Beatrice stood frozen and flushing under Darcy’s gaze, her wife’s living hand coming up to brush her cheek. The knight’s eyes searched hers as she struggled in vain for words. Why is it I can speak my mind to her always when she’s angry and dire, but never when she’s kind? But before she could puzzle out the answer, the glow in Darcy’s expression dimmed and her hand fell away.

“Come, help me scour this madness for edible provisions,” she said, and Beatrice felt as though the butterflies in her stomach had turned to rocks. Darcy shifted her attention back to the pantry, faint shadows twisting about her feet.

When they’d done with filling the potato sack with their best selections—all of them still quite questionable—they gathered what they could of their other needs. Not so much, though, that they might not shift with them.

Going together back to Beatrice’s chamber, Darcy kept her eyes on the mirror while she layered a proper dress over her shift. Or at least, what passed for one in the anachronistic chaos of the mirror realm.

As her wife helped with the combination of buttons and lacing at the back, Beatrice’s eyes caught for the first time upon something halfway familiar on her bedside table. When Darcy had done and turned her attention once more to the mirror, Beatrice darted over and snatched the book up.

It was her journal, and it was something else. Flipping it open, she found inside a patchwork of her own looping handwriting and colorful illustrations, and the scratchy, nearly-illegible scrawl of someone else entirely. Darcy glanced over at her. Hastily, Beatrice slipped the book into her bag, caught up the most adequate coat she’d been able to find, and declared herself ready.

“Have you any idea where we might start our search for Gray, my lady?” inquired Darcy as, with packs and sacks slung over their shoulders, they stepped from the house. At once, the knight’s gaze snared upon the column of smoke on the opposing mountainface. It had moved.

“There was a fire going last night as well, only it was in a different place. There,” said Beatrice, pointing to the approximate spot from which the pillar had issued before.

Darcy frowned. “Two far in too short a time for Gray to have traveled, even if he had shifted,” she said, hawk-like eyes scanning all else.

“I have an idea of where we might begin our search of him,” said Beatrice. “There was a…a man, I think, going through my bedroom when I first arrived. A man with the head of a fox. He disappeared into the hedgerow, off that way,” she pointed up the hill. “Perhaps he was here when Gray arrived—“

“And has some idea of where he might have gone. Yes, let us start there. If you would show the way, my lady.”

They shifted then, their packs disappearing into the aether with their clothes. As they ran uphill, Beatrice’s heart stung and she wondered why, in spite of their agreement, Darcy had still hardly used her name. Have I angered her already? But she shoved her feelings back, focusing instead on calling up her recollection of the previous night as clearly as possible.

“This way,” she thought into the connection between them. But she was no Silver, and she knew that Darcy would not truly “hear” her words. Now that they were pack, however, she would gain a general impression of Beatrice’s meaning.

They turned into a darkened corridor formed by a single arching hedgerow, and she was grateful for the keenness of her fox’s eyes. For a moment, she considered spilling all of her feelings out into the connection, all of the ones which she couldn’t bring herself to say at any of the times when she should have said them. But the knowledge that her wife would be able to respond with words rather than mere impressions, should she want to, daunted her to silence.

They slowed as the arching pathway came to an end, opening into a hedgerow-circled courtyard upon a level tier of the mountainside. There, the walls of greenery and blossoms gave way five times in identical openings. Coming to a stop, Darcy looked to her.

“I…I don’t know which way he went from here,” Beatrice thought-spoke. She scented the air, but all she could smell was peppermint and smoke and roses. Darkness whirled around Darcy as she resumed human form, setting down her supply sack. Beatrice followed suit a moment later.

“What are you doing?” she asked, worry breaking her voice a bit as the knight strode up to an expanse of rose bush between entryways.

“Climbing up to see what I can,” said Darcy.

“Can you not summon your spirits to look for you?”

