Reynard had, in his past, been in sticky situations. He’d earned his Name fairly – if humorously – and being caught in unfortunate circumstances had been a large part of earning that Name.
But he had not been, as far as he knew, in any situation quite as as uncomfortable, quite as strange, as this one. He tested his bonds again; the prick of thorns into his wrists reminded him quickly why he wasn’t doing that.
“They Named me Fox in the Henhouse.” He picked every word carefully – not as weapons, the way he did when he was on a hunt, but as shields. “My Mentor did.”
“VanderLinden.” The woman smirked at him. Reynard didn’t like that smile. “I remember how you earned it.”
He swallowed. “Ah?” He wiggled again, and, again, remembered why he wasn’t doing that.
She flicked her hand to the side, dismissing the train of thought. “So, how did you end up in a crate on my doorstep?”
“Ah.” He twitched again. “I…” He swallowed quietly. There had been a town, and some pretty girls, some pretty boys, and then…
Reynard shook his head, trying to clear it. “I pissed off the wrong people.”
“I guessed that.” She pulled a letter out of her pocket and read. “‘This statue is making a mess of my garden, but I know you go for this sort of thing.’ And then on the inside package, ‘there’s a fox making trouble in all my henhouses; do you have a fox coop?'”
“I wasn’t…” He swallowed. “I didn’t think I was making that much trouble…. Oh!” The memory forced its way to the front of his mind. “Damn. Ow.”
The woman slid into a chair and leaned her chin in her hands. “I’m listening.”
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