Foxheart by Claire Legrand Page A

promise you’ll do that for me? You’ll send me home the moment you can? Even if . . . ?” He trailed off, glancing Fox’s way.
    â€œI won’t do it if it hurts Fox, no,” said Quicksilver. “But I’ll find another way, I’m sure of it. I always find a way.”
    After a moment, Sly Boots gave a nervous smile, and they slapped hands. “Agreed.”
    Quicksilver wiped her palm on her coat. “You’re always so nasty and sweaty. First thing I’m going to do is find some sort of . . . witchy thing . . . to fix that.”
    â€œIt’s called a spell,” Anastazia hissed. “Witchy thing. Indeed.”
    â€œWell, how am I supposed to know what it’s called?”
    Fox stretched, sticking his rump into the air, and then sat up. “Shall we begin now? I’m still bored, you know. No offense, child,” he continued, cutting off Quicksilver’s indignant reply,“but when you’re a monster, the rest of the world seems dull as pudding.”
    â€œI like pudding,” Sly Boots offered.
    â€œOf course you do,” said Fox soothingly.
    Anastazia, grumbling to herself, fluffed her pillows and blew out the candles. “First, we sleep. We’ll begin in the morning—that is, if I decide not to run away and leave you noisy lot to your own devices.”
    With the candles out, the room soon fell silent. Fox padded over to the window couch and curled up in a ball with his nose tucked under his hind leg.
    Quicksilver watched him for a long time, forcing her heavy eyes to stay open, for when he was like this—quiet and still—he was the Fox she had always known, and not the strange, sharp creature he had become.

.13.
AB IT R OUGH AROUND THE E DGES

    T he next morning at dawn, while Anastazia settled their account with the proprietor, Quicksilver waited on the bench just outside the tavern’s dining room, where other early risers were eating breakfast.
    The woman serving coffee had luminous purple braids and wore a gray patterned dress with belled sleeves. (Her earrings, Quicksilver assessed, might have fetched twenty silvers back home.) A man and two children devoured a plate of eggs and ham (five coppers), their skin glowing like polished ebony lit up by fire.
    And there, lounging at a table in the corner, was a bear of a man, reading a small book the size of his palm. He glowed brighter than anyone, his yellow-tipped green hair and the eighteen rings on his fingers all vivid as the sun.
    On this man’s shoulder perched a brilliant green bird with eyes like amber jewels. It watched Quicksilver without blinking.
    â€œIs that a witch, do you think?” Quicksilver whispered.
    Sly Boots, sitting beside her, mumbled something incoherent, leaned his head against her shoulder, snuggled into place, and resumed snoring.
    â€œUgh, wake up and stop drooling.” Quicksilver shrugged him off, and his head hit the back of the bench. He smacked his lips and snored even louder.
    â€œYes, he’s a witch,” said Fox.
    Quicksilver jumped to find him at her elbow. Anastazia had given her a pack that held two pouches stuffed full of food and supplies, and she hugged it to her chest, unable to meet Fox’s eyes.
    â€œI didn’t hear you come over,” she told Fox.
    â€œI’m quite sly.”
    They sat quietly for a moment. Quicksilver used to tell Fox everything that was on her mind—her plans, her fears, how she sometimes imagined the north wind carried her mother’s voice.But now, she didn’t know how to say anything to him, and she certainly didn’t think she could trust him.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Fox said blandly, “your secrets are safe with me.”
    Quicksilver scowled. “Can you hear everything I think?”
    â€œMost things. Say, do you think I’d make a good bird?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œJust think about it. I’d be a good bird, wouldn’t I? All