Still facing away from her as she peered upward, Darcy shook her head. “I am cut off from them. I have only my bones and my shadow, now.” Withdrawing a leather glove from one of her pockets, she worked her right hand into it. Sticking her boot into the hedgerow until it found footing in one of the branches, Darcy reached up into the thorns as she sought purchase for her hands. But then she shouted in dismay, and Beatrice cried out, tripping forward at once to help her. The branches had grasped Darcy back, twisting about her ankles and wrists and pulling her inward.

Her eyes darted about, catching on the grip of Darcy’s sword of bone. Lunging forward, she grabbed and drew it from its sheath, wrenching it from the curling grip of a vine. It was heavy, but not so heavy as any ordinary sword of its size would be. Darcy ceased her thrashing as Beatrice drew up the blade, a shriek escaping her as she brought it down upon the branches binding her wife’s ankles. It cut through the bark like butter, and Darcy’s boots hit the mossy cobblestone as branches, leaves and vines rained down around them. Already breathing hard, Beatrice set to work at freeing her arms.

The last of the grasping branches fell away, and Darcy stepped back, chest heaving as she rubbed at her wrists.

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“Well, I suppose that’s not an—“

There was a scraping sound from behind them, and the pair whirled around. There, crouched over their bags, was the very fox-headed man whom they sought. His eyes flashed with mischief as, with a final tug, he finished pulling the wrappings from about the second sword of bone lashed to Beatrice’s pack. With a smirk, he hefted it up and turned tail to dash away down one of the corridors.

Darcy motioned for her sword and Beatrice pressed it into her hand. Then, together, they darted over to snatch up what remained of their things before changing form once more. As they sped after him, Beatrice thought it strange that he didn’t shift as well to outpace them.

Perhaps he cannot?

Darcy surged ahead of her, shadows spilling forth to envelope the fox man as he ran, and then Darcy herself. There was a clattering in the impenetrable darkness ahead. A sort of yipping bark issued from the inky cloud, and then a lot of very colorful cursing. Then the shadows cleared.

Darcy, in human form again, loomed over the fallen thief—her own sword of bone held to his throat. The other had fallen to the stone some paces away, and Beatrice hurried to snatch it back.

“Stand down, you mange-minded cur! You have your cursed sword back, and I care not,” said the man, his voice lyrical but raspy, as though he rarely used it.

“I’ve more business with you than that, thief,” growled Darcy.

“Beast!” he shrieked. “Inquisitor! Why have the dark ones not eaten you, yet? Inquisitor!” He howled the last out into the night, his voice ringing in her ears even after it was swallowed up by the hedgerows.

Resuming human form, Beatrice approached with care.

“Sir,” she said. “We don’t wish to harm you, and she is no inquisitor. We seek a friend who may have passed through here and only meant to ask whether you’ve seen him.”

“Oh, but I know that armor, deceitful lady. Knight or inquisitor, it is all the same.”

“Our friend,” said Darcy, ignoring this. “A man with two crows who wears a mask and makes use of a wheeled chair. Have you seen him in the manor or around it?”

The thief, still pressed against the cobbles, stared up at her with widened eyes.

“I go to the manor every day, and sometimes more, and never have I seen such a fellow,” he said. “I swear it upon my dearheart, my daughter and all else I love.”

Darcy huffed through her nose, but let the sword drop by a finger’s breadth.

“Who are you? What are you?” she demanded. “What is this place? Have you seen a Fox mage or a black beast here, summoning portals?”

“I’m known as Tibalt,” he answered in a rush. “A prisoner here, as are we all. As for this? This is Fox’s realm, blessed be she,” he paused, making a gesture of praise. “And thank her, no, I have seen no monsters, no mage. The only strangers here are the unfortunate pair standing before me, and the less fortunate pair torn to shreds at the manor.”

Darcy’s eyes went wide.

“Impossible. We are not dead, and I am no Fox.” But there was conflict in her expression, her muscles tensing. Beatrice peered over at her.

“He cannot be telling the truth, can he?”

“He does have the feel of a spirit, which would mean he can’t have summoned any portals himself…but I cannot compel him.”

“And what does that mean?”

