The hottest day of the year occurred at the end of August, when the herbs outside the kitchen were wilting before Harold even went to work. Jasfoup was already ensconced on a lounger by the garden pond, Felicia stretched out on the grass next to him.
“Are you working today or not?” Harold had his Tupperware box containing egg and cress sandwiches tied up with string.
“Not,” said Jasfoup. “I work seven days a week and just want to relax.”
“What about you?” Harold asked, turning to Felicia.
She raised her head, squinting against the strong light to make him out. “The gallery can stay shut,” she said. “It’s too hot to sit under all those lights.”
Harold chose to ignore the irony. “I suppose it’s appropriate,” he said, sitting down and opening his sandwich box, “that a werewolf should enjoy the dog days of summer.”
© Rachel Green 2007