Braith Megwen Jones was not prone to hysterics, but at the moment she felt dangerously close to giving into them. She was tired, frustrated, uncomfortable, and now had the added indignant possibility of having her trip end here on the doorstep of Woolsey castle without so much as a moment with the one person who might be able to help her.
"Please, it's extremely important I speak with Professor Lyall," she told the aloof butler who stood before her. "The matter is . . . urgent."
At her pleading tone the butler unbent a tiny bit and took the little card she held out, accepting it on a pewter platter. He led her into the main hall of the castle and to the left, into the drawing room. It was decorated in mahogany and green baize and held a great number of woodland oils but Braith barely noticed them and settled herself on a divan, glad to finally be off her feet for the moment. The long walk up the drive had been just that, but what little money she had left had to be saved for the return trip to Brecknock.
She sighed, and took off her gloves, hoping the professor was in, and more than that, that he could help because the full moon would be in two nights and Braith wasn't sure she could handle the havoc it brought anymore.
Anyone looking at her would see a rounded young woman with dark red hair and a distressing number of freckles spattered on a pert nose. Her dull blue merino traveling dress was a bit wrinkled and her cloak could use a cleaning but given the distance she'd come Braith thought she wasn't too unpresentable for the moment. At least, she hoped she wasn't. Braith sighed.
"I'm telling you it's positively tiresome to have to hire on a new one," came a cultured voice from outside the door. An annoyed cultured voice. "Humans simply ought to live longer."
"Most of them try," came a softer voice. "Now if we may see about this visitor, Major—"
The door opened and Braith watched two men enter. She clutched her reticule and gazed at them, unsure which of them to address, nothing that they were both inhaling deeply. The slighter sandy-haired man came to her aid, giving her a gentle smile as he came over and bowed to her. "Miss Jones I presume? I'm Professor Randolph Lyall, and this is Major Channing."
"Of the Chesterfield Channgings," the other, white-blond man added, as if the distinction was of great importance. Braith held out her hand and each man bowed over it, but while the professor released his grip after a moment, it seemed to take the major a moment longer and he did so reluctantly.
"Thank you for seeing me, sir," Braith murmured, and took a breath. "I was told by the local BUR agent in Brecknock that you were the best person to contact for my circumstance, and while normally I would have arranged a proper introduction, time is of the essence."
"Then I will do my best to assist you, Miss Jones," Professor Lyall replied as he took a seat across from her, "but it would help if I knew in what capacity you are coming to me. As a member of BUR, or as Beta to the Woolsey Pack?"
"As an . . . expert on werewolves," she admitted, shooting an anxious look at the Major, who was still standing as if at attention. "A scientific expert."
"Ah. Well while I've conducted both formal and informal studies for many decades, I'm far from an expert, Miss Jones," Professor Lyall replied. "What, precisely, is your . . . circumstance?"
"I've become a werewolf," she blurted.
Both men stared at her, and Braith felt herself flush red; partially in embarrassment and partially because the combined stare of two men was completely out of her range of previous experience.
"Impossible!" Major Channing declared. "A chit like you?"
She felt it rising in her throat, and before she could stop it, Braith growled at him. The low, dangerous rumble rolled out, vibrating in the air, clearly not human at all.
Major Channing jerked his head back at the menacing sound; Professor Lyall cocked his curiously. "Gracious," he murmured.
Braith took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. "I do apologize Major. It has been a very long day and I've come quite far."
"Quite right, I should have offered tea before this," Professor Lyall murmured, reaching for the bell pull. A servant appeared at the door. "Ah, Rumpet, a spot of tea and some refreshments for the lady, please."
Braith felt the Major's gaze on her like a weight, and she refused to meet his eyes, focusing on Professor Lyall once more. "It's uncommon I know, exceedingly rare, but the matter is far worse than that."
"Worse?"
"I was not . . . bitten," Braith told them.
"Not . . . bitten," Major Channing echoed, his handsome face perplexed now. "That's not possible. People don't spontaneously become werewolves!"
"I know," Braith agreed. "And yet in my case, no fang or tooth has ever touched my skin. There are only four werewolves in the entire county of Powys, all of them a little pack at Castle Du and all of them part of the 41st Regiment. They're nowhere near Brecknock. And in any event I'd remember being bitten."
"Curious," Professor Lyall agreed. "So do you know what, er, converted you, Miss Jones?"
"Yes," she sighed, and pulled a journal out of her reticule, flipping open to a marked page. "This."
