Page 13 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Constance exited through the large entrance doors of the d’Louncrais Keep, her grimoire tucked beneath her arm, the bowl of boil poultice in her hand and Monsieur D’Artagnon at her heels.

She was grateful for the reprieve on her task, if a little surprised.

For all that Seigneur Gaharet wanted her to find an answer to Monsieur D’Artagnon’s inability to shift, he seemed to lack any sense of urgency.

She brushed away her puzzlement. Who was she to question the ways of the nobility, of the alpha?

And he had granted Constance her wish. She was getting to talk to Tumas.

She shivered and tightened her white-knuckled grip on the bowl of poultice.

As much as she wanted, needed, to know about the witch the villagers had cast out, this Cordelia, her stomach twisted in knots at the thought of what she might learn.

Would she like what he would tell her? About this woman with the different colored eyes?

The witch who had the second sight like her?

Could there be, as Dame Erin had suggested, a family connection?

The gate guard smiled at them as they passed through, and they followed the road down the hill to the village.

Tendrils of smoke curled from chimney holes in neat and sturdy cottages and farmers were returning from the fields for the midday meal, some with their baskets full of their harvest. The scent of cooking food and the murmur of voices filled the air.

It was like any other village. And yet, it was not.

In every village Constance had lived—and there had been a few—there had always been a clear division amongst the peasants.

Between those less fortunate than others.

No less noticeable than the differences between comtes and kings, or merchants and nobles.

A poorly thatched roof, clothes more worn with signs of constant mending and a pinched expression, the worry of where their next meal would come from difficult to conceal.

Constance looked for the signs, the people and the cottages that mimicked her childhood. She could not find them.

A child waved as they passed, no fear of the big black wolf by her side.

Constance waved back, and a smile lit up his little face.

No hesitancy, no strange look. Only a smile.

The little boy went back to playing his game of pickup sticks.

Another young child joined him, and they giggled over their game.

Not the whispered conversations and finger pointing she was used to.

A woman with a basket of wet clothing on her hip greeted them. A man outside his cottage whittling a stick nodded and smiled, muttering Monsieur and Ma Dame as they passed .

Now it was Constance who stared. At every villager, waiting, nay expecting someone to say something.

About her, this stranger to their village with the odd colored eyes.

Or, at the very least, to mention the large scarred black wolf trotting along beside her.

Apart from a friendly greeting, the villagers paid them no mind at all.

“What a most extraordinary village.”

Monsieur D’Artagnon swiveled an ear in her direction.

“Do you not find it so? It is as if seeing a wolf walk through their village is neither here nor there. Nor am I stared at. Rumors must abound after supper last eve, yet nothing. Though I visit Langeais regularly, I am not afforded such grace as I am here. It is…” Her heart had never felt so… light. “Nice.”

Would that she had lived here. Had grown up here, in the shadow of the d’Louncrais keep.

If she had, that child, or that woman, could easily have been her.

Yet she had not. Certainly not after Jacques d’Louncrais had died, but not before either, when they had served him and been under his protection.

“I wonder why my mother did not choose your village to live in?”

How different would her life be if she had? The connection with the Langeais wolves might well have remained intact. Her mother was long gone, and she had taken her reasoning with her to the grave. “Perhaps the old farmer with the boils would know?”

The black wolf padded beside her. Perhaps this woman with the second sight, cast out all those years ago, had sealed their fate, and forced her mother to seek other villages to live in and call their home. Had things changed since then? Could they change now?

She glanced at Monsieur D’Artagnon out of the corner of her eye.

If she found a way around whatever kept him as a wolf, broke through what was holding him back and convinced him to return to human form, she would have proved herself to the Langeais wolves.

To Seigneur Gaharet. Could she then ask a boon of him?

Ask for a place in the d’Louncrais village?

