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attacked Franklyn, he should have finished him off.
    He closed his eyes at the image of the blood-splattered apartment. Such a powerful memory should have held a kernel of satisfaction, but it didn’t, only a deep fear at what the beast’s bite could do.
    His initial gut instinct after Gorsewell attacked her in the dream, had been yes, here was one he would have to subdue. The visit to the hospital with Sian at the beginning of October had set him wondering at the possibilities. Franklyn suspected him for what he was—he’d sensed it. Hence, he’d given a sharp heads-up to a potential werewolf to know his place when in the presence of his creator.
    When he returned home with Sian, along with easing her fears, he’d tried to dismiss his initial thoughts as an overreaction to the situation. So much medical interference, the drips, the drugs, the blood transfusions, surely they must mean Franklyn remained a man.
    They must.
    Perhaps he should do a little investigating the day the film crew was here when Sian was busy. He’d find out what Gorsewell was up to in the rest home where he recuperated from his injuries. The wish that he’d gnawed at Gorsewell’s shoulder for longer nagged, an ever present concern. A huge sigh left him, for if Franklyn were to become a werewolf, his and Sian’s life would never be the same.
    The consequences of his carelessness would need time and effort to put right. He could not begin the process until, if Gorsewell were infected, the yob accepted the inevitable and came to his creator in deference. Somehow, he hoped that would never happen. Should Gorsewell change, then he would feel compelled to return here. Perhaps when he felt strong enough to challenge for Sian, he would.
    A prickle of sensation lifted the hairs on his arms. If Gorsewell wanted a fight, he’d be overjoyed to oblige. No twenty-first century spiv, the perfect description of Gorsewell, a furtive, cheating, greedy bully, would take the woman he adored. He took a swig of tea and swallowed. Presently he must await Gorsewell’s healing. He’d deal with the outcome when the first opportunity presented itself.
    Once he’d finished his cup of Earl Grey, he glanced at the promotional pages Sian had left for him, Green Girls and their company director. He looked again, certain this image could be no one but Dorothy Fowler. A finger above six feet tall, with a physique to match, she was able to down a pint of the Highwayman’s Rest’s Best Bitter as fast as any man. Dorothy had also shared other appetites as demanding. So many years had passed since he last saw the woman he remembered. But the sweep of fair hair from this girl’s wide forehead, the strong but attractive open features, he couldn’t doubt his memory. Yet Dorothy would be old now, in her eighties or nineties, not youthful and full of vigor, nor capable of shoving a wheelbarrow full of vegetables. A sudden inkling gave him gooseflesh.
    No, impossible.
    Damn it, he’d call the gardening company this morning as soon as they opened to find out if his intuition was right.
    * * * *
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Tyson. We’d be most pleased. Sian and I have enjoyed all the meals Cook has so far presented. Yes, of course, I understand. You have my thanks.” He set the phone on its cradle before picking it up to call through to the study where Sian worked for much of each day to prepare for the filming. “Can we talk for a few moments?” he asked.
    â€œHi, Magnus, I’ll just click this thing. There, yes, done. Now, you have my full attention.”
    â€œMrs. Tyson has rung through to me. It would appear, since I’d not told her of other plans, Cook has taken it on herself to present us with a fine Bonfire Night meal tomorrow evening, including a Neapolitan Bombe for dessert.”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œIt’s an amaretto-laced mousse.”
    â€œOh, will you want fireworks, too,