Quesnel managed to look both guilty and determined. “Well, I suppose we could get you another one.”

Rue wasn’t sure why but something in his tone both embarrassed and thrilled in a way that no romantic comment would have. He likes it when I look a little less buttoned up, does he? I’ll have to remember that.

Uncle Lyall looked sharply at the young man but was too much a gentleman to say anything. Rue had the distinct impression he was taking mental notes on the flirtation.

Rue took her gloves off and touched the back of Uncle Lyall’s bare hand to distract him.

It was painful. It was always painful. More painful even than the day before she got her monthly courses. She remembered, before she had matured as a woman, that the shift had not hurt when she was a child. But when she stopped growing and her bones firmed into their adult shape, the fracturing of those bones into wolf was no longer mere discomfort – it was agony. But she had withstood it before and she would again.

Her revealing tight velvet bodice tore beyond repair. The skirt, tight over hips and posterior, also ripped. Rue wanted to console the crestfallen Quesnel that she could certainly lay her hands on more tight dresses. Goodness, if that was what it took to get him looking at her like that, she’d start a new trend as soon as they returned to London.

The hat stayed on her head. It was small enough to perch between her ears. Rue let it be. At least she could save one article of clothing.

Uncle Lyall, being the type, made quick work helping her to extract herself from the remains of her costume.

Rue yipped her gratitude and bounded towards the officers’ residence.

“How on earth is she going to look through books without fingers?” Quesnel wanted to know.

“I take it once she touches one of us she is in wolf form and can’t turn back to human voluntarily?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard.” Quesnel was careful not to give anything away.

“Very intriguing,” said Uncle Lyall.

Rue bounded back, supernatural ears having caught the entire conversation. She crouched in front of Quesnel expectantly.

“Oh no,” said the young man, blushing tomato red. “Chérie, I couldn’t possibly. Not ride a lady.”

The corners of Uncle Lyall’s mouth twitched. He smelled like the pomade Dama and Uncle Rabiffano favoured. Guess it is more popular than I thought. He must import it at great expense. She sniffed deeper. There was also a hint of sandalwood and fresh linens, and perhaps smoked fish on his breath.

Rue growled at Quesnel. He smelled of boiler smoke and hot coals and a little lime.

Uncle Lyall said, “She’s right. Time is getting on. Best if I don’t go. If you’re caught, someone has to get you out.”

“But you’ve lost your wolf form.”