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Chapter 14

"How is that wound doing?" Duck asks.

"Not healed yet," I answer him. The pain in my wound isn't half as awful as the pain in my heart. "I have slept better, I guess."

"Indeed, fox." Duck says in a tone which suggests in no dubious terms whose fault he believes that is.

I glance behind me, to verify that Kit is here with me. He's been mostly quiet since our argument yesterday, but he did insist on giving the me a proper bath before I go ashore this morning, one with soap and clean water. Duck has decided, in what I assume is revenge for me walking in on him bathing, that this is no reason for him not to come down and share his opinions over breakfast.

"I'll mention this again, fox, just so we're entirely clear. You have a lot of work to do if you want to get back on my good side. If you'd only listened, we could be in the city now, measuring you up for proper clothes, and having a proper, decent meal at the castle."

Kit works in complete silence, but his breathing shakes almost imperceptibly every now and then, betraying the fragility of the moment. But what I don't need now is to be reminded how foolish I've been, and focus on how righteous this will be. I will mete out justice today.

Duck finishes his breakfast, and moves to the back of the kitchen, where he's propped a long, slender box up against the back wall.

"Well. At least this way, I can see you fight for myself. You will fight with either sibling of a set of twin rapiers. These rapiers."

He opens the lid of the box to reveal two swords lying opposite of each other. Two slender, beautiful and deadly sharp thrusting swords, each with a simple cross guard and a silver pommel. The handles are wrapped with supple lambskin, and the blades gleam with the shimmer of oil. Though clearly meant for thrusting, they possess a sharpened double edge. Duck tells me it'll easily sink to the bone if slashed correctly. To a beginner however, it's far more likely it'll only spring around like a reed in a storm, providing at best, an unpredictable arc and at worse, an unpleasant demonstration of the dangers of the proverbial double-edged sword.

They're very beautiful, though. I pick up one of the swords, to feel this flexibility for myself. The tip happily bends all the way down to the pommel before springing back, rather abruptly, to reassume its straightness. It's also very light, and very easy to swing about. Even holding the weapon, I feel more confident than I did earlier this morning. Maybe that's misplaced confidence; it's certainly not lost on me that this blade requires a master to wield perfectly. But it helps still my heart a little, and distracts from Kit's hushed sniffling behind me. Duck tells me Ajag is no master, merely a dilletante. But what does that make me?

"I hoped for swords," I admit, uneasily. "But... I'm not sure I should have."

"You would not have fared much better with pistols," Duck says, his voice steely and cold. "I'm guessing you've never fired one before. You have killed, however. You know what to do with a blade."

I wince, as my ears turn involuntarily back towards Kit.

"Look ahead," Kit murmurs softly. His voice is so quiet it betrays nothing about what he's thinking. "What has been said is said. If I could do anything about it, I would. But I can't. You are your own fox, for good or ill. I love you, Kieran, but do me at least this favour. Look to your future, not your past. I want to be a part of it. Make that happen, whatever you do."

I swallow. I was once as powerless as Kit is now, and he's powerless because I took a choice from him, and decided it was best for him. The trust between us has been breached. I can see that he's been thinking a lot. But that's all he can do. Think and write and hope. Damn me and my bull-headed, stupid mind. To him, the captain isn't a thorn which needs to be removed. He's a bad memory which must be forgotten. A bad memory he had been ready to move on from, but which I kept pulling him back towards with my unsavoury lust for revenge.

###

As we walk along the road from the ship to where Duck has planned our duel to take place, I begin to realise the vastness of the journey I've gone on, which has until now been confined to the same ship I stepped onto as a slave. I'm in a completely different place. On the other side of the world, if indeed the world has sides to it. Strange new species of people I've never seen before crop up along the road. Ten or twenty times as many as I've ever seen in one place. Curious patterned brown and grey foxes look back at me, as unusual to me as I no doubt am to them. I catch sight of rodents and other weasels of every shape, broad shouldered beavers smelling of sawdust and treacle, otters poling rafts up and down along the shore and short coated cats of many hues with intense, determined eyes. Among them all are scattered many different breeds of dogs, almost all of them unknown to me. Small, long coated and dainty dogs with golden jewellery. Lanky, long and curly dogs walking around with their snouts held high. Nervous looking, very slim, young hounds running at great speed up and down the road with satchels slung across their shoulders. Nobody seems to pay attention to our band of curious looking strangers, like how we would've been looked at in Nawesh. Even the Dalmatian goes mostly unnoticed. On closer inspection, however, nobody looks our way. Every person we encounter averts their eyes from the Dalmatian among us. Is this the Duke's authority and power too? I see another spotted dalmatian of Duck's breed, but with lighter spots, who removes his hat and bows to us as soon as we come into view, as if they were familiar. But Duck doesn't greet him, only waves with a lazy half flick of his wrist, and the Dalmatian proceeds on his way. That's the closest I ever get to actually interacting with the populous. I have been barred from speaking to anyone to protect my identity, which isn't so difficult, because only the schooled, and sailors, can understand Castellanian well enough to converse, according to the Duke.