Darcy grit her teeth before answering.

“We Hyena mages have power over the spirits who drift between realms after death. The unclaimed and those who refuse to move on. We may call upon spirits in the realm of Hyena herself as well, though they must be willing. And of course, when it is justified, we may capture souls from those still living and the unguarded dead alike.” Her grip tightened about her sword. “This man is not living, and yet he cannot be swayed.”

“But if he’s telling the truth—”

“Oh, calm thy fleshy heads,” interrupted Tibalt, sitting up and scooting back as the knight let fall her sword. “You are indeed still of the living, though I am not. The bodied may enter through any mirrored door, though getting back through is quite the chore.”

Darcy scowled down at him, sword twitching upward again.

“It’s almost as though his brain’s as mixed up as the rest of this place,” she observed.

“Excuse me, madame, I can hear you,” protested the thief, now standing as he dusted off his clothes, which upon closer inspection Beatrice saw were all of patchwork, the colors well-blended, though the patterns rather clashed. Darcy kept her sword-tip leveled at his throat.

“If it’s escape you seek, I might help,”said the fox man. “For a fair price, of course.”

Darcy’s left brow climbed upward.

“Oh? What help can you offer, and what price do you think you’ve the leverage to beg?”

“Yon sword,” replied Tibalt. “Or the other. So long as it’s made of pearly bone. ‘Tis better far than those of metal or even stone.”

“No one makes swords out of stone, Fox, and enough with your rhymes. I’ve patience for poetry, but only when it’s good.”

Behind her, Beatrice snickered.

“Wretched bullies, the both of you!” whined Tibalt. “But you’ll never find your way to the door without help, and I think you cannot hold your sword to my throat the whole way.” He sniffed, sticking his snout in the air.

“Let him have this one, if he can show us the way there,” said Beatrice, lifting the pilfered blade. Darcy looked over at her, and though she expected her to argue or object, she did neither. Beatrice turned her attention back to Tibalt. “But she must go through it first, to confirm that it works, before I will give it to you.”

The man’s thin, furry lips pulled back.

“Introductions before agreements,” he said.

Darcy scoffed.

“Oh!” replied Beatrice. “Apologies, sir, I—”

“Don’t give him your name, my lady” warned Darcy.

“Whyever not?”

The knight exhaled through her nose, glaring at the fox man.

“It’s best to be cautious with such beings.”

Tibalt curled his nose.

“So rude. A ruder pair I’ve never met,” he declared. “As you will. I shall find my own names for you, then.”

“We don’t care,” said Darcy. “Where’s the nearest permanent door out of here?”

“Oh, very far indeed, foul cur. Very far. To the south and to the west, across the waters and in the land of—”

“Glenholm. The portal in Doverwick castle.”

“Of course, as a knight you’re aware of it,” said Tibalt with distaste. “Yes, that is the nearest.”

“And you know the way through this maze to get there?”

“I know that path better than I know myself,” said the fox-headed man. “But I must insist we stop first at my home. Spirit or no, I have my needs, and it is but just up the hill.”

The knight bore her teeth. “If this is a trick or a trap, my sword shall be your next prison,” she warned. “And I think you will find it much less comfortable.”

Bowing sardonically, Tibalt turned on his heel and flipped his tail at them as he started off down the corridor. Both picking up their things, Beatrice and Darcy followed, changing to their animal forms as they went. Their path grew rapidly steeper, and they slowed. But then Tibalt came to a sudden halt, Beatrice’s attention snapping upward.

Ahead, the way was blocked by two shadowy figures, one of them massive and the other tall. As the latter stepped forward, her visage became clear. It was the deceased Inquisitor Metzger, the younger. And though she now appeared entirely unharmed, she was much changed.

Her eyes were yellow-green, huge and reflective. Jaguar’s eyes. A spotted tail swished behind her—black and darker black—and her legs bent backwards, ending in bared paws, their claws extended. Beyond that, however, her form was human.

The same could not be said of the monster looming behind her.