Honeyed Pasture great scott

no woman had spoken this long to lionel that he could recollect. and if they had, it was not in this way. he found himself happy to be mired in the sound of her voice. "lionel mayfair," the stag chirruped obediently, rote, automatic. she had given no title but he was too transfixed to care.
and her flattery swelled his heart. vague wishing that he had some sort of retort. the inkling left in his mind brought to him one of his mother's stories: pretty monsters rising from the water to swallow men whole, and they completely unaware until the last moment.
selkies, deirdre had solemnly told him in boyhood,
but the sudden heat within this she-wolf's bluestone gaze burned the last trickle of blood out of lionel's brain into more southern climes. a blink; the stag resisted the urge to look behind himself, for she meant him. and though he did not understand it, he was compelled to take a shaking step in her direction, buttercream muzzle seeking tentatively the edge of her jawline if she found it agreeable.