Kit and I, the Duke and the Captain, and two other sailors climb to the top of a small hill further inland, forgoing a popular inn where the rest of the crew go. The air smells of timber and sap, and underfoot there's a slippery mix of dead leaves and grass, with small twigs and branches scattered all around. We're in a clearing in a small copse, where several large trees have recently been cut down. The leftover stumps remind me of the round tables of the brothel which I'd almost been sold to. It feels like we're accompanied by an audience. I try not to think of the whole affair as a stage on which I am to perform this art which has made me so desirable in the eyes of the one who purchased me. No, that was a different life, one which I escaped. I've fought for the right to stand here and do what I'm doing, regardless of how bitter that right tastes just about now.

Kit remains in the background, standing to the side of the clearing, next to a massive, moss covered tree trunk. He hugs himself intermittently, tucking his tail around his hip or picking at the fur on the back of his paws in turn, trying not to look conspicuous. Eventually, he seats himself on one of the many scattered logs, hunching over to make himself as small as possible, while Duck paces up the area on which Ajag and I are to fight. I know I can't spare him from what is to come, but Duck could've elected not to bring him. He could've spared Kit, but I guess that leaving one's personal valet behind is a step too far. Maybe it's just to make me feel guiltier. If that's the case, it's working. Because regardless of what happens, Kit will have to witness it, and that too is my fault.

Arms are presented, and I accept the sword from the case. It balances around the movement of my wrist, and its tip goes more or less where I want it to go. I have to make a conscious effort not to let the ease with which it handles now deceive me into a false sense of security. It is as easy for Ajag to will his sword where he wants it.

Duck snaps the case closed, and looks over his shoulder at the captain, who is preoccupied with his own blade. He quickly leans in to whisper to me with a low snarl. "Consider the reason I even humour your wish, and don't shackle you paw and foot for your insolence, a show of my faith in you. And know this. If you don't survive this, I'll personally come down to hell and pull you out there, because you owe me. Do you understand me?"

I nod. I want to retain what little control I have over this moment. Despite everything, I still have that freedom I've always desired.

"Combatants, step close," Duck announces, beckoning us to stand either side of him.

I notice Ajag's eyes; I have avoided looking his way as much as I can until now. He studies my bare feet, as well as my attire, my way of holding the sword and my cravat. So, I do the same. The captain has his heavy boots on, large, buckled and made from thick, polished leather. He has put on a fine pair of white linen knee socks for the occasion, into which his dark trousers are tucked. His large dress shirt has been draped across his belly like a wind-filled sail, a long burgundy coat hangs over his unbuttoned waistcoat and he's got lots of jewellery in his ears and nose. Around his neck, he's got a loosely tied, silken, scarlet cravat fastened with a golden needle. He looks for all intents and purposes dressed for a fine audience with some dignitary. Or a funeral.

My own clothes nearly wilt next to the wolf's extravagant attire. Though I'm fond of how I look, because Kit helped dress me, I'm also aware of how patched my borrowed shirt looks. I've paired it with some trousers tied on with one of my cloth sashes, which keeps the loose garments in place and close to my body. But underneath those clothes, six months of exercise, work and good feeding has given me a lean, sinewy musculature. Hopefully it'll serve me well against this ungainly wolf. The only things we have in common are also the only things which separate us. Our swords and our tense stares.

I've only been given a few spoken lessons on how to conduct myself in the early stages of the duel, but after the opening salute, no amount of explanation can make up for experience, and I have precious little of that. But I have a strong urge to survive. To not disappoint them both.

Squire Kieran of Dalmatia has no fear, I tell myself uselessly. There is no past to weigh me down. I was born only months ago, in the heat of battle, aboard a ship, and in a warm bed alongside a weasel. I have been forged by those heated moments. Hardened. I am not affected by that useless weight around my neck, and Kit's red silk cravat hides it very well.

