Page 21 of Bull Moon Rising

Putting on my spectacles, I peer at my appearance in the small mirror mounted on the wall, tuck a few stray strands of hair into a bun at my nape, and then pull my spectacles off again and hide them in one of the trunks. I can’t let anyone know about my vision issues until I’m official.

Swallowing hard, I take one last look at Gwenna, still in bed, and my sweet Squeaker, who’s hungrily eating the last few bites of her kibble. I kneel down to scratch Squeaker’s orange chin. She’ll be fine in the room by herself while we’re in our schooling, and Gwenna will make sure that she’s got more food and water and her toilet pads are changed out. “I have to go,” I whisper to Squeaker. “I’m off to marry a Taurian. Wish me luck.”

Squeaker just purrs and leans into my caress, oblivious to the chaos in my head. She’s happy as long as she’s got kibble and a nice comfy place to lay her head. It’s Gwenna I’m worried about—what if she changes her mind and spills the truth about who I really am? We’re friends, but I know she can also be stubborn when she thinks we’re doing something foolish.

Marrying a stranger? That has to be the height of foolishness in practical Gwenna’s eyes.

I head down the stairs, my stomach full of flutters. Someone’s opened the shutters and light floods into the dormitory. It’s a quaint place, with heavy wooden beams and equally heavy furniture placed in strategic sitting spots, but I suppose it makes sense given that a Taurian would break anything dainty. It’s cozy, though. There’s a shelf with books on it across from the fireplace, and a desk covered in papers on the route to what must be the kitchen area. There’s no one around, and I have a moment to squint at the large portrait of a strong-looking woman at the landing. She’s wearing a guild sash over one shoulder and pants. Her face is lit up with wonder and she holds a glittering box in her hands, extending them out toward the viewer. This must be Magpie.

A box? I wonder which of her many finds are contained in the box. I lean in closer, trying to focus my eyes. Perhaps this isn’t Magpie after all? The sash she wears is the red of a guild master, though. How veryconfusing. I practically press my nose to the painting, trying to get the object in focus.

“What are you wearing?”

The harsh voice echoes in the quiet dormitory halls and I wince, turning around at the top of the landing.

It’s the Taurian, standing at the base of the stairs. He’s dressed in a guild uniform similar to mine, but his shoulder is covered with the bright blue of his guild sash and something gleaming that I can’t make out. But the large russet head is most certainly his, as is the wide breadth of shoulders in the white linen shirt. He’s not wearing a guild jacket, and looks so casual I don’t know what to make of it. I decide to ignore his state of undress and smile instead. “Oh, good morning, Instructor Hawk. I was admiring the painting.” I gesture at it behind me. “I don’t suppose you know—”

“What are you wearing?”

He repeats the sentence with the same unhurried cadence, but there’s nevertheless a touch of menace in his tone. It makes me bristle, and my back stiffens. He’s going to need to learn how to deal with women if he plans on being married to me, because the more you order me about, the less inclined I am to listen. “Is that Magpie in the painting?”

Hawk points at the base of the stairs, as if indicating I should move there, and quickly.

Even though I’m irritated, I need him. I can’t afford to anger the person I need to enroll me into the fledgling program…at least, not on day one. Once I’m safely ensconced in training, I don’t give a god’s arse what he thinks of me. Fighting back my annoyance, I head down the stairs and stand in the spot he indicates.

“What are you wearing?” he asks again.

“A uniform.” I flick a strand of Squeaker’s cat hair off my sleeve. “Why? Am I wrinkled?”

“That’s not the uniform I gave you.” This close, I can see the displeasure on his unusual face.

“That’s correct. I had this one tailored before I left home.”

His arms cross over his chest and he glares down at me. “Are you not taking this seriously? Is all of this a joke to you? Because we can end this right now—”

“Of course I’m taking this seriously!” I put my hands on my hips and glare up at him. “I should think that’s obvious, given that I had a uniform made even before I arrived. You’re insulting me by suggesting otherwise.”

“Everyone wears the same uniforms when they’re a fledgling,” he says in that dangerous tone of his. “The same shitty uniform. You want to be taken seriously? Then you’ll change.”

“Having a blouse tailored doesn’t mean that I’m not serious—”

He leans in, and I automatically lean back, his muzzle in my face. “Do you really want me to rip those clothes off you, Aspeth? Is that what we’re going for here?”

I let out a squeak of distress, blinking up at him. He’s alarmingly tall. Alarmingly tall and a little scary. “D-do you really want to start our marriage ripping my clothes off?”

“While I would love nothing more than to do that in about three weeks,” he murmurs in that deadly voice, “right now I just want you to change. Understand?”

Managing a nod, I hold my breath until he steps back and gestures up the stairs again. This time I race up them, heading back to my quarters. Once inside, I pull off my tailored clothes with shaking hands and fish the much cruder set out from under Squeaker, because of course she’s made a nest on them. They’re wrinkled and covered in cat hair now, but if this is what Instructor Hawk wants, this is what Instructor Hawk gets.

I can’t believe I’m going to marry the grump. I’m an idiot. I tuck the ill-fitting blouse into the waist of the pants and wonder if I should just lick my wounds and retreat. Return to my father’s keep and…

And then what? Wait for a rival holder to come and behead me? Wait for someone to steal our lands and just pray they’re in a benevolent mood and send me to a convent instead? No, this is my only choice.

Annoyed at Hawk—and at myself for hesitating—I return downstairs, this time clad in a blouse that is far too tight across my bust and makes me look stout and matronly because the waist isn’t cinched. The pants barely fit over my backside and I suspect if I have to sit at any point, they’ll split. But I’m in the uniform he wanted. “Happy now?”

“Thrilled,” he says flatly. “Let’s get going. You have to be at registration in two hours.”

Hawk tosses a brown cloak over my shoulders and then puts one on himself. He pulls the hood up, his forward-pointing horns making the tent of fabric huge over his head, the tips just barely sticking out of the hem. Following his lead, I pull up my cloak hood as well, and head out the front door behind him.

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