Noise and smell came back before touch, long before her sight. From those alone she could tell, her shape had held and the humans had taken her in.
She had been put under a warm leather blanket, on a feather mattress with cushions equally filled that had slipped off from behind her head. Bandages covered wounds long closed. They had clothed her with a linen shift.
Three persons in that room with her.
Her mind raced to figure out the next steps. Like a bear in a den of hares, she would need to not scare them. To act like hares, but to know how they fretted was not enough to imitate. The closest she could do, the wisest, was to submit.
As a beast, to crawl at their feet and offer her neck.
The bed's hangings were drawn open.
Two ladies sit on stools at her side saw her stir, watched her open her eyes. Daylight streamed through open windows, bringing colors to the stone room and tapestries. In a corner, busy on her spinning wheel, a third woman looking older only glanced at her.
Both ladies turned to the closed door and called:
"She is awake!"
"Silence!" The older woman ordered them. "Go and fetch them!"
"Oh, what's the harm…" One grumbled.
But the other had already got up.
"I'll go find them. You stay with her."
They didn't look scared, only disturbed the moment they had caught her cold, murderous eyes. Still too hostile, she thought, while comparing her gaze to their fragile ones.
Moving only made her wince from a strained body. Even that motion was still too rough.
"Don't worry, you are safe now."
The woman that remained at her side held her hand.
She muttered, her voice as weak as she could make it: "Who are you?"
And in response the woman showed her that person on the spinning wheel.
"This is lady Mirabelle of Pivert, who is offering you shelter under her roof."
Just as a pack had an alpha, humans had nobles; both held a territory the humans called a domain. And this pile of stones was their residence, a castle. The furniture, wooden pillars and tapestries had already betrayed it, if not just the available space.
Nobles and commoners. To tell them apart humans would give the better clothes to their rulers. And yet, that woman at the wheel only had a simple dress, no jewelry and a hard face focused on her labor only.
For her to be the noble, and the two ladies her servants, was already odd.
It seemed the realm didn't exist in that woman's eyes but for the thread she kept producing, that flowed in front of her so steadily.
"But what's your name?" The cold voice asked once more.
And the woman, on her stool, got anxious.
"Me? Well, my name is Adele."
"My name is Adele, milady!" Lady Mirabelle scolded from her station. "You can't even address the nobility right you trull."
Those were fighting words. Her cursed blood, that of a werewolf, still would not tolerate it. But the moment she was getting up she felt that Adele pressing her gently, a silent plea to do nothing.
Her soft green eyes didn't even bear any anger, just a sad resignation.
Steps approached the door that opened a second later.
The man who entered looked too mature for his age.
His hair a fierce ginger mirrored sharp clothes and motions. With a sword hung at the belt, tabard over his tunic, he still wore his mantle on one shoulder, let it whip when he stopped.
His steel blue eyes had struck hers.
"You are awake. Good. Now you can tell us who you are."
"Milord!" The woman got up from her stool, protesting. "She is still recovering!"
"Really? That's easy to…"
"I am fine." She cut them.
And to confirm that she pushed herself up, still holding the blanket over her body. She had cursed herself, she would feel weak for the rest of her life. There would be no recovery.
The man only smirked. He put his back on the wall, crossed his arms.
"Then, your name?"
"I would rather not say."
And before the man could laugh, that woman at the spinning wheel raised her voice.
"We already know who you are! A lady lost in the forest, please! You are Joan of Cormoran."
"Again, mother," the man retorted, "you said Joan was a blonde."
"Blonde, white, who cares! She got ill, she got cursed, who will prove me wrong? All those who knew her have turned to ash. She is Joan, no doubt."
The man sighed, gestured for Adele to leave the room and gauged that woman on the bed once more.
"Joan, then."
"As you wish." She answered, her tone identical to his.
Still too hostile, she thought. She couldn't tell from his expression which of him or her was meant to be the cornered animal.
Yet this was as submissive as she could get. And from now on Lyra swore that Joan was her name.
"You need to drink, eat and take a bath. After that, father will decide your fate."
She simply nodded. He was about to leave when Mirabelle, once more, got a bout of anger.
"You take her with you! I am not staying alone with that stranger!"
For a moment it seemed the man was about to lose his calm, but he took a second to breathe, then removed his mantle and let someone in the hallway hold on to it.
"Fine. Take her to the hall, make her a meal and prepare a bath. And tell Adele to clean the bed, we have disturbed mother long enough."
"What about clothes?" The woman in the hallway asked.
"Give me back my mantle when she is presentable."
He rushed out and the woman, who presented herself as Ophelie, entered again, offered her the cloak with which she wrapped herself to follow outside.
This was a castle. It was austere, with wooden floorboards cold and dry on her naked feet. Narrow corridors and staircase led to the great hall where a single table and bench remained from noon.
Ophelie installed her there, excused herself and went to the kitchen.
As she waited, Joan, Joan could not help but feel hopeful. It was almost troubling how easily she had been able to mingle with humans. Like a trap, she had been given a name and clothes. But their ulterior motives hardly mattered.
What troubled her was how eerily familiar, how cold and distant those humans acted even among themselves.
Downstairs through the floor she could hear rumors of a quarrel.
Then someone came up, not Ophelie but two men, one of them the same red-haired noble she had met. Except he was in chainmail, the metallic hood in his hand and she noticed, the sword was held on the other side of the belt.
She remembered having seen two faces before losing consciousness.
So Joan got up and walked toward them as they entered. She didn't know whether to bow or shake hands, assumed it was the former.
"Good day," she said, "I am Joan of Cormoran."
"Oh, so mother was…"
"Careful, my lord." The other man warned.
He too was young, and far from a noble looked wild and fierce. His black hair were disheveled, his skin tarnished, shirt and trousers stained by dirt and still he looked not just imposing, tall and muscled, but also refined.
His clear pride was a short beard he had to cut every morning to keep it so sharp.
That such a man, whose clothes denoted the standing of a commoner, could talk so openly suggested either fame or recklessness.
Not just that: he had physically held the noble back. His brown eyes hostile to her.
"She is…"
"Enough!" The man cut him. "Keep your drivel for yourself or leave our castle."
"I'm telling you…"
"And I will warn you one last time, hunter."
That hunter had more words at his mouth but groaned and, after a long glare at her, turned away to leave the room.
"Sorry for that, lady Joan." The noble calmed down. "Since we found you in the forest, rumors have inevitably spread."
She could not help but look in the direction of that open door.
Wanting to follow that man.
Because he was strong, threatening, because of those wild looks her heart had fluttered. A wolf no more but she still prized strength above all.
"Who was he?" She wondered aloud.
"No one." The man's tone got annoyed. "Just some hunter we sheltered for the night. He will be gone soon enough."
He knew. That hunter knew. From the moment their eyes had crossed that human had seen through her disguise with ease.
It made her tremble. It made her smile. This feeling of being hunted, she had missed it.