Foxheart (6 page)

F
or what seemed to Quicksilver like the longest stretch of time she had ever endured, she stood watching the stranger, and the stranger sat staring back at her.

Sly Boots nudged her foot. “I don't understand what's happening.”

“What a surprise,” Quicksilver muttered.

“Well, pardon me for being more than a little confused when first,
oh
, there's a you-know-what and a dog performing tricks in the square, and then—
oh
!
Suddenly it's hours later and it's night, and we're still here, but it doesn't feel like hours later to us, and
then—
oh
! Some old ugly woman says she'll teach you magic. Right. I see. Because these are things that happen any old day!”

“Just let me think for a moment, will you? I don't understand it. No one knows my name. No one but me.”

“And your parents,” Sly Boots pointed out. “Right?”

Quicksilver crouched in front of Fox. “Fox, what do I do? What does it mean?”

Fox wagged his tail, his eyebrows bunching in an expression that seemed to say, “I'm not sure, but we'll figure it out together, and I love you.”

Quicksilver smiled. Sometimes it seemed that, just by looking at his familiar face, she could determine exactly what he was thinking.

Exactly what he was thinking . . .

“I've got my first guess,” Quicksilver announced.

The stranger crossed her arms. “That didn't take long. Are you sure you're ready to use one of your guesses?”

In fact, Quicksilver was not at all sure, but it seemed unwise to show a witch she was afraid.

“As long as
you're
ready to teach me magic,” she shot back.

The stranger chuckled. “You always are an arrogant young thing.”

What a strange thing to say,
Quicksilver thought. If the stranger's laugh had been an animal, it would have been a snake, old and sly. Quicksilver's pounding heart seemed to fill every inch of her body.

“Let's just go home,” urged Sly Boots. “Something isn't right here.”

“My first guess,” Quicksilver said, “is that you read my thoughts using magic, and that's how you found out my real name.”

“Mind magic!” The stranger let out a sharp, rasping laugh that dissolved into a cough. “That's rich. And are
you
the kind of person to go around using mind magic without a care in the world? I hardly think so.”

“But I've never used any magic at all!” said Quicksilver.

“Mind magic,” the stranger muttered. “Mind magic indeed. I don't much feel like scrambling my skull like an egg on a skillet, do I? I don't much feel like losing my sense of up and down, and how to put one foot in front of the other, do I? No, indeed I do not.
Mind magic.
”

“All right. Fine.” Quicksilver crossed her arms and began to pace. “So I got that one wrong.”

“Ha! Mind magic!”

Sly Boots and Fox followed Quicksilver as she paced.

“Quicksilver, listen to me,” said Sly Boots. “Let's get home, and we'll start again with our lessons tomorrow. Aha! We'll climb up onto the magistrate's house in the morning, how about that? Or the roof of the inn? Not quite so high as the church but much less steep, which I think you'll agree can only be an advantage—”

“Just let me
think
, won't you?”

“Two guesses left,” the stranger called blithely from her stool, and Quicksilver's stomach clenched, for there it was again—that feeling of familiarity in the tone of the stranger's voice. That voice sounded like . . . someone. Someone at the convent, perhaps? But that couldn't be right. This stranger was obviously no one Quicksilver had met before—

“If she doesn't stop shouting, someone will hear!” Sly Boots whispered. He tugged on the ends of his scarf and groaned. “Oh, can't we just go home? My parents need to eat! What if they're in pain? What if their fever's returned?”

Parents.

Quicksilver stopped pacing, seized by sudden inspiration.

Come back,
whispered the treacherous thought from earlier that day. A northern wind snaked through Willow-on-the-River, ruffling Quicksilver's hair. She drew her patchwork cloak tight
around her body and felt, in that moment, that the world had never seemed larger.

“I have my second guess,” she said.

“This is happening more quickly than usual,” remarked the stranger, leaning forward to prop her chin on her hands. “You're a curious one, you are.”

“Oh, and do you collect many little girls on your travels?” Sly Boots marched over to her with clenched fists. “What do you do with them? Do you eat them? Do you throw them into the sea?”

The stranger lifted an eyebrow; at her feet, her dog lifted his head and growled. “No, I only do that to boys who don't know when to shut their mouths.”

Sly Boots shrank back behind Quicksilver. “She'll cut my throat, she will.”

