“We could run away together.” I clutched her hands. “Can you imagine?”
“Live as wolves, howl at the moon, hunt for our food, bite any hand that would tame us.”
It was our oldest dream, first dreamt when we were children, and it had never lost its appeal.
“You would never leave your pack.” I forced myself to admit the truth. “You would never leave school.”
“Meg wishes she could run, but I built Charles Beanington from scratch.” Meg gestured to herself. “He has a life in town, and obligations.” She released me. “Besides, you’re safer here, with your family.”
As a white witch, I’d had a nemesis from birth: the black witch.
White witches had little in the way of power, for the most part, but some bloodlines, like Momma’s, were potent. For that reason, black witches hunted us, ripped out our hearts, and ate them to devour our magic. My coven was lucky. No. That wasn’t it. My coven was cautious. We hadn’t been hunted in my lifetime, and Papa aimed to keep it that way.
“Hurry up,” I fussed at her, eager to change the subject, “before John gets home.”
A half hour later, I wore a dark jacket with tight trousers, a white shirt, a checked vest, and an elaborate necktie in an even bolder pattern. John and I were of a similar build, both tall and lean. His clothes fit me well enough, but his shoes were boats on my feet that required four pairs of socks to keep them from sailing away without me.
“You make a passable man.” Meg snickered. “Your breasts and John’s are of a size.”
With a deft hand, she twisted my hair on top of my head then crammed on a fashionable hat.
“Mock all you like.” I sniffed. “You likely stunted my growth with all the coffee you smuggle me.”
“I might bring temptation to you, but you could refuse it.”
“You know temptation and I are in a longstanding relationship.”
A door opened and then shut below us, and I slapped a hand over my mouth to hold in a nervous giggle.
“Vonny?” John called up the staircase. “Momma and Papa expect the stall to open at—”
“I’m aware,” I yelled back, ladylike as you please. “Thank you for the reminder, brother dear.”
After the tease slipped past my lips, I bit my tongue, but it was too late.
“What are you up to, Howl?”
The use of my childhood nickname—all Meg’s fault, by the way—warned me against doing whatever I was about to do.
“Nothing,” I swore with impressive vehemence. “What are you implying?”
“You never call me brother dear except as a reminder that you love me before you do something dreadful.” He hesitated. “That I will usually be blamed for.”
The heavy thud of his feet on the stairs set my heart racing.
“The back stairs.” Meg shoved me out into the hall. “The servants’ quarters.”
Our lifelong friendship had imprinted a map of my house, and its various escape routes, onto her brain.
“Right.” I freed the smile tugging at my lips. “Georgie will cover for us.”
Feet slapping the hardwood as I skidded around the corner in my borrowed shoes, I slid into the wall and groped for the doorknob leading to the first-floor accommodations our hired help called home. I made it down one flight of stairs before Georgie stuck her head out of her room and set eyes on us.
“What in tarnation are you up to now, miss?”
Not much shocked Georgie, our cook, and most of that was my fault, I imagine. Long years of working in a house with a tiny hellion like myself had her more curious of my scheme than scandalized by my dress.
“Nothing too obscene, I promise.”