She addressed it to the bearded wolf with a smile; a threat to ruin his fun at some unspecified point in the future.
The wolves kept playing as Ilsa wandered deeper into the room. There were no weapons resting by the table – the wolves didn’t need them – and the only thing adorning the walls was a schedule pinned to a board. Dozens of names filled in every watch over the course of a week.
“How many wolves are there?”
Georgiana glanced up from scooping her winnings into a pile. “Over a thousand in total, but ninety on rotation here. Others are posted to the guard points along the border, or the abbey, or they work the patrol.”
“And do they all know ’bout…” Ilsa bit her lip and studied their faces.
“About the alpha being missing?” said Georgiana grimly. “Only at the Zoo. We’ve been sworn to secrecy.” She made the word secrecy sound distasteful, and the wolves exchanged another look.
“And what ’bout them twelve what went with him?”
The bearded wolf raised his head. “What about them?”
“Why them twelve? Why not any of you?”
His scowl deepened. Ilsa had said something wrong. “Is there a reason you’re concerning yourself with militia business?” he challenged. “They made you a lieutenant already?”
She jerked in surprise. No one had mentioned the idea of making her a lieutenant, nor had the possibility crossed her mind. Now that it did, she wasn’t sure she liked it. What did she know of Camden that she could help lead it?
Georgiana interjected, sparing Ilsa from stuttering a reply. “Ilsa has joined the effort to look for the alpha, Selleck. Perhaps you ought to be accommodating.”
The ask was clearly too high for Selleck, who elected to leave instead, tossing his cards down and throwing Georgiana, then Ilsa a distrustful glance as he made for the door.
Rye rubbed his neck and looked up at her apologetically. “Some of the wolves don’t know what to make of you, Miss Ravenswood – I mean Ilsa. Secrets aren’t good for morale, you see, and… well, some of the old guard knew of Lyander’s pregnancy way back when, and they never told us you existed.”
Ilsa didn’t see how that was her fault. She’d known as little of it as anyone.
“And now the disappearance,” said Georgiana, her shoulders stiff. “The truth is, no one has any idea why he took the wolves he did. Perhaps they were just his favourites.”
She couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice and Ilsa couldn’t blame her. Gedeon’s wolves had to have known about the plan beforehand, perhaps for days, and had told none of their comrades. She had been so hung up on her missing brother, she had barely considered the fact that it wasn’t just him, but thirteen of Camden’s own who had betrayed them.
“I din’t mean to suggest he had favourites or nothing. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”
Georgiana smiled. “I’m sure there is,” she said unconvincingly. “Your bet, Rye.”
Rye dropped a handful of coins onto the table between them, raising the bet.
After a moment’s hesitation, Georgiana sighed and moved as if to fold. Ilsa’s hand shot out to stop her without her say so. They both looked at her in surprise, and Ilsa was forced to explain herself.
“He ain’t got jack.”
Rye’s eyes widened as he stared at her, and Ilsa shrugged apologetically. Georgiana looked from Ilsa to Rye and back again. “How do you know?”
Because Ilsa had been watching. She couldn’t help it. Years of playing cards with theatre folk, coupled with a deeply ingrained habit of observation, had made her a master of reading tells. Rye had folded his arms on the table, a tell-tale sign that he was trying not to fidget, whereas in every other round he had been still.
He was bluffing.
Of course, Ilsa said none of this in front of Rye. She knew better than to expose a player’s tells to them when it could give her an advantage, and she fully intended to come back and take them both for all they had.
“Trust me. Play the hand.” Ilsa turned away, before remembering one final thing. “Oh. Where can I find Eliot Quillon?”
Georgiana looked at her quizzically. “Second floor. Last door on the right of the north corridor.”
“Thanks.”
Ilsa was passing the kitchen when she heard Georgiana whoop and Rye swear, and she returned to her bed with a smile playing on her lips.
* * *
Eliot was evidently out of bed at night and loath to be woken in the mornings, so Ilsa waited until about breakfast time to be sure of catching him.
When she reached the last door on the second-floor north corridor, she rapped loudly, waited, then rapped again to be sure she woke him. There was no reply. She pressed her ear to the door and thought she heard motion from inside, but then again, it might have been the movement of her skirts.
“Eliot?” she called, her face close to the space between the door and the frame so that it echoed back to her and resounded in the wood beneath her hand. But there was silence from the other side. Tentatively, she tried the handle. The door was locked.
She crouched and put her eye to the keyhole. There was no key in the lock, but she couldn’t see much, so with a furtive glance down the corridor, she shrank.
Becoming a mouse always began with the feeling of her arms and legs being sucked into her body, and a tickling in the rims of her ears. She shrank until she began to feel the sharp aching in her bones that told her she had reached her limit.
Nervously, mouse Ilsa squeezed into the gap beneath the door, praying for better luck than last time. Her head fit fine, then her shoulders and stubby mouse legs. This gap was wider; she was going to fit. She could
