Her Wolf King

Ice dripped from the eaves of the shingled roofs; it coated the dead vines and rickety trellises that spiralled up the towers in a glistening sheen. It made Lenore’s chilled bones ache and shudder, grateful for the heated bath which had been drawn for her by a servant who never spoke. She was little more than a wisp of a girl, with mousy brown hair and skin so pale Leonore felt as though she could look right through her. Though the bath was excellent and most needed, with rose petals floating on its surface and scented oils, this whole business left Lenore wondering if she had made the right decision.

If she really was the fool that her new husband thought she was.

Steam rose up in tendrils to frame her face and fogged the grand, gilt-framed mirror across from her that showed too much of her body: too slender from lack of food, blonde hair plastered to her neck and shoulders with the bath water, blue eyes set in a too-gaunt face. She sank deeper into the water, drawing her knees to her chest, and picked up a cake of soap. It was rosemary-scented, and a pale pink imprinted with a pattern of roses. Almost too pretty to use.

Where did all this luxury come from, anyway? What use did a wolf have for plush carpets and silk blankets and ivory, claw-footed bathtub large enough to fit two people? Surely, he took baths in the river. She choked back a laugh at the absurd thought. Her husband was a wolf. What had she gotten herself into? If this were a fairytale, she would surely be eaten on her wedding night, a cautionary tale warning all little girls not to make foolish bargains or wander too deep into the woods.

But she was no little girl and had not been one for a long time now. Not since her mother took ill, not since her family became destitute, and certainly not since she had become betrothed to Kirk Stone. She splashed more of the sweet-scented bath water onto her face, then waited a while until her fingers became pruney and the water became warm rather than boiling. It was such a rarity, this bath. Such a memento of times long gone. At home, baths had been a much colder and shorter affair, consisting of a splash or two of tepid water that had barely been heated up so not to waste firewood.

Lenore wrapped herself in a white, fluffy towel and pulled the plug out of the drain. She padded over to the washstand with the soft towel wrapped firmly around her torso and looked at the various bottles of things, many of which she had had no access to in years: perfume, softening oils for the hair and skin, all of them glowing in crystal cases. Feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion sweep over her, Lenore’s shoulders slumped and she shrugged the towel off, hanging it on a rack. She instead pulled on the woollen wrapper left on a heating rack by the door and began her exploration of the castle.

Though she was definitely beginning with her bedroom. A lush, green oasis greeted her instead, and for a moment she thought she had been mistaken and had somehow wandered into the garden. But no—she blinked again and there it was, a massive four-poster bed, canopied in a thick tapestry of vines. Verdant branches twined up the mahogany posts of the bed like it had been formed from a living tree, and as she ran her hands along them flowers budded, then blossomed as if there were no laws of nature followed here.

And maybe there were no laws of nature—only magic.

After all, talking wolves and a bedroom more suited to a fairy’s forest dwelling was hardly natural. Her bare feet touched soft grass instead of carpet, and the arched windows gave views of the wintery landscape around the estate, a reminder that somewhere, reality still existed. The landscape could be blocked out by drawing the curtains—which were in fact woven from orchids and roses. She plucked some and put them into a crystal vase on the nightstand, a tree stump with drawers carved into it.

Lenore sprawled out onto the bed, perfumed sheets cocooning her body and a soft pillow cushioning her head. Before she knew it, her eyelids had drooped shut, and she fell deep into a dreamless sleep.

***

When she woke up, there was a wolf at the foot of her bed. Perhaps if she were still young and naive, she would have screamed. As it was, she slowly got out of bed and stuck out her hand. The first rays of sunlight illuminated her new husband’s outline, coated the grey fur in gold as he rested his head in her palm.

She chuckled in spite of herself. “I have never met a wolf that was so much like a dog.”

He growled, but there was something playful behind it. She pulled her hand back and said, “I need to get dressed. Shoo, canine.”

Everett padded out of the room silently. When she had selected a deep blue gown with a matching fur-trimmed cloak, sliding both on with some difficulty since her maid had disappeared, Lenore opened the door to find a man standing outside of it.

“Oh, good. I was worried I would need to make conversation with myself all day,” Lenore stated, taking her husband’s proffered arm.

“You may have to do that anyways. I am not much of a talker.” He let out a noise that sounded halfway between human and animal, making her laugh.

Lenore was unsure herself if the years of poverty and starvation had not left her half-beast herself, hunting and striving for survival alone. Supposedly mankind was light, reason, poetry--but she had spent years in the darkness created by men.

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing you weren’t turned into a parrot,” she mused, feeling the solid muscle of his arm beneath her fingertips. “Are you leading me to the dining room?”

“Breakfast will be served soon.” She realized that it was a reply that didn’t really answer her question. But he was silent as they rounded a corner into a hallway lined with gray stone, torches flickering in their sconces as they passed them.

“Good. I am starving.” She sighed when he didn’t respond, hoping for a more talkative response. Which was foolish, because he had already informed her of his tendency towards silence. So why did she irrationally want to hear more of that deep baritone that was a hoarse, half-growl? “I could eat a horse.”

He stopped at a pair of double doors that swung open, seeming to open by magic. “I have done that before.”

She laughed. “Have you? Was it good?”

“It was too mangy.” She could imagine a horse being all skin and bone after its owner abandoned it. There had not been not much money for horses in her village, which was why Kirk Stone, for all his faults, had been such an advantageous match. He’d owned a carriage with four horses to pull it. “A little bit like you.”

She stepped out from his grasp, pretending to be offended. Hadn’t Lenore herself just had a similar thought? “You take that back!”

He laughed and didn’t. Instead, her new husband picked up his fork and knife, digging into the food. She copied him, still miffed by the insult even as she sliced into a stack of fluffy pancakes.

“How do you eat so well, all the way out there?” she asked, looking at the spread of food on the dining table.

“Magic,” he said.

And she had the feeling that was the answer for many things around here.