Morwenna took a calming breath: had she not been a woman who carried herself with dignity (and, more to the point, walked with a cane) then she might have challenged him to a duel on the basis that he was an impudent, smug bastard who deserved to be shown up for the coward he was.

Perhaps she could hit him with her stick instead? It did have a brass head that seemed made for just such a purpose but such brutish behaviour was beneath her, whatever Mr Picardy might have to say about her wolf nature. At least she was only a beast three nights of the month.

“I expect it would be wasted on you anyway,” Morwenna replied with narrowed eyes, opting to save her breath for someone whose mind could be changed. And as unpleasant as the encounter had been at least she had confirmed one thing to herself: there was no way he had created Marlowe Forfang for his own publicity. She doubted he could even manage pretending to be a supporter of werewolf rights.

“Don’t let me keep you from your baying audience.” She added tartly, not deigning to glance at the few and far between folks who were gathered, before she left the shop and forced herself not to stop off at the Three Broomsticks to drink away her fury.

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MJ knows my soul rings to the rune of this iconic hat