It would have been such a shame for Ingrid to hide away at home.
She had been instrumental in organising the alley’s Save Eric effort. All those hours spent mobilising volunteers to look after the moonstuck werewolf, reaching out across the wider were community for clues as to his curious condition and masterminding the arrangements for the ritual meant to reclaim him for polite society at sunrise after the next full moon… She had been the driving force behind the REVIENS committee, which throughout Eric’s entire ordeal had considered all the practicalities, at all stages, from all possible angles. In exhaustive, exhausting, excruciating detail.
Every single resident of the alley had been given a part to play in the forthcoming dénouement. For some, this responsibility involved tasks at the actual ceremony in the forest. For others, it meant holding the fort back home – a crucial assignment, as Josse had stressed, given that the impasse would be vulnerable with so many of its residents away herding werewolves.
The upcoming ceremony was a massive endeavour, a team effort of the kind that shapes a community’s collective memory for decades to come. No one was going to be left out if he had anything to do with it.
Even Ladrache, whose involvement in any situation was usually more of a hindrance, was on full alert. Protecting the tavern was second nature to him, but for once he would be attempting to assist (rather than distract) the bar staff, who were going to find themselves short-handed.
“So you, of all people, don’t get to just hole up in your room,” Adelphine informed Ingrid, putting an end to the latest of several arguments on this issue.
“May I remind you that I’ll have morphed into a squirrel? I won’t be much use, and you’ll have better things to do than look out for me.”
“Oh just get over yourself, will you,” Adelphine snapped. “I have better things to do than waste more breath on you. You’re not staying behind, even if I have to drag your bushy-tailed backside along in a cat carrier.”
Ingrid stared at the warehouse café’s bare-brick wall for a while before she caved. “Actually, come to think of it, we could just put my cage in the back of a car. The elder did say that more weres meant better chances.”
“Finally. You were really starting to get on my nerves. OK, that could work. You’ll stay in the car, which we’ll back into the clearing so that you can be part of the were circle, and we’ll just roll down a window or something so that your energy isn’t blocked.”
“Fine.” Unlike werewolves, which bulk up to three or four times their human size when they go lupine, were-sciurine people actually contract when the full moon takes them. Their activated form is considerably stronger and far nastier than the average squirrel, but no bigger.
Adorable little fluff-balls, no matter how murderous, rarely get the respect they deserve. But there was an upside for people like Ingrid, as it meant that they didn’t have to move into a full-moon unit or some dank cellar when they shifted. Most shrink-weres were able to handle the transformation in the comfort of their rooms. Many used large, sturdy wire crates that were easy to open from inside once the occupant had reverted to human.
“You’ll be perfectly safe this way. But there’ll be someone in the driver’s seat at all times, just in case. If anything does go wrong, it’ll be their job to get you away from there. Okay?”
“Sure. Just make sure nobody sees me transform. That’s private.”
***
Earlier that evening, also at the warehouse café, the ‘who’s busier’ jury had announced their verdict. They had selected a table in a quiet corner and picked seats along one side – Minuit perching on a bar stool, flanked by Ingrid and Oakleaf on high-backed chairs. Facing them on the other side, the two contestants sat on rickety footstools as they awaited their decision.
Clearly, the jury were enjoying themselves, and the seating arrangements were no coincidence.
I wonder where they found the footstools, thought Josse, desperately fighting to keep his balance on one of these flimsy pieces of furniture. Adelphine, much to his disgust, seemed quite at ease on hers.
Across from him, Oakleaf was polishing his glasses while Ingrid whispered to the AI cat, presumably to elucidate the requirements of proper decorum. Minuit snapped to attention, taking note of the hint that individuals officiating in roles of any significance are not, apparently, meant to contort themselves into unseemly positions in order to groom hidden parts of their anatomy.
Oakleaf cleared his throat. At his signal, all three jury members donned matching black hats that suddenly appeared out of nowhere.
“A quick recap before we begin,” he said. “Just so that we’re all agreed on the terms. The contestants, here present – Mistress Adelphine and Jos the boss – have asked us to settle a long-standing disagreement as to who of them has the busier day.”
“Wait a minute,” Josse interrupted. “What on earth are you wearing?”
“What, this?” Oakleaf pointed to his head covering.
Lutin handiwork, no doubt. No faulting them on technique, but as usual the design needed explaining. Josse assumed that the assorted buttons and rosettes, the squiggles of silver piping liberally applied all over and the ribbons festooning the brim were meant to convey a sense of importance. What the delicate plates of cake on the crown were about was anyone’s guess.
His perplexed scrutiny elicited excited giggles from a table nearby, which were quickly followed by stage-whispered shushing.
“I see,” said Josse. “You might as well show yourselves.”
“As I was saying,” Oakleaf attempted to continue.
“Who else knows?” In Josse’s mind, the bet was meant to be private, but with hindsight he realised that no one had actually said so.
Not that it mattered. But now that he thought about it, the werewolves on the day’s cleaning rota seemed very intent on polishing the immaculate tables nearby, and an unusually high number of residents seemed to be nursing drinks within earshot.
“Alright already,” he sighed. “Come gather round, people…”
“…wherever you roam,” the onlookers chimed in as they drew near, echoing the words of one of Josse’s favourite anthems.
“Can we please get on with it,” Adelphine cut in. “I have patients to check in on.”
“All in good time,” said the wood elf, who was relishing the moment’s dramatic potential. “Settle down, everyone.”
Adelphine rolled her eyes. So far as she was concerned, the whole thing was a foregone conclusion.
“The stakes of the wager are high,” Oakleaf reminded the audience. “The loser has to fill in for the winner for an entire weekend. If Josse loses, we are in for two days of abysmal food, and if anyone has a health problem he’ll tell them to take two aspirin and call Adelphine on Monday.”
He waited for the laughter to die down.
“If Adelphine loses, we’ll be looking at 48 hours of strict discipline, boxed ears and endless chores, and if any arguments break out between residents she’ll lock them up for Jos to sort out when he’s back in charge.”
More hilarity, more rolling of witch eyes.
“You have all seen the competing entries,” Ingrid took over. “Minuit posted them on the residents’ group chat as soon as they came in.”
He did? Someone appeared to need guidance on privacy, Josse thought. He’d add it to his to-do list.
“Let’s start with the very thorough account we received from Jos. Some of you seemed to find it a bit too detailed, so we’ve picked out a few highlights for the TL;DR crowd.” She gestured towards Minuit, who recited choice bits.
Adelphine’s succinct entry was read out in full. On the whole, the women in the audience seemed to find it funnier than the men.
“So here’s the moment everyone’s been waiting for. The winner is… drum roll, please…”
The onlookers responded with glee, beating the table tops with their assorted hands, claws and paws.
“NO ONE,” all three jury members shouted out over the din.
Technically, Josse, they explained once the noise had abated. Adelphine hadn’t actually submitted the required entry, thereby disqualifying herself from the contest. In spirit, possibly Adelphine, given that she claimed to have been too busy to even take notes. Or possibly Josse, given the sheer number of people he dealt with on any given day, both in the hostel community and among his clients and contacts outside. Go figure.
“So what do we do? We have two options. A, we just tell them to stop showing off and let us all get on with our lives. Or, we have option B, by which they actually swap places for a whole weekend, and neither of them is allowed to just put stuff on hold until things are back to normal.”
This is Belgium. Of course option B carried the day.