“You're my mother,” Quicksilver tried to say, but fear clung to her voice, choking it, and though she tried not to hope—for what did hope ever do but leave you open to hurt?—she could not help it. A light, fluttery feeling bloomed inside her, and she could hardly look up at the stranger's eyes, uncertain of what she might find there—and what she might not.

“You're my mother,” she said again, forcing her voice steady,
“and that's how you know my name. Because you were the one who gave it to me.”

The square fell silent, save for Fox's whimpers and the hiss of the wind. Even Sly Boots stopped wringing his hands. The stranger's face seemed caught between too many painful things, and in that moment, she looked not old, but young—a girl trapped in a crone's body.

Then the church bells rang midnight—twelve low, mournful strikes. The stranger rose to take Quicksilver's chin in her hand. Now Fox was the one to growl.

“You should forget about your parents,” said the stranger. “They abandoned you. They're not worth thinking about. Don't waste one more moment on them. Doing so will only ever bring you pain.”

Quicksilver's eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let them fall. “Oh? And how do you know that?”

“I know. Accept it, and let it be.”

The stranger returned to her stool. The old dog leaned his head against her leg.

“One more guess, little thief,” she said, her voice tired and thin. “Consider carefully.”

Quicksilver glared at the stranger for a long moment, then
turned on her heel, marched over to the church, and climbed back up to the roof. Her clammy hands shook as they gripped the wall's intricate wood carvings.

“Quicksilver?” Sly Boots called. “Where are you going?”

But Quicksilver did not answer him. She settled herself atop one of the church's wolf gargoyles and stared out into the night, thinking.

She thought all night, neither tired nor afraid. Chilled wind blew softly past her, ruffling her hair. Sly Boots and Fox curled up near the church in the dirt, Sly Boots sleeping fretfully, Fox quiet and alert.

The stranger and her old dog sat alone in the square. Quicksilver watched them by the light of the moons. She hardly blinked. She moved not an inch. The stars slowly turned above her, a carpet of shining silver dust. The stranger's old dog belched and turned over, showing his belly. Below Quicksilver, Fox did the same a moment later.

And, at last, her body heavy but her mind afire, she knew. She
knew
.

As the first reaches of dawn crept into the sky, Quicksilver climbed down from her perch. The noise of the clock striking five roused Sly Boots. Fox
whuffed
a question.

“What happened?” Sly Boots mumbled, yawning. “I dreamed there was a witch—”

“I'm ready with my third guess,” proclaimed Quicksilver, standing before the stranger. She felt warm and calm, and a little dizzy, as if the cold night had worn away her useless bits, and left only her truest self behind.

The stranger watched her keenly. “Well then?”

“You are me,” said Quicksilver, “and that's how you know my name, for it is also yours.”

T
he stranger's mouth curled into a smile. “Very good.
Very
good. We don't always get it right. Sometimes we need hints. But not you, eh, little thief?”

Sly Boots's mouth fell open. “But that's impossible!”

“She wasn't using mind magic,” said Quicksilver, not taking her eyes off her older self, “and she's not one of my parents. It's the only answer that makes sense.”

“But it makes absolutely
no
sense!”

“Which is why you had to arrive at that solution on your own,” the stranger—Anastazia—explained. “Otherwise your
mind would not have accepted the impossible truth.”

Quicksilver could believe that. Even now, though she had found her answer hours before and had spent the night coming to terms with it, her mind still felt unbalanced, as though the world had shifted beneath her feet, and she could not yet walk steadily upon it.

Fox crept closer to the old dog, touched noses with it, went very still, yelped, ran away, froze, crept close again.

Quicksilver would have bet her entire stash of coins that the old dog rolled his eyes.

“And that's . . . Fox?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Anastazia. “Much older, of course.”

“Of course!” Sly Boots laughed and dragged his fingers through his hair. “Why not? An older Fox. Naturally.”

“Sly Boots, either accept what's happening or go home,” Quicksilver snapped. Then, to Anastazia: “So now what? What does this mean? Why are you here?”

Anastazia opened her mouth to answer and then smiled instead. “It's rather difficult to explain. Perhaps I should show you instead. Fox?”

The older Fox stretched, shook himself, and pressed his snout into Anastazia's palm. Quicksilver's Fox trotted toward
Anastazia and then stopped, tilting his head. He looked back at Quicksilver and whined.