The drawing of the slender stalked plant with the pale lavender blossoms seemed familiar to Professor Lyall; Braight watched him take the journal from her and study it closely. "Wolfsbane, although the color is highly unusual."
"I didn't recognize it at first myself; the shade also threw me off," she admitted. "It was growing at the mouth of a cave I was studying."
"And this . . . changed you?" Major Channing demanded, a hint of scepticism coming back into his voice.
"I took the regrettable action of picking it and sniffing the blossoms," Braith told them, "And yes, I wish I had not, but at the time I wanted to know more about the plant. It had no particular scent, and I set the cluster into my collection basket along with the morels I had been gathering at the time."
"And then?" Professor Lyall gently prodded. At that point the butler entered with a tray that he set for them. The professor poured and that gave Braith a moment to compose herself.
"By the time I reached my cottage the plant had gone completely black and slimy," she told them. "A repulsive mess that took me an age to wash out of my basket, in fact. I chalked it up to the heat of the sun and didn't think anything more of it until that night."
"Which was a full moon?" the professor offered.
Braith nodded, biting her lip for a moment. "Quite. I took to my bed early, feeling very out of sorts only to find myself in the most extreme pain as the night progressed. I cannot for the life of me understand how those of you who choose this lifestyle bear it, frankly. As it was I ended up destroying most of my boudoir before running off into the night and bringing down more hares than I care to mention."
The major was smirking now, and Braith wished she could slap the condescending expression off of his handsome face. Professor Lyall however looked far more compassionate. "That does sound like the change all right. Did you return before sunrise?"
"I did, driven by instinct I suppose," Braith murmured. "By that evening I'd thought to lock myself into the root cellar as a precaution but it still cost me the better part of a shelf of preserves."
She didn't mention the humiliation and drudgery of cleaning the messes all on her own. Braith wasn't one to look for pity, only answers.
"How long ago was this?" The major asked, his gaze still suspicious.
"Nearly two months ago," Braith took a sip of tea. "I was sure the first time was some sort of . . . fit, or aberration I suppose. We do so try to avoid the truth when it's unpleasant, don't we? But last month, I broke out of the root cellar and, well, the next farm over had a flock of sheep, you see . . ."
"Oh dear."
"Two," Braith confessed miserably. "Naturally the farmers began talking of a hunt, thinking it was a regular wolf but if it keeps happening they'll figure it out soon enough, and I cannot bear the thought of what I am doing to my town, professor. I didn't choose to become this way, and I don't choose to hurt them or anyone!"
She was dangerously close to tears, so Braith lifted her chin to prevent them and took another sip of the tea. Professor Lyall still had her journal in his hand and took another look at it, kindly giving her time to compose herself. Major Channing gazed at her though, his expression a bit flinty.
"What proof do you have for your claim? Can you change, right now?" he asked bluntly.
Braith blushed. "No."
"No?" The Major's echo sounded suspiciously like a gloat, but Professor Lyall cleared his throat.
"Channing, that sort of control takes years to master as you very well know. Barely half our pack can manage it outside the full moon even now, so to demand it of this young lady is both crass and impractical. Miss Jones, our Alphas are currently in town, but are expected back in a few hours. On their behalf I extend the hospitality of the Woolsey Pack to you for the duration of your visit. I would very much like to take on your case and see what more we can discover about your, er, situation if that will help matters."
"Thank you," Braith breathed gratefully. "I would appreciate it greatly, and in return would be happy to offer in return what few skills I have . . . sewing, perhaps or if you need anything calculated or tallied."
"You can handle numbers?" The major asked sharply. "What's four hundred and twelve times twenty-four?"
"Nine thousand eight hundred and eighty-eight," Braith replied after a moment. "I'm fairly sure."
"And six hundred forty three divided by seventy eight?"
"Eight and a fourth over, but I'd have to put it to paper if you want all out to the last place," Braith told him impatiently. "As I said, I'm fairly competent with numbers, sir." Glancing at Professor Lyall she added, "My father taught maths at Trinity in Carmarthen."
Braith caught both the look of approval on the professor's face, and the one of grudging admiration on the major's as she took another sip of tea. She felt better, both for the tea and the chance to prove a little of her worth, Braith thought. Clearly coming to see Professor Lyall had been the right choice, although she wasn't as sure about the Major, who still looked as if he disliked her.
Ah well, Braith thought. You can't win everyone over.