"On my signal," Duck calls loudly, snapping me back into reality. "You will both step five paces away from each other. When I call again, you will salute. I will call a third time, and the duel will commence."

There comes a whistle shortly after; Captain Ajag and I turn our backs to each other and step in opposite directions. The wet, dewy grass compresses underneath my feet, feeling cold and crisp. Rooting me to this place.

"En-garde!" Duck exclaims, almost too soon.

I turn to see that Ajag holds the blade in front of his snout, ears erect, one arm behind his back. Then he swings the blade out to the side and bows, in a fluid motion which almost looks elegant, had it not been for the fact that his gut prevents him from bowing properly. There's no respect in that bow either. Captain Ajag is a passionate wolf, who can't hide his feelings. He's merely forced by ceremony to curtail them. I mimic his bow, putting even less respect into my rendition.

"Allez!" Duck's calls suddenly, and the silence which follows that word requires no translation.

In an effort to mask any hesitation, I stalk intently towards the large wolf, using all my willpower to ignore my own thoughts. Everything is dedicated to the here and the now. My claws dig deep into the soft, cold soil, giving me a sense and feel for the grip of the earth with every step. My palm pads sweat, and my legs shiver as I slowly approach Ajag, excitement and anxiety coursing through my veins.

Less than a sword's length separate our two outstretched blades. The captain's tip reverberates with every step. Then it flicks suddenly. A fast stab directed at my right shoulder, which I manage to smack upwards with the cross guard at just the right moment. A tenth of an inch to the side, and the captain would've slit open the back of my sword paw. I avert my muzzle as the point whiz past. In return, I stab at the place where that rotten heart would be, but the captain swipes my blade to the side with his own, and barks a quick laugh.

"The heart?" he asks with a mocking tone, keeping his blade levelled at me. "Good to know you're as green as I assumed."

I don't grace him with an answer. But I take a deliberate step back as Ajag's sword comes at me again. The wolf outranges me, and has the height on me too, but he's slow to close the distance between us. I search for an opening or weakness, poking my sword at the wolf inexpertly, only to have the point deflected and foul insults thrown my way. For every thrust, the captain answer with a better directed one.

Then without warning, Ajag closes the distance on me with a quick lunge, and sweeps his sword at head height. Time hasn't slowed down for me yet, so I'm not prepared. Instinctively, I duck, but still feel the blade graze my ear. A tuft of black fur flies off into the grass somewhere. I can faintly hear Kit gasping, but I can't take my eyes of the captain to find out why. I notice how his eagerness to hit me has caused him to step awkwardly, and he's unbalanced. And then it finally happens. Time shifts to a slower pace. It's both a blessing and a curse. A curse, because this slowing will probably produce the mercilessly exact memories which plague me so at nights; printed on my mind like the pages of a book for all time to come. I will relive the fight in my nightmares, if I'm lucky, or in the afterlife if I'm not. But I will at least stand half a chance of surviving.

The captain's blade flashes in the dawning sunlight, coming at me while I'm crouched, in a languorous downward strike. But not so quick that I can't properly consider my response. The speed of the captain's arm causes the blade to flex wildly, so I can't risk stopping it with my own. But I already see a way to avoid it. It's the easiest thing in the world, as the captain has his feet spread wide, to escape between his legs. What I don't expect as I dodge is the way my blade, trailing behind me, grazes the captain's inner thigh as I pass through. A yowl of pain cutting through the crisp morning air informs me that I've earned my first hit, unorthodox as it is. I catch my footing on the other side, and turn to find that Ajag's left, white sock has grown a thin, red line, which grows a little with every heartbeat. It might look like just a graze, but the captain limps when he turns around to face me.

I grab my chance and strike towards the wolf's off-hand side before he can growl whatever insult he had prepared. Ajag stops my blade, though not as quickly as I've grown accustomed to. In response, he throws out a succession of quick jabs, swipes and chops; a reckless flurry which I can't counter or parry. Driven back, I dip in and out of range cautiously while circling the wolf towards his injured leg, deflecting the blows I can catch, and dodging backwards when I can't. Frustration starts to dominate Ajag's features, when it becomes clear to him that I am not as easy a mark as he might have assumed. Thank the Gods he has atrocious patience.