“This might get confusing,” Quicksilver said, “to call them both Fox.”

“Don't worry about that. It won't matter for—”

But Anastazia did not finish her sentence, for at that moment, the chill dawn air of Willow-on-the-River filled with howls.

Quicksilver's blood seemed to freeze in her body. She knew the sound of those howls.

Anastazia leaped to her feet. In a flash, the older Fox was no longer himself, but a dog of light, tinged scarlet and gold. He looked strong, lean, powerful.

“He's found me already,” Anastazia whispered. Her breaths came faster, thinner—almost wheezing. “
Stars
, I thought I would have more time.”

“Who?” Quicksilver asked, though she thought she knew.

“The Wolf King.”

Sly Boots breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “The Wolf King! But that's good, isn't it? Well, maybe not for you, you horrible, lying witch lady, but—”

“It's not good for
anyone
, fool,” Anastazia snarled. “Quicksilver! Grab my hand, and your Fox, and don't let go.”

Quicksilver reached for Anastazia's outstretched hand, then hesitated and took a step back. “Why?”

“I'll take you somewhere safe. I promise. Hurry!”

Then a dark, cloaked figure burst into the square. He was surrounded by wolves—seven of them.

White, gray, black, brown, gold, blue, red,
recited Quicksilver's frantic brain.
The pack of the blessed Wolf King.

“Get behind me,” Anastazia commanded. Quicksilver and Sly Boots hurried to obey.

“You've lost, old woman!” bellowed the Wolf King, in a voice that reminded Quicksilver of metal scraping against metal. Sly Boots, hiding behind Quicksilver, clapped his hands over his ears. Throughout the square, windows glowed yellow as candles were lit. The door of the inn opened with a creak.

“What's all this ruckus about?” called the gruff voice of the innkeeper.

The Wolf King flung out his arm, and two of his wolves broke away, running toward the innkeeper. As they ran, their bodies lengthened and brightened, and soon they were not flesh-and-blood wolves, but wolves of light and fire, and where their paws hit the ground, they left black, charred spots behind. They lunged at the innkeeper, latching on with their
jaws. He screamed in terror. His screams did not last long.

The Wolf King thrust his arm toward Quicksilver. Three more wolves broke away and bounded straight toward her.

Anastazia turned, her eyes wild. “Quicksilver, grab my hand,
now
.”

Still Quicksilver hesitated. As the sleepy villagers awoke and stepped outside to investigate, the wolves attacked, their howls discordant and shrill. Fires broke out where the wolves crashed through wooden market stalls. A wolf shimmering white tackled a woman and tore at her throat. The air filled with smoke and the sound of the villagers' screams.

“Quicksilver!”
Anastazia cried, her voice cracking.

Quicksilver could stay here. She could run and hide from the Wolf King and try to help the villagers. She could help Sly Boots protect his parents; maybe she could find out what had happened to everyone at the convent.

Or she could grab Anastazia's hand and go with her . . . somewhere.

What if they went to a place that was even more dangerous?

What if they went nowhere at all?

She grabbed Sly Boots's hand and squeezed.

“Get Fox!” she screamed, and waited until she saw Sly Boots
scoop up Fox before turning to take Anastazia's hand.

The snarling wolves leaped, their fiery jaws open wide and blazing.

Quicksilver felt Anastazia pulling her close. “Don't let go!” Anastazia cried, and then she whispered, “Good-bye, old friend,” and when Quicksilver raised her head, she saw the older Fox, glowing and magnificent, racing around them, faster and faster, spinning them up into a column of light that pulled and tugged, and made Quicksilver feel as though her limbs would snap off her body.

“Anastazia!” she cried, but her voice was swallowed away, and she could only hope that Sly Boots had a good grip on Fox, and that he hadn't let go of her hand, for she could no longer feel the squeeze of his fingers.

All she knew was the blinding ring of light around her, and an immense pressure upon her chest, as though she were being turned inside out. From amid the wolves' howls came the frustrated wail of a child—a boy. Was it Sly Boots? Where was he?

“Fox?
Fox!
” Quicksilver screamed for him, her throat raw from trying to breathe in this tight, hot place. She would not lose Fox, she would
not
lose him—

Then, without warning or ceremony, there was nothing but darkness, and a silence thick as an ending.