Her heart swelled at the idea—of a little cottage amongst these people. Villagers who seemed no more bothered by her eyes, or her status as a witch, than they were of the rising and setting of the sun. No more living alone, eking a life from the forest.

Seigneur Gaharet’s word was law here. No one would cast her out, come for her with burning torches in the middle of the night.

She would have more work, more means of putting food on the table.

The village did not have a healer, and the d’Louncrais would benefit from having her close.

No need to send a man on a half day journey should another turning require her skills.

With more women coming from the future, Seigneur Gaharet would need her.

What better place for her than in the d’Louncrais village?

First, she must do as Seigneur Gaharet asked.

She eyed the black wolf again. And if doing so extinguished any chance of her vision coming true?

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Or had her mother had been right, and her own hopes and dreams had swayed her second sight?

Should she miss this opportunity to improve her life over something that would never come to pass?

But…she was here. In the presence of a nother black wolf. That had to mean something .

Monsieur D’Artagnon nudged her with his shoulder, snapping her from her musings, and trotted toward a cottage second from the end of the row. Constance gathered her thoughts and followed. She had come here for a reason. Her reception here, what Master Tumas had to tell her, might change everything.

She rapped on the door, and it swung open to reveal a woman older than her, but younger than Tumas. “Good morrow. I am Constance.” She held up the bowl. “Seigneur Gaharet has sent me with a poultice for Master Tumas.”

The woman smiled and curtsied. “Monsieur. Ma Dame. Come in, come in. I am Georgette. Tumas is my father.”

Constance held up her hand. “Oh, I am not—” It was the dress. No peasant or servant would own such a fine garment. While she wore it, she would get the same reaction.

Monsieur D’Artagnon brushed past her and into the cottage, leaving Constance to follow.

She stepped across the threshold into a cozy hut of mud-brick and thatch, much like her own.

But there, the similarities ended. While her cottage’s thatched roof had gaps where the mice had defeated all her efforts to keep them out, this one had a tight weave.

Where their table was of solid construction, hers was no more than discarded timbers cobbled together to provide something useful.

Their bowls, pottery jars and mugs all matched.

Their baskets and cooking pots were in good condition and by far more plentiful than her meager collection.

And it was much, much bigger, with two sleeping nooks hidden behind fabric far thicker and of better quality than she had ever owned.

Tumas and his daughter lived as farmers, but it was clear the d’Louncrais looked after their people.

She would not need a cottage as big as this one.

Something small would more than suffice.

She could have neighbors. And friends. She might never again feel the pinch of hunger in winter, when fewer people trudged out to the forest, braving the cold to see her.

More reasons for her to want to live here in this village, cared for and watched over by the d’Louncrais.

Tumas roused from his seat. “There yer are, girlie.” He pointed at the bowl. “Is that fer me?”

Constance offered him the bowl and Tumas sniffed it, wrinkling his nose.

He jabbed his finger in the sticky paste and grunted.

“Can yer not”—he wiggled his fingers at her—“say a spell, or some such?” He scooped up some of the paste.

It slid from his fingers and dropped into the bowl with a wet plop.

“You…want me to cast a spell? To heal your boil?” The man had been witness to a woman cast out of the village for witchcraft and he wanted her to perform a spell? Was this some sort of trap?

The old farmer’s scowl lifted. “Could yer? Save me walkin’ around with this sticky stuff on my neck, smellin’ like”—he sniffed at the bowl again—“whatever foul herbs Anne has mixed in this.”

“I…”

“Father.” Georgette heaved out a long-suffering sigh.

“There are no simple solutions when it comes to healing. Your boils would be gone by now if you had only followed Anne’s instructions in the first place.

” Tumas grunted and Georgette snatched the bowl from his hand.

“Turn around and I will apply the poultice for you.”

She smiled an apology at Constance, as Tumas did as his daughter requested. “Do not mind my father. He is an old grouch, but it is all noise. Please, make yourself comfortable. I was about to serve up the midday meal. Would you care to join us?”