But just as I feel accustomed to the captain's pattern, the blade comes forward further than it is supposed to. About five inches further. I look down, just in time to see where those five inches are heading. Inevitably. I can't shift in time to avoid it. About a paw's breath from my collar, around five inches of sword very slowly slips in through a mass of black fur right below my collar bone. I had been too focused on the blade to see what Ajag was doing with his feet. Now I can't look away.

Time is still moving too slowly for my body to report pain. But the blow resonates in my bones and knocks the air out of my chest. As the blade slips deeper, I feel a grinding sensation through the roots of my teeth and the back of my skull as the blade slips in just above my ribcage, perilously close to my lungs, and all I can think is that I'm ruining Kit's shirts at a disconcerting rate. With shock bubbling up in my throat, I turn my muzzle to stare at the wolf.

I see his eyes first of all. They're triumphant, but something more hides in there. Uncertainty. Then I see his feet. He's taken a risk by striking so far beyond his range. He's placed his bad foot forward; he's open. His tip might have missed my lungs, because I can still breathe. Though with time moving this slow, I don't have to.

With all my strength, I wrench lose from the sword, lay a shoulder against Ajag's sword arm, and knock it aside with as much force as I can muster. In the same heartbeat, I bring my own sword forward, and plunge it into Ajag's side. It's a quick, dirty stab, not at all worthy of the fine sword. But even so, the blade slides in without protestation. From right above his hip, through his belly and out his back on the other side. Ajag groans with a strained voice, then gasp, before swinging at me with a massive, clenched first. But the strike is heavy and slow, and easy to dodge in my heightened state of awareness.

"You... You sneak, you dirty fucking sneak!" the wolf stutters from between his clenched teeth, clutching the small hole I've made in his white shirt, which grows with deep red, almost black blood at an alarming rate.

It doesn't take long for my own wound to make its presence felt. It burns and singes from the tip of my ears to the base of my spine. Blood runs thick between my fingers, and down my elbow, where it drips on the dewy grass. I can even feel my own heartbeat through my palm. It reverberates in my ears. I've even got blood dripping into my right eye, for some reason. All the sounds around me feel distant and muted, as if they come from under water. But I can do nothing but glare at the wolf. I have outlasted a tiger, three times the warrior this bastard is. I will outlast him, too. He has no place in the world I want.

He's struggling to keep up as I strafe around him, his eyes are strained with pain and the effort of maintaining his focus clearly taxes him. He can barely remain standing. My sword arm is growing limp from the pain as well. I don't think I can lift it, let alone stab him. And I'm not sure which one of us will drop first, so I'll have to make a move.

Tensing every muscle in my body, I dart in underneath Ajag's sword as quick as I can, and kick at his injured foot with all the force I have. I hit at the back of his knee, which buckles and sends the big wolf tumbling. A dull clicking sound comes from underneath him as he lands, and he rolls over on his back, groaning and whimpering in pain.

I stand for a moment, looking at the heap of bloody wolf on the ground in front of me. Working myself up. Listening to his pathetic moans and his short breathing, searching for my lust for death and killing, to give me strength to do what I know I have to do. Why is it so hard to find? I never had to think about this when I fought Krish. This hasn't been self-defence, it's something entirely different. I gather all the toxic rage I've felt in my life, and heat it to a boiling point inside of me. Into the mix, I add the sounds of Kit's pained cries, the sight of his red stripes. The sound of his wounded spirit, apparent in his pleas for me to not go where I am now heading. But those pleas dampen the boil, and softens my heart. I slowly level my sword at the captain's throat. The tip shakes, so I rest it gently on the wolf's soft cravat that he has so meticulously adorned. His own blood runs from my sword, soaking into the scarlet fabric.

"You won't kill me," the captain chokes out between his ragged breaths. "You don't have it in you. I can tell. You got lucky. Now put up your sword."

"Your first mate would beg to differ," I tell him, taking care so that only he can hear my words. I need to convince myself, too, because I'm about to do something I really shouldn't have done. The conflict between what is right and what is the right thing to do rages on within me, and I try to drown it with memories of the tiger. "He fought better than you."

Ajag's laugh pierces the quiet moment, but it also makes him choke in pain, forcing him to lower his voice again. "You? You couldn't have. Braggart, you liar! The... His Grace... Dealt with him. He told me he intended as much and-"

"I dealt with him," I growl, and press the sword closer to the wolf's throat. "I wonder if you'll die with as much dignity as he had. Or maybe you'll cry for your mother? At least you can do that. You can cry out for your whole family. I never knew mine, thanks to people like you."

