Page 58 of The Howling
But he does, and he’s never going to let me go.
REAVELY
If my mother wasn’t already dead, I think I might be getting close to throttling her. She’s making the whole marriage situation a circus I don’t want.
Not only is there to be a cake about the size of one of the castle’s towers, she wants toinvite the living. Despite all my protestations that the more of the Yeavering which knows about my mate, the riskier it is, she is prepared to ignore me.
Like she always did.
Death has not changed her at all. And my guilt at not being dead means I’m currently sat to one side in the great hall, chin on my fist, trying not to growl as she instructs the Duegar on the wedding breakfast and the damned cake.
My sweet Wynter has been given a free pass to avoid these meetings, although she doesn’t normally do so, but my sisters have taken her in hand, and apparently there’s something needed when it comes tothe dressand Bessie has been called to the castle to deal with it.
I do not want to interfere. Or rather I don’t want to end up in a room with my sisters and Bessie, even if I don’t want to leave Wynter’s side.
Instead I’m here, watching my spirit mother take over the entire thing and make it into a spectacle literally no living person other than the bride and groom will see.
If I have my way.
Which is looking less and less likely. All I can hope at this stage is she doesn’t want to put me in some starchy outfit which has more frills than a Faerie court.
“Reavely? Reavely? Are you listeningat all?”
She might be a spirit, but my mother has retained her ability to be heard from one end of the castle to the other.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Then what do you think of this?” She points to something on the table.
It has more frills than a Faerie court.
“No,” I say, my voice raspin through the air.
“No?” she responds. “What do you mean no? Your father wore this the day he was trothed to me.”
“I am not wearing that on my wedding day or any other day,” I say, quietly.
“It’s what he would have wanted.”
“What about what I want?” I growl, knowing I sound like a petulant pup, the one I will always be in my mother’s mind, spectral or not.
I stand, and the heavy chair goes skittering away behind me. My mother puts her hands on her hips, or where they should be.
“Reavely,” she says in a warning tone which used to stop me in my tracks.
“Don’t, Mother,” I rasp. “This isn’t about you.”
“I think you’ll find the curse binding you is absolutely about me,” she retorts.
With a roar, I’m halfway across the great hall in my hound form before I even realise it. I need to run. I need to get away from the castle.
But I want Wynter with me. I need her more than ever. My hound changes direction before I can stop myself. I’m bounding up the stairs, up to her room, to our room, and through the door.
She’s there, surrounded by my spirit sisters and Bessie, her mouth open in a perfect ‘o’ at my entrance. Before she can protest, I am beside her, tossing her onto my back with my nose, snarling at the rest of the company, and we’re away, outside, into the courtyard, out through the gate, down the rolling meadows filled with spring flowers and away towards the far moors, purple misty streaks on the horizon.
“Reavely.” Wynter’s voice is in my ear. “What’s wrong?”
It’s enough, just enough to get me to slow my pace.
