The door had closed on her, leaving Joan alone. With just a bed, a chest and a goat pelt as carpet she felt imprisoned.
One window opened on the outside from which she could see the bailey and beyond the wall, if she stretched, the roofs of houses as well as the quiet wheel of a watermill. Beyond that, past fields and streams lay the forest.
It looked so vast from here, covering most of the horizon.
At first she only paced in that room, more and more impatient at every turn. Soon she found herself scratching the walls and soon after Joan was at the door, resisting the urge to break it down. There was no lock, for all she knew it would open to her.
Only those twins' words forced her to stay.
When a new servant came to bring her supper he found her curled in the bed and thought she was sad or tired. She wanted to ravage the whole place.
But he put the tray on the chest, hesitated, approached her to try and get a glimpse of her face. Two open eyes glared back: he hastily retreated. To her that coward had lost all value the moment he had let fear take the better of him.
Not that those two nobles were much better, she thought.
Her own hands looked so frail, her arms so thin. If she acted more like a weakling, those humans would open more readily to her. She just didn't know how to do that.
Downstairs in the hall she could hear the joyful rumors of the family and their circle eating together. Joan didn't feel like eating but forced herself. It all tasted poorly for her. Anything not drenched in blood, in her condition, was as good as dirt.
Once the family was done, the same servant came back to take the tray. With him followed one of the twins.
"Get up." He ordered. "You have a visitor."
"Who is it?"
"Me. I am visiting you."
She had already approached him and he noticed, that guest had worn her clothes even in bed.
"Wear a shift tonight. And we'll get another dress for you tomorrow."
"Is that all you came for?"
"I am only here to check on you."
She huffed, amused. No matter how hard he tried, that man could not help but have his eyes roam over her hair and shoulders.
They were but two steps away from each other.
"I think you are here because tomorrow your father his lordship of Pivert could take me away, and you feel this might be your only chance."
"Stop looking down on me."
"But you are a man, Abelard." She smirked. "Whatever fear still holds you back, you should cast it away. I am already yours, after all."
He wavered. He sincerely wavered at her words. A man's heart was more complex than just desire. She had called him by his name, and she had been right.
But her words were no less nonsensical.
"Then here is what I want."
And he pushed the servant out of the room, watched him rush away in the hallway.
"What's with your hair? How did your wounds heal so fast? How could you be so clean in a forest? Who gloats about her family's death, cares about her price and asks not once to pray? You haven't even told me your real name."
"Joan."
Joan had looked away. Those were questions she didn't want to face and beyond that, it felt like a beast had lashed out at her. She would have lied if it hadn't sparked her interest.
But her name, she repeated for herself, was Joan of Cormoran.
"I am Joan and I care about my price very much because just having one would be a welcome change."
"Are you going to pretend your family treated you that badly?" He mocked her.
Her eyes expressed such anger that he who had crossed death on the battlefield stepped back, his hand near the hilt. But she had looked away again and paced to the window.
No. No, her pack had not treated her badly. Her pack... had simply forgot about her.
She stayed alone in the first rays of dusk.
She didn't look when he closed the door, nor after the sounds of his steps fainted. It was hard to tell if she should feel humiliated that a weakling had just neglected her.
But of course, the curse had affected her looks. In her mind her new appearance was to blame and once she learned of love, then she wouldn't have to feel so empty anymore. The price she paid for it would prove to be nothing at all.
Out there the bell rang again, announcing the last prayer before night fell. Darkness filled the room until the realm felt familiar to her again, a lighter, simpler place for her to tread in.
She took the shift off the chest, sighed and threw it on the bed.
The hard floor felt better to her, with just that small pelt to keep her warm. Had she been soft or careless, she would have reverted into a dog. Had she more pride, she would have already left this room and this castle.
What was Char doing, she wondered, but shook her head and refused to think of it any further.
For a sleepless werewolf the night proved too long. She could hear every rumor, mostly wood creaking as warmth gave away to cold and night birds cried in the distance.
Then, she heard another kind of rumor and rose her head.
Those were steps in the hallway.
Whoever that was, he was cautious. She had only heard it once the steps were close enough to her own door. No light still meant nothing as the only flames alive were in the great hall.
Joan had got up, approached the door and her own feet made no noise. She moved as silently as a ghost. On the other side she smelled a stench from that individual. He reeked. He was exciting her more and more.
She opened her door and the intruder, just one look told her, had not even noticed. A bulky man all clothed in black, tunic, trousers and boots, a hood on his head and black wool to hide his hands.
A paltry dagger still wrapped at his belt.
He looked strong, she thought, and opened her door wide. The sound of it and above that the night light filtering in all warned the man who spun around to see her silhouette.
That man didn't wait, immediately rushed her, pushed her down on the room's floor and held her down with one arm while unsheathing his weapon. A thrill run up her spine despite the lack of threat. She held his armed hand with her own and the blade spilled more light on her face.
That put a pause on their struggle.
Then he fought again, broke off her hold and pushed the sharp metal against her neck.
"Where is the lord?" He whispered. "Where are his sons? Speak!"
His blade was not even good iron, nothing the curse could not handle, yet excitation was starting to blind her. Instinct was starting to surge against that vain threat.
"Answer me or I won't hesitate!" He pressed, still muttering.
In her mind she was just toying with him. Joan realized too late, when the dagger touched and slipped on her tender neck, at the first hint of blood how wrong she was.
Suddenly that man had become dangerous. She struggled and he tried to finish her, but the metal slipped on the thick hide that was overgrowing with silver fur.
And before he could escape she had gripped his arm up to the shoulder with both hands to bite.