"No... no." The captain twists in pain where he lies. "Aah, fuck. I... I yield! Find a doctor, God damn it, I yield." He clenches his teeth, looking at me with wide, pleading eyes.

"You hurt Kit." I keep my voice from raising, but I'm not sure how much longer I can. Just the mention of his name pushes against my anger, making it dissipate like mist in the morning sun. "I will never forgive you for that. You are a wretched scum." Maybe I am, too? But I can become better. I will.

"That's it then?" He asks, groaning. "You've won, and you're taking him as some sort of prize. Take him, then! Take him, and fetch me someone who can help me before I bleed out."

"Figured you wouldn't care," I tell him. "Kit thought you cared enough to at least feel some remorse once he left. He trusted you, he tells me. He loved you, and you repaid him with pain." I stop there, realising I really ought to just hold my tongue before I turn my sword on myself. By the Gods, fox, you have gone far from what you are. "You wouldn't understand, I guess."

I push my blade right up to his throat. I can see it sink in beneath his fur, slowly. This is it. I'll kill him.

"Kieran, no!" Kit suddenly cries out. From the corner of my eye, I see him, bounding over to me at his full sprint. Oh, Gods, no. Don't come near. Don't be witness to this, Kit. I don't want you to see me like this. Not with all this hatred in me. Please. Don't-

"He's done," Kit shouts at me, breaking the spell I've placed myself in. My ears fold flat at once. My lust for blood vanishes, and is replaced with an utter emptiness. I swallow hard, feeling my grip on my own blade loosen through the sheer force of his voice. "Don't do this, Kieran. You don't have to."

"I... don't have to," I reiterate distantly. "He's evil... I want... I want to-"

"No. You don't." Kit places a paw on my sword arm, slowly pulling it away from the wolf. "I know you don't."

Kit is right. Cursing, I turn and leave the captain behind, gripping the hilt of my sword until my paw shakes.

By a stump some paces off, I lower myself to sit on the ground, clutching my now unbelievably aching wound. Kit, brave as he's always been, goes to work without another word, tearing up parts of his own shirt to stem the flow of blood from my chest. On the other side of the clearing in the trees, I can see the sailors which followed us up here carrying the wolf between them as they head away.

"He won't go far," Duck tells me even before I can say a word. The duke has somehow appeared by my side completely without me registering it. "I'll see to it that he's arrested and charged for his smuggling. If indeed he does survive."

"Sir," Kit asks with a meek voice, "if I might be so bold... Why now? Why prosecute him at all, if he is useful to you? Why even humour Kieran's wishes?"

The tone of his voice, though layered in professionality, suggests to me that Kit would've preferred if the Dalmatian had stopped me.

"A number of factors, Kit," Duck says in a strangely friendly tone which I can't recall him ever addressing me with. "I don't suppose he'll continue his smuggling now that he knows exactly to whom he has shared his secrets. And of course, I can't be outdone by a fox, can I? Kieran here wishes to set the pace, but I must lead from the front. The self-proclaimed saviour of Dalmatia, hah." There is a slight mocking derision to how he pronounces "saviour", but I find the word suits me just fine. "You hear me saviour," he tells me, "the next time that poppy surfaces in Dalmatia, you will sniff it out and deal with it. That's an order."

Kit accepts the answer Duck gave him as if it was in any way sufficient. I have no energy left in me to ask more questions. The Dalmatian's talks, though enlightening, always cost me greatly in terms of energy, and my tongue has cost me enough for a long time. And it has seriously made me worry at just how much it might cost me in the end.

Kit takes my left paw, and pushes it over a thick bundle of cloth he's used to stem the flow of blood from my chest as he moves to fuss around with something on my head.

I look around while he does, taking in the strange silence which has fallen after the captain had been taken away. Duck has taken to wandering around on the patch of grass I just fought on, seemingly tracing my footfalls step by step. Occasionally, he non-too-subtly chuckles to himself and shakes his head. Then he bows to pick up something off the ground.

"This has been by far the strangest duel I have ever witnessed," he tells me with an expression and cadence bordering on wonderment. But his words pass through my ears almost unnoticed.

I can't even eke out any of the hatred I felt. The hatred which I built despite Kit's wishes and warnings. I can't do it. The captain is gone. If he does survive, maybe he'll one day understand what I've taken from him, and his repayment for the pain he's caused can commence. If he doesn't, maybe the world will be better. Maybe another will step in to take his place. It doesn't matter. I can look ahead now.

