Farel, the eight-year-old wolfboy, squat upon the banquet table unceremoniously devouring what was left of a large pheasant, much to the Queen’s distress. The Grand Hall was an utter mess: chairs and tables were overturned, the buffet had been routed, and all decorations lay mangled. The Queen’s horrified guests had left hours ago, and now she stood, fists clenched, staring violently at Farel.
“He should be with the dogs!” she snapped. “I’ve half a mind to put him there myself!”
“Darling,” started the King, trying to keep a calm demeanor. “We need to be patient. We must give him time.”
Zanon – the boy’s elderly instructor – hid behind the King, trembling fearfully.
“We’ve given him time!” she wailed. “He’s ruined three parties! I’ve hardlyany friends left!”
“We need to give more,” said the King.
“You know very well why,” he said. “Because he is family.”
“Your family. Not mine,” she said. “He’s barely human!”