louis appeared behind Greg as soon as Greg and Thoko took their next pause to have something to drink.

What was it with this man? For someone who professed to fear werewolves, he didn’t seem to be able to stay away, either.

Or was that just because Greg had told Desmarais about it?

Maybe George Louis was trying to disprove the point, dragging the older duke along. Desmarais smiled grandfatherly. His wife was there, too, and Picot. Lane was nodding at Greg. He could tell she was trying not to roll her eyes as Andrew and Charlene joined them as well. Andrew was unsubtly looking back and forth between Greg and His Highness.

“One shouldn’t sell the pelt before the werewolf isn’t dead, Your Highness,” Greg replied. “At least that’s what my father used to say.”

“Interesting words, coming from you.”

The duke’s stare was intense, even belligerent. As if to break the standoff, Picot waved over a waiter who carried a large serving tray with little plates of finely sliced, very pink beef, topped with wild mushrooms in a dark sauce.

Duke George Louis sniffed but let Picot push one of the miniature plates into his hands. “Food fit for a werewolf,” he muttered.

“Oh, shush,” Lady Desmarais admonished him. “You liked it fine earlier.”

Lane shook her head with a tired smile as the waiter turned, while Andrew took one.

“You need to eat, Lady deLande,” Duke Desmarais chided her. “You’ll need all your strength, I’m sure.”

He was just about to take a bite himself, when Andrew hit his arm with the edge of his flat hand. It wasn’t a friendly jostle, either.

“Hoy,” Desmarais yelped in surprise, dropping his plate. “What the—”

“Poison!” Andrew yelled over him. “That’s deathcap mushroom!”

Greg stared at the food on the floor, little pieces of beef and mushrooms amidst the shards of broken porcelain. The cheerful violin was a dreadful contrast to the shocked silence of the people standing around him. He blinked and stared at the servant, who blinked back unmoving, too.

The servant was the first person to move: he dropped the platter in a shower of food and sprinted away.

“Hold that man,” George Louis ordered. His voice was toneless, though, and Greg doubted anyone beyond their group had heard.

So he took off after the servant. He wasn’t about to argue with Andrew when it came to mushrooms.

The man in the black uniform was fast. Where was Nathan when you needed him?

The stranger knew the palace better, too, especially the service corridors they were sprinting down. A bunch of maids yelped and flattened themselves against the wall.

“Stop, dammit,” Greg panted. “Don’t make me—”

The suspect smashed a door into his face. At the sudden, blinding pain, the wolf roared. Greg let it rip him apart, him and his clothes. It was possibly his fastest transformation yet—violent, too.

When he regained control of his body, he was completely turned around and the maids were screaming louder. Greg ignored them, sniffing at the door the servant had touched. It wasn’t hard to find the freshest scent. It was heavy, hanging in the air, sweat and something pungent. Something familiar.

Fear.

The servant had good reason now to be afraid. Greg wasn’t Morgulon, but a track this fresh was impossible to lose.

And the wolf didn’t bother with opening doors, either. Even though it hurt like hell to go through them.

If the servant had run straight for the closest gate, or had stuck to the public corridors, Greg might not have caught him. The guards there might well have stopped a werewolf barreling down the hallways. But the fugitive, having escaped Greg’s sight for a moment, made the mistake of trying to hide.

Greg went right past the closet, then had to trace back his steps and sniff out the right door. Thankfully, it was a linen closet, so Greg turned human and grabbed a large tablecloth to wrap himself into.

“If you run again, I’ll bite you.”

That stopped his target from inching closer to the door while Greg covered himself. Instead, the servant slumped against the shelving, hitting his head at one of the boards. He rubbed it, glancing up at Greg. He was small, slender to the point of looking mal-nourished. Strong arms, though. Older than Greg. Probably older than David, too, though it was hard to tell with the gaunt cheeks. The uniform looked like any other uniform Greg had seen at the palace, though he had to admit, he didn’t often look at the help that closely.

“Did you know the food was poisoned? Did someone pay you?”

The man shook his head silently.

“Did you notice anything unusual in the kitchens?”

The servant’s lips trembled, but no sound came out of his mouth. He just stared at Greg with huge eyes. Didn’t even flinch when Greg grabbed his arm to haul him up.

“Let’s go.”

“Am I—am I going to the gallows?”

“Not my job to decide that. Let’s move.”

Only when the man did, did Greg remember that he had no idea where to take his prisoner. The Grand Galery probably? No guard would help him, not while all he wore was a tablecloth, so he needed to find Andrew of Lane. Check on his parents. Thoko was going to be fine, wasn’t she? Since she hadn’t eaten the mushrooms?

And what about Andrew? How closely had he looked at his food while talking to Charlene? How many poisoned servings had there been?

The bloody tablecloth kept sliding off his chest. He had to hold onto it, drag the servant along with his other hand. It was a good thing the man wasn’t resisting.

He really could have done with some proper clothes. Could he risk taking his prisoner up to David’d office first?

But what was the worst that could happen? A human couldn’t outrun a werewolf.

Would the guards try to stop him if he had to give chase again? Surely, word about what happened was spreading already. Was anyone arresting the chefs?

Screw this, he wasn’t going to deal with the assembled nobility in the nude.