Angelie barrelled through the door of Zara’s shop at lunchtime the next day. “They’ve made it a competition.”

“A what?” Zara tucked a strand of hair back under her headscarf and doused the flame on her still, lavender oil could wait; Angelie was never this intense.

Her friend leaned an elbow on the scarred wooden countertop and waved a news sheet at her. “The king, or the council, or whoever. They’ve announced a contest. The artist with the best depiction of the strangwolf, or they might say interpretation, anyway, the best one is to be awarded a painting studio in the palace grounds and funding for a year. I have to win.”

Zara took her time skimming over the smudged newsprint. “What are they really after?”

“Who cares? Even more than yesterday, this is my chance to get into the palace and leave those loathsome bastards wallowing in my dust.”

To be fair, both Bern and Mika were born out of wedlock, and likely loathed by the wives of the two minor nobles who’d fathered them, but Angelie wouldn’t mean it so literally.

“What did they do?”

Her friend’s lower lip quivered. “They ambushed me when I went to deliver Guild master Smith’s portrait and smashed it into the mud.”

 Zara nodded. “Sounds like they need a bit of time in the mud themselves. I’m working on your request, but even if it comes to nothing, I’ll give you all the advice I can.”

And when Angelie won the contest, Zara would find out why it had been called. Of course, if everything went to her plan, it was likely the king’s plan, whatever it was, would be trampled in the chaos. She hoped there would be someone waiting for her in the stone circle the following day. Someone with silver hair.

There was.

He was probably a few years older than her, a good half a head taller and lounged against one of the stones like a predator at rest. He eyed her up and down as she stepped between the stones but said nothing.

Two could play at that game, Zara smiled politely and crouched to check the message hollow.

Suddenly, he was there, looming over her, bent and ready to pounce. She reached up, grabbed his ears and used them to throw him forward into the standing stone.

His head connected with a solid thwack, and he staggered to one side, groaning.

“What was that for?”

Zara sat back on her heels and looked down her nose at where he sprawled, half-sitting, one hand to his head. “That was for trying to intimidate me. As you see, it doesn’t work.”

His half grin was reluctant. “You’re your mother’s daughter.”

Zara chose to take that as a compliment and inclined her head as she scanned the sheaf of papers she’d pulled from the gap under the stone.

There was a silver light, and in place of the man, a silver furred, golden-eyed wolf watched her. Transformation was a quick and easy way to deal with minor injuries – and a dangerous way to deal with major ones.

He spoke again, his voice echoing from the larger chest of the animal. “I am here at your request, Lady. Now you’ve asserted your… independence, I’d like to know why.”

His arrogance was going to be a problem, but he was too useful, and she needed him to agree to her plan.

She tucked the papers into her bag, it was not much more than a collection of gossip and better enjoyed over tea or mead later. Then she put the bag to one side and breathed in, then out, focusing on the shining mote of magic at her core. A breath later, she stretched into her wolf-self, then sat again, this time with her left shoulder angled towards her unnamed companion.

“How are you blue? And what is that mark?”

Strangwolves were so predictable.

“I’m blue because my father’s magic is blue. And the mark is the mage-sign of his family.”

The wolf prowled closer, focused on the swirl of interlocking sapphire blue circles seemingly printed on Zara’s indigo pelt.

“You’re a child of the cursed lines?”

Zara smirked. “An eldest child, no less.”

His eyes jerked to hers. “Then why are you not dead?”

“Because the curse you told the king to break was broken three generations ago.”

“But children are still dying.”

Zara shifted back to human form and picked up her bag. “It’s a long and nasty story, and I’d rather tell it over food. Come on.”

“Where?”

But he’d already shifted and was following her. Good, he was hooked. Now she just needed to talk him into the portrait.

“There’s a nice little place near my shop that does the best stuffed vine leaves in Mydor. And they have a quiet courtyard perfect for extended conversations.”

He caught up, matching his stride to hers and pulling a faded brown scarf out of one pocket to tie around his head. Good idea, his silver hair was quite eye-catching.

He glanced down at her, then ahead. “Do you normally take complete strangers to lunch?”

That made her laugh. “I don’t even know your name, do I?”

She stopped and held out a hand. “I’m Zara, an apothecary of Mydor.”

He took her hand with a half grin that made him look enticingly wicked. “Just call me Deon of nowhere, a traveller.”

Because that wasn’t suspicious. Zara gave a mental shrug. They were all keeping secrets, although he now knew both her biggest ones. She just had to trust their plans weren’t going to clash.

She gave his hand a brief, firm shake, then pulled away. “Lovely to meet you Deon, now let’s go, I’m hungry.”

Deon was smart enough to leave the food order to her once they were settled at a corner table in a courtyard filled with greenery and half filled with people. The hum of conversation, softened by the plants, made a perfect cover for a private discussion.