Chapter 14

I did not tell her everything. How could I? My shame is deep enough as it is. I could only tell her so much that night, about me, about who I became and why. Why this kingdom is shrouded in fear and evil. I could not tell her the truth about her mother. The one she thinks is her mother, the one who cared for her when she was sick, taught her how to make bread, and sang her to sleep as a little girl: that woman is not her mother. Well, perhaps she is, because is that not what a mother does? The one who is her true mother does not deserve that name. 

I did not tell her, because I have hurt her so much already. She has such a huge burden already; she must find the other girls, must defeat the king and my sister. I did not want to add to her stress, to that great and terrible burden. 

I know I will tell her. I must. Just not right now. Let her go on believing that her world is just as she left it, that her family and her past is not broken. I will tell her. I promise.

*

One night, after a day of running and reading, practice lifting boulders and turning water into gold, Elaine plopped down beside Renard. He was in his fox form; he always changed back into a fox after her fencing lessons. 

She was steadily improving. She no longer wielded the sword like it was a stick, and she had much better balance. Renard was an impatient teacher, so she had to learn quickly.

"Not like that, you look like a salamander balanced on a leaf," he would say, or "The sword should be an extension of your arm, of your entire body; don't hold it as if it's going to bite you." When he was especially close to losing patience, he said, "If you do not perform this combination perfectly, I will find as many pixies as I can and bring them all here while you sleep, and then we will see how quickly you remember the correct combination."

He was gently napping, and Elaine ruffled his fur good-naturedly. 

"Renard, wake up," said Elaine. 

Renard yawned, stretched, and shook himself, his bushy tail twitching in the air. 

"Yes, what is so important that you had to wake me from a glorious nap?"

"Well," began Elaine, suddenly feeling shy. She wanted to ask Renard everything about him, but now that she had his attention, the words left her. "I'm curious—"

"Curiosity is a dangerous thing for a young woman to have," replied Renard.

"Only for those who have things to hide," quipped Elaine. "I never had the chance to ask you about what happened that day with the thieves."

"Oh, you've had plenty of chances to ask," said Renard, snapping at a passing butterfly. "You've only just cornered me in so direct a fashion now."

Elaine giggled at the sight, but turned serious. "So...are you a man or are you a fox?" she asked. 

"Yes," replied Renard. 

Elaine waited for him to elaborate, but he did not. 

"Okay," she said. "What I mean is, what are you?"

"I am a shifter," he said. "A sort of were-animal. The blood of both man and fox runs in my veins. I simply prefer my fox form most of the time."

"Why?" now Elaine's curiosity was lit, it felt like a bonfire. "Why prefer a fox?"

At the question, Renard's eyes sparkled. He took a deep breath of air and asked, "Do you smell that?" 

Elaine too, took a breath of air and said, "Do you mean the smell of the campfire? Or the pine from the forests? The leftover roasted rabbit?"

Renard inhaled deeply again. "So much more than that. The way the grass pushes up from the ground, the delicate rotting of mushrooms on the trees, the millions of insects crawling through the mud. The hint of the sea from leagues away, the dust from the mountains, slowly crumbling into time. The sweat of the predators who stalk the lesser animals, the tang of magic that winds its way through the shrubs, the way the forest inhales the smoke and pollution of man and exhales purity and wonder. That is the smell I smell."

Elaine breathed again. "I cannot smell any of that."

Renard laughed. "Of course not. Nor can I smell it as a man. Nor can I see the tiny changes of light as the sun passes through the clouds, nor can I see the individual hairs on a rabbit from fifty feet away. I cannot hear the sighing of the trees, the whisper of fairies, the singing of the flowers. I cannot taste the sweet notes of nectar in the clean river water, nor the copper in the blood of my prey. There is so much that I miss as a human that I can only experience as a fox. That is why I prefer my animal form."

Elaine picked a piece of grass and twirled it between her fingers. "But surely there is something that you can do as a human that you cannot do as a fox?"

Renard paused, silent, a rarity for him, and thought. Finally, he responded. "I cannot make music, it is true. As a human, I can play the flute. I cannot do that as a fox."

Elaine slowly began to smile. "Can you show me? Will you play right now?"

Renard laughed. "Certainly not. It has been ages since I've played. Besides, I have no instrument."

"For now," said Elaine, her smile grew. She gazed at the piece of grass in her hands, and she concentrated. The grass grew longer, wider. It became a cylinder with holes in the top. At the end, a mouthpiece formed for someone to blow into. 

"Here you go," she said, lifting the flute up. 

Renard turned around in a circle. "Silly human, do you not take "no" for an answer?"

"Come now, Renard," said Margaret, entering the ring of firelight. "You said yourself that It has been ages since you've played. Why not give us all a little diversion?"

Renard grunted. "This human is learning too much magic," he mumbled. He closed his eyes and began to concentrate on becoming human. He grew, and as he did, his tail disappeared, his whiskers became a mustache and goatee, and his fur became smoother. Once he grew fingers (and his sharp little nails disappeared and became dull, human nails) he gave them a little shake and flexed them.

Elaine giggled and clapped her hands. "Yay!" she cried. "Play the tune about the little carpenter boy."

"Too old fashioned," replied Renard. "If I am going to play, then I will play." He lifted the flute to his lips. 

When he began to play, the night itself seemed to come alive. The tune bounced and wrapped Elaine in bright colors and high spirits. Elaine began to clap her hands to the rhythm of the song. Twinkling lights appeared, dancing and bobbing in time to the beat, and Margaret whispered, "Will-'o-the-wisps." The insects sang louder, and the fire burned brighter than ever. 

Elaine stood up and began to dance. She twirled round and round the fire, leaving all her worries at the foot of the flames. She left the stress of studying and learning, of memorizing complex spells, of running through the forest, of fencing with Renard. She danced and laughed, happy for the first time in a long, long while. 

Margaret began clapping too, and Elaine spun around and plucked her from her seat. At first, Margaret protested, saying that she was too old for dancing, but Elaine would not take no for an answer. She soon danced arm in arm with Margaret, and Elaine slowed down for just a bit to make room for Margaret's slower style. Out of the corner of her eye, Elaine saw Renard crack a small smile at the sight of Margaret dancing. 

Renard finished with a flourish, and Elaine cried "Another one!" He placed the flute to his lips again. The song flung out happiness and joy to the world, and pretty soon, animals of the forest crept up to their campfire to see the joy and take part of it. Tiny deer and even tinier rabbits, fellow foxes and brave little badgers: all came to hear the wonder of the flute. 

When Renard finished the next song, Elaine clapped and Margaret held out her hand. 

"Let me," she said. She took the flute from Renard and began to play, and Renard took Margaret's place to dance with Elaine. For a moment, the sarcasm dropped from his voice, and Elaine let down her guard. His eyes shone and she gazed back at him, and she felt a warmth and tingling that had nothing to do with magic. 

For one night, Elaine felt elated just to be alive.