I lower my head again, looking at my right paw, still clutching my blade limply. I finally let it drop to the ground, as I lean against the weasel next to me. The weasel I entirely don't deserve.

"I'm so sorry, Kit," I tell him again, even though it doesn't feel nearly enough. "I'm sorry it came to this, I should've listened."

"You should," Kit says with a sigh.

"Are you okay?"

Kit doesn't answer. But at length, he nods.

He already knew then what I wish I had realised. Healing can only start when the pain is in the past, and the pain has to stay there for the healing to be effective. I've been tearing at his wounds, while he's been trying to heal mine. Kit's paws are already red with my blood, and I have a feeling that will never quite wash out. I close my eyes and nuzzle up against his chest, grateful that he still figures me worth saving.

Kit pats gently at my head, but whenever he touches my right ear, pain shoots through it. Curiously, I bring a paw up, and notice something wrong. A portion of my right ear, more than three quarters of it from the tip and down, is no longer there.

"You'll survive," Duck says simply, tossing whatever he found in the grass into my lap. A sliver of bloody skin and black fur. I'm not sure what to do with it, I've never seen it outside of a mirror. "It lends you something of a roguish charm. And I think you'll find some hats are now easier to adorn. However, that other wound is of far more concern. You best get to the castle before it becomes unmanageable."

"There's a thing we have to do first," I tell him at length.

"Kieran, you have to get proper care," Kit insists softly, "or it will fester, and you'll suffer like you did the last time. Don't put me through that, please."

"Clearly my suggestions mean as much as what way the wind blows with you, fox," Duck sighs. "My promise stands, however. You're not going to hell before I say you can. Now let's go. I need a decent cup of coffee."

But this is not me refusing him. I absolutely agree that I have to get to the castle as soon as possible. But I don't intend to step one foot towards my future before I've put all my past behind me.

###

The hamlet's blacksmith, a sour looking, long haired ram, asks a lot of questions in that strange, flowing language I had briefly overheard Duck speaking. He doesn't respond well to my Castellanian. Kit apparently has enough words to argue with the ram, in what I can tell is a very poor rendition of the language. This, the ram responds even less well to. But the sight of Duck, finally catching up to us, clears everything up in an instant, and suddenly, nothing could be more obvious than exactly what I want. And only a few uncomfortable moments later, it is done. The copper collar is struck off. Ten years and then some, twisted up and broken off from my life, no longer a weight around my neck. I can just walk away, and it will disappear from my life. And yet, even this feels more like a formality. Nothing like the intense pleasure and promises which Kit's love gave me, or the aching, unbearable pain of knowing I had disappointed him. What a ride love is. If anything reminds me of how freedom ought to feel, it's that weasel and the love we share, however fractured it is right now.

I study my likeness in the reflection of the blacksmith's cooling bucket. My fur can be brushed down to hide the scar, if I really have to. Or I can wear it with pride. Every scar is a lesson, and this one is the most valuable lesson one of them all.

Kit runs a quick errand to the ship, while I wait at the Blacksmiths'. When he returns, he's carrying a bundle of cloth, which contains some important papers, his own luggage, and all of mine, too.

I take the wooden box from him, and caress it close to my chest. I haven't had it in my mind since I found Kit. I need to know what I feel now when I see it. Now that it's no longer the only rock I can cling to.

The carved lid had always been my constant reminder of all the things I'd never know, all the things I'd never see, all the things I was once powerless against. Half my life, locked somewhere inside the wood and scratched ink, as well as inside my head. Because the box itself is empty. It's no collar, but it's part of my past, and I should put it behind me too. I have my own symbol now. A fresh, young and new symbol, with his snout pointed bravely towards the unknown future. The carved lid could never have done that, just like no manner of wealth underneath it could. There's not room for a white weasel on that lid, it's full of implacable wooden foxes.

I look from it, to the collar on the floor, and then to my weasel. I don't know how he does it, but Kit seems to understand what I feel, without me having to say a thing.

He takes the box from my paws. In it, he places a scrap of paper, which I recognize as the very first poem I read for myself, the one he wrote specifically for me. And suddenly, the box takes on this whole new meaning.

"One day, we might find them," he tells me, stroking my cheek affectionately. "And for that reason, I think it's best that you hold onto it for a little bit longer. It's still important to you, you don't have to strike this from your life."

Maybe I'll never know who they were, or are. But that's a possibility that doesn't frighten me anymore. I take the weasel's paw, and let him lead me towards this new life.