The chocolate ganache had to be perfect. Not good, not excellent. Perfect. I piped another truffle shell with the kind of focus I usually reserved for wedding cakes, forcing it into a precise dome. Barnaby needed joy, and joy came in many forms. Right now it came in seventy-two individual truffles.
Dark chocolate olive oil truffles, specially adjusted for Barnaby’s love for all Mediterranean things. Because I’d recently learned that, on his days off, the Easter Bunny lived in Sicily. The blood oranges he favored had been particularly hard to find, but it’d be worth it if this worked.
Grix and Brok were doing their own parts, just like we’d established. But without my chocolates, we could still lose. Barnaby’s joy could still falter.
And there was only one day left until the Challenge. One day until Barnaby had to fight for his Title.
The bell over the door chimed, and I looked up from my piping bag, expecting a customer. A man stood inmy doorway. Tall, lean, impeccably dressed in a way that screamed expensive without trying too hard. Dark hair, sharp features, movements that were too graceful to be entirely human. He wore a charcoal suit that looked like it belonged in a Victorian drama, and he was smiling at me as if we shared a secret.
I recognized him immediately.
The smile was the same. The eyes were the same. The way he moved through space like he owned it—identical. The body was different. The voice would probably be different. But I knew who I was looking at.
“Vixen.” The name came out flat. I set down my piping bag before I did something stupid like squeeze ganache all over my work counter. “Or should I say Reynard?”
“Darling,” he greeted me with a nod, already gliding closer to my work. He examined my chocolate work with genuine interest. “These are exquisite. The Osterhase is lucky to have you.”
The casual compliment made my chest feel tight because Vixen had complimented me the same way. Had helped me find that red dress. Had made me feel powerful, beautiful, and unique. And it had all been manipulation. Strategic positioning. He had just been getting close to Barnaby’s support system in his quest to claim the Title.
“You tricked me,” I shot back, refusing to fall for the same flattery. “You gave me a fake name, pretended tobe my friend, and the whole time you were just—what? Gathering intelligence? Undermining Barnaby’s team?”
Reynard didn’t seem offended by my accusations. “Darling, I didn’t give you a fake name,” he offered. “Vixen is what I am. Reynard is also what I am. I’m both, depending on the day and my mood. I don’t feel like explaining myself to people who wouldn’t understand anyway, but I think maybe… you might.”
I stared at him, trying to process what he was saying. The feminine presentation, the male one… Both real? Both true? A vixen and a reynard… A female and a male fox. Of course.
“Oh.” The realization hit me hard enough that I had to grab the edge of my work counter. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize… Everyone else said you were… Er… Male.”
“If by everyone else, you mean Barnaby and his orc trainer…” Reynard gave me a look that was equal parts amused and exasperated. “I’m sure they mean well, but they aren’t known for being profound thinkers. And I’ve reached a point in my life where I refuse any kind of label.”
I didn’t flinch, but I came very close. After all, hadn’t I always been labeled? Nana loved me, but had never quite managed to not see me as ‘the disappointment’. For my old schoolmates, I’d just been ‘the fat girl’. I was more to Brok, to Barnaby. Why would Reynardbe any different?
I felt terrible. I’d completely misgendered Reynard. Vixen. Dear lord, I needed to make this clear. “What do I call you, then?” I asked, because if labels didn’t work, I needed something that did.
“I go by they/them. But you can call me Reynard when I am like this. Vixen, any other day. And mostly… you can still call me a friend, if you’d like.” Reynard’s expression softened into something that looked genuinely warm. “That part wasn’t manipulation. I genuinely like you. You have spine, which is rare and delightful. And I really enjoyed our little shopping session.”
“It was nice, yes,” I couldn’t help but answer. “Thank you for helping me choose my dress.”
Reynard paused, then their smile turned slightly sad. “It was my pleasure. But I didn’t come here for this conversation, lovely as it is.”
Reynard wove a complex gesture with their hands, and a package manifested out of thin air. They set it on my work counter between us like an offering.
“You might find this hard to believe, but Isengrim is interested in you.” They tapped the package with one elegant finger. “He’s been looking for a mate for centuries. Someone strong enough to stand beside him, someone who doesn’t flinch. It seems unbelievable that he’d find that person among humans, but well… Exceptions can be made for the right individual.”
I looked at the package, a strange restlessness settling in my gut. Isengrim. No, Ignatius Gray. The man I’d been on a date with at the gala right before Brok had shoved him away from me. “He sent me… a gift? Like a courting present?”
“Wolves are old-fashioned like that,” Reynard said gently. “Open it. At least see what he’s offering before you refuse.”
I stared down at the wrapping again. It was tied with an expensive bow patterned with brown dogs. They looked just like the puppy that had chewed on my shoes on the date. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
In the end, I decided to listen to Reynard. I untied the bow and unwrapped the expensive paper, half because I was curious, half to get this over with. Inside was the most beautiful coat I’d ever seen. The color was perfect. Golden with hints of silver, exactly the shade that would complement my skin tone.
“Chrysomallos wool,” Reynard explained, watching me examine it. “The Golden Ram sheds its coat once every few hundred years. Isengrim commissioned the coