Foxy Lady

Foxes were always called Reynard.

She knew this was true. Her grandfather had told her so, and her grandfather always told the truth, regardless of whether her mother thought she should hear it, such as the fact that her older brother had been born somewhat less than nine months after her parents were married. This had resulted in her being banned from seeing him several times throughout her childhood, though the ban was always quietly lifted a few weeks after it had been set in place, and she could start visiting him by the lane again, instead of through the hedge in the backyard.

And he had been the one who told her that all foxes were called Reynard, which was why she was having a particularly hard time accepting this one’s invitation to call him Kit.

Kit wasn’t a bad name for a fox, she had to concede, drinking in his bright red hair and sharp eyes. And really, he didn’t look like a Reynard. He did look like a Kit. He also looked like a fox, and foxes were always called Reynard. She sipped her purple drink and looked at him through her eyelashes.

It was a long time since her grandfather had died (“Don’t let them fool you and think I’m just sleeping,” he’d told her shortly before he’d passed. “I’m dying and you may as well know it.”) and she was a young woman who knew the truth about many things, and one of them was that young men were easily manipulated by pretty young women, which she was. This was partly why she knew he was a fox; he wasn’t responding to any of her usual tricks and devices. The whiskers helped. Most people wouldn’t have been able to see them, she knew, but there they were, like a shadow or a see-through image, bizarrely decorating his handsome human face. She could see the foxy shape of him in his shadow, in his sudden movements, and in the tail that also was and wasn’t there.

He’d bought her a fancy drink and they’d chatted about this and that, but the whole time since he’d entered the room she had been watching him, and she thought she about had it figured out now.

“You know I know,” she said, and was gratified by the way his face did not melt into surprise. Instead he grinned a foxy grin, and said,

“But did you know I know you know I know you know?” And she watched him be gratified at her puzzlement, which didn’t last long.

“Why are you here, dressed like a human?” she asked. His expression faded into seriousness.

“Because I want to have fun,” he said in a funeral voice. She watched him carefully, as she had all night, and could tell he was lying.

“Are you under a curse?” she wondered aloud. “Or a geas? Or banished?”

“None of those,” he said, his eyes like glass and his mouth perfect. “I’m in love.”

She was familiar with that, at least, but she knew enough to be careful with fey creatures. A man could only break your heart. A fox could do much worse.

“Are you in love with me?” she asked coyly, and in answer he leaned over and kissed her. His whiskers tickled softly, in the way of things that are not quite of this world. His mouth was warm and tasted of sweet alcohol. She drew away, and he looked at her like he was the one under a spell.

“How did you do it?” he asked softly. “How did you ensnare me so quickly and completely?”

“Is your name really Kit?” she asked in return. He grinned a saucy grin that she liked better than the empty-eyed look he’d had a moment before.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said. She shrugged.

“Not really.” But his grin did not fade.

“Liar,” he said, and she frowned. What he said was truth. She tried for nonchalant.

“Well, I’m not going to pursue it,” she said.

“I will pursue you to the ends of the earth,” he answered sincerely. She mused that it was an uncomfortable thing, to have a trickster’s love.

“That’s so cliché,” she said, and if he’d been human she would have walked out of the bar. Now, she merely turned away. He touched her arm, and she felt his fur. It was soft, and it tickled ever so slightly, the same as his whiskers had. She glanced at him.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Run with me, exult with me. Mine is a purer existence, with no lies, no falsehoods, and no need for them.”

And she ached with longing then, for a way of being that did not permit untruths. But she did not lose her head, and she replied steadily,

“How can a trickster live without falsehoods? You call yourself Kit, but I see you for Reynard. You are not even in love with me, are you?”

He drew back, frowning, and she knew she had spoken truth. It was the first time this had made her sad. But now she could walk out of the bar without feeling like she was leaving behind a part of herself. He did not move to stop her, and by this she knew she would encounter him again. He was not in love with her, but doubtless he was fascinated by someone who saw through him so easily. They always were.