Foxheart Page 7

  Sly Boots glared at Anastazia, but his glare was sorely outmatched. He looked down at the bedcovers.

  “I don’t see any other way about it, Boots,” said Quicksilver. “If we’re stuck here, we’re stuck here, but I don’t like to remain stuck for long.” Quicksilver rose to her feet. “If you’ll teach me magic,” she said to Anastazia, “I’ll help you fight the Wolf King. Or find the what’s-it things. The bones of the First Ones’ monsters.” She paused. “You already have some of them, right? You’ve managed to hang on to at least a couple of skeletons, maybe?”

  Anastazia’s face fell, her mouth thinning. “No. I had two of them, and then I lost them to the Wolf King before I found you. In every one of our lifetimes, we have found these skeletons hidden in different parts of the Star Lands, and they don’t always stay in the same place for long. Before the First Ones died, they put a spell on their monsters so that their skeletons might never be found, and they did a fine job. They can cloak and glamour themselves to look different than what they are. They’re here one instant, and three kingdoms away the next. You’ll find one only to lose it a moment later if you don’t grab it fast enough. That’s what happened to me—for ten years I hid two of them, carrying them with me wherever I went. I was lucky. And then, only days before I found you, they vanished.”

  Anastazia took a deep, shuddering breath and then let out a rattling, wet cough. “I’ve brought you to a time in the past when the Wolf King hasn’t yet found any of the skeletons—at least I don’t think he has—but as for us . . . we’ll have to start with nothing. No skeletons, no advantage . . .”

  Quicksilver swallowed hard. “Well . . . once we do have the skeletons, we can destroy them, right?”

  “We haven’t yet designed a spell strong enough to do it, but we will,” said Anastazia. “Each time we get closer. Meanwhile, we’ll steal as many of them as we can and try to keep them out of the Wolf King’s reach until that day comes.”

  Quicksilver was silent for a long moment. When she finally held out her hand, she tried to make herself seem more confident than she felt. “All right, then. It’s a deal.”

  Anastazia, amused, slapped her palm. When their skin touched, a spark zipped between them.

  “Agreed.”

  “And,” said Quicksilver, turning to Sly Boots, “as soon as I figure out a way to return, I’ll send you right back home, so you can be with your parents. I can’t imagine it will take me long. If magic is anything like thieving, I ought to learn quickly.”

  “Hah!” snorted Anastazia.

  “Don’t worry, child,” Fox said, stretching and yawning. “With me as your monster, you can’t go wrong.”

  Quicksilver flushed. “Child? I’m twelve.”

  “Can’t go wrong,” Anastazia repeated, shaking her head. “Oh, stupid little fools. You’ve no idea what lies ahead.”

  Ignoring her, and Fox’s smug face, Quicksilver thrust out her hand again. “Agreed, Boots?”

  Sly Boots considered her. “You 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.

  “I 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.”

  “It’s called a spell,” Anastazia hissed. “Witchy thing. Indeed.”

  “Well, 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.”

  “I like pudding,” Sly Boots offered.

  “Of 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.

  A BIT ROUGH AROUND THE EDGES

  The 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.

  “Is 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.

  “Ugh, 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.

  “Yes, 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.

  “I didn’t hear you come over,” she told Fox.

  “I’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.

  “Don’t worry,” Fox said blandly, “your secrets are safe with me.”

  Quicksilver scowled. “Can you hear everything I think?”

  “Most things. Say, do you think I’d make a good bird?”

  “What?”

  “Just think about it. I’d be a good bird, wouldn’t I? All gold and feathery? Long and sleek?” He paused, glanced sidelong at Quicksilver. “Maybe with white feathers in my tail?”

  At his words, Quicksilver imagined such a bird. She imagined Fox’s lanky dog body transforming into a smaller, feathered creature, soaring through the rafters overhead. . . .

  “What in the name of the stars?” Sly Boots sat up, fully awake.

  Quicksilver blinked. A bizarre creature half hopped, half flew across the dining room tables—gold feathered and gold furred. It had a wing on one side, and two pawed legs on the other. When it opened its mouth, its tiny beak was crammed full of canine fangs. It tried to fly and crashed into the breakfasting family’s plate of hot rolls.

  A hand grabbed Quicksilver’s shoulder.

  “Think of Fox,” Anastazia instructed. “Think of him as you know him—a dog, and a dog alone.”

  An image of Fox flashed into Quicksilver’s flustered mind. Something tugged on her heart, yanking her toward Fox, and she gasped. She needed to be near him, more than she had ever needed anything in her life. She ran to him, her pack swinging from her shoulders. With a flash of golden light, the bird-dog thing clambering across the t
ables became fully a dog, and slid right into the feet of the witch with the green bird on his shoulder.

  Fox raised his head, woozy, and barked. Quicksilver fell to her knees beside him and scooped him into her arms.

  Sly Boots hurried over. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  Quicksilver did not know how to answer him. She felt as if she had stepped into an outlandish dream. All she knew was that she had needed to be near Fox, and now she was, and whatever had happened didn’t matter much in the face of that. She buried her face between his ears and was relieved to discover that he still smelled of dog.

  “Our apologies,” Anastazia muttered to the witch with the green bird, not quite looking at him. “She just got her monster. A bit rough around the edges.”

  The witch man grimaced, avoiding Anastazia’s gaze just as determinedly as she was avoiding his. “Not to worry. First few days are always tricky.” Then he turned away, the air around him vibrating with animosity.

  The witch’s monster, in a soft thrum of emerald light, circled around Fox’s head, squawking angrily, before popping back to the witch’s shoulder with a second puff of light.

  “Do it again, do it again!” shrieked the two children a few tables over.

  “So sorry to burst into your morning like this,” Anastazia called to the entire establishment.

  The woman in the purple braids grinned. “I’ve seen much worse. Why, this one time, this witch from Belrike came in with her son, and—”

  “What a wonderful story,” said Anastazia, ushering Quicksilver and Sly Boots out of the inn and onto the street. Fox hopped along beside them, shaking out his paws. Quicksilver slammed her eyes shut as they stepped outside, but dared to open them again after a couple of moments, and found that the brightness of this long-ago world was no longer painful.

  “Of all the careless, reckless things to do,” Anastazia spat. “What were you thinking?”

  Quicksilver frowned. “What do you mean, what was I thinking? Fox was the one who—”

  “Fox can’t do anything on his own. Without you directing him, he’s simply raw magic. Shapeless and stupid.”

  “Excuse me,” Fox interrupted, coughing out a tiny yellow feather, “but I am certainly not—”

  “Stupid, yes. You looked ridiculous, flapping about like some newborn half-thing.”

  “But Fox was the one who started talking about being a bird,” Quicksilver cried. “He told me to imagine it, and I did, and then I don’t know what happened, but all I did was think, I promise!”

  “All you did?” Sighing, Anastazia looked to the sky, stars glittering between streaks of dawn-lit clouds. “Quicksilver, magic is all about thinking. Your monster listens to your thoughts, reads them and interprets them, and does whatever they tell him to do.”

  Quicksilver whirled on Fox. “You knew. You told me to imagine it, and you knew what would happen when I did!”

  “Not true,” Fox protested silkily. “I thought you would actually think what you were supposed to think instead of botching it.”

  “How could I botch something when I didn’t even know I was doing it?”

  “It’s not my fault you don’t know these things. She’s supposed to teach them to you.”

  “Dog, I will teach you things so beyond your current capacity that someday you’ll look back on this morning and think yourself nothing but a dumb pup,” said Anastazia. “And don’t you use that tone with me. I mean it.”

  They walked in silence until Sly Boots burst into a fit of giggles, gasping and wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help it anymore. You looked ridiculous! A wing on one side, and . . . paws on the other! And a beak full of teeth!”

  Sly Boots’s laughter rang through the already crowded street. A fox glowing a fiery red bounded alongside a woman wearing a gauzy veil. A ruby flash, and he was a tiny red bird, flying overhead. Other flashes followed—monsters shifting into different animal forms, witches vanishing into columns of colored smoke—and the Willow-on-the-River market of long ago cheerfully bustled on.

  It was a world of witches, a world where thoughts could turn dogs into birds.

  Or almost birds.

  Quicksilver laughed too, at the sheer outrageous wonder of it all. She clutched Sly Boots’s arm, laughing so hard she almost fell over.

  Fox sniffed, putting his nose in the air. A fluffy white feather fluttered on his rump like a flag, and Sly Boots and Quicksilver laughed at it all the way through town.

  .14.

  A MONSTER NAMED FOX

  The first thing Quicksilver noticed about being a witch was that it would have been much easier without a monster getting in the way.

  Or perhaps simply with a monster who wasn’t so completely impossible.

  Anastazia had taken them to a clearing some distance from town. It butted up against a pasture of cows, and thick clusters of trees shielded them from the road. Here, she said, they would practice the most basic of magical tasks—communication.

  “Before you can try any actual spells,” said Anastazia, “you must learn how to speak to each other—not as girl and dog, but as witch and monster. You’ll read each other’s thoughts, and know how to use your magic based on what you’re thinking.” Anastazia paused to rifle through a bag of mint-and-chocolate star-shaped candies she’d purchased in town.

  “Do you have to practice here?” Sly Boots complained from his perch on the pasture fence, waving his hand about. “These cows stink.”

  “So do you, but you don’t hear me griping about it,” said Anastazia. “Now, Quicksilver. Let’s try again. Fox, stop biting your rump and act civilized.”

  Fox gathered himself with dignity and bowed his head. “Of course, master.”

  Quicksilver snapped, “I’m the one you call master. I’m your witch.”

  “Are you quite sure? You don’t seem to be a very good one, at any rate.”

  “Fox,” Anastazia scolded.

  “All right, all right. Whenever you’re ready. Master.”

  Quicksilver rolled up her sleeves and stuck out her tongue at him.

  “Now,” said Anastazia, “try again.”

  Quicksilver closed her eyes and breathed in and out, steadying herself.

  “Listen to each other,” Anastazia continued. “The bond is there, connecting you—soul to soul. All you have to do, Quicksilver, is reach out and find the bond, follow it, and use it to show Fox whatever it is you want him to do. You must think your instructions in clear, easy-to-understand images. Remember . . . though he is now a monster, he’s still a dog.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” huffed Fox.

  Quicksilver allowed her breathing to carry her thoughts in and out of her mind, as though they floated atop a calm river.

  Fox? she thought.

  Nothing.

  She tried again. Fox? Hello?

  Still nothing, and yet she knew he was there, across the clearing. She could hear him scratching his ear.

  Quicksilver focused on the rhythm of her heart. She followed it out, into the air, reaching, searching, until she sensed another heartbeat. At first she thought it was the echo of her own, but then she realized it was faster, and hotter, like Fox when he was panting.

  Fox!

  He sighed. What?

  I’ve found you!

  Well done, you.

  Be serious, Fox.

  Why? That’s no fun.

  I can feel you scratching your ear! No wonder you make those funny growling sounds when you do that. It does feel amazing.

  “What’s happening?” called Anastazia.

  “I’ve found Fox,” Quicksilver cried, her eyes still closed. “I’m talking to him!”

  “Excellent. Now, try sending him an image, something simple. Picture it in your mind, and then send it toward him, like you might push an object across a table.”

  What shall I think of? Quicksilver wondered to Fox.

  An image of Sly Boots sitting on the fence, picking his nose, flashed
through Quicksilver’s mind.

  What was that? I didn’t think that.

  No, Fox said, I did. Because that’s what he’s doing right now. Charming, isn’t he?

  Quicksilver snorted. What if we . . . ? Then she pictured a scenario that made Fox stop scratching himself and perk up.

  Oh, that’s a superb idea, master.

  Quicksilver beamed. I thought you’d like it.

  But we’ll have to surprise him.

  Of course.

  Otherwise it wouldn’t have the same effect.

  I quite agree. Then Quicksilver had another idea. I’ve got it.

  She worked through the entire situation in her mind, step by step, which took a while to accomplish. She had never before realized how many thoughts go into one idea, and how they come jumbled and out of order, a messy tangle of sensations and colors. She forced herself to think slowly, imagining each step in their new scheme as if sketching it out with pen and paper.

  “What are you two doing?” Anastazia asked. “You’ve been quiet an awfully long time.”

  “They’re just standing there with their eyes closed,” said Sly Boots. “It’s starting to give me the creeps.”

  He gives me the creeps, thought Fox to Quicksilver. All those freckles, that droopy smile . . .

  Quicksilver stifled her giggle. “We’re trying something!”

  “Trying what, exactly?” asked Anastazia. “You’re only supposed to send him a single image.”

  “Oh, we’re far beyond that,” said Quicksilver. “Don’t worry, we can handle it.”

  “Quicksilver—” warned Anastazia.

  Go! Quicksilver thought to Fox, and opened her eyes.

  In a soft burst of golden light, Fox disappeared and then reappeared as a sleek yellow bird—a proper bird this time, not half formed—hovering right in front of Sly Boots’s face.

  Fox squawked and flapped his wings.

  Sly Boots screamed, teetered, circled his arms to regain his balance, and fell back into a clump of tall grass—just missing a questionable-looking pile of something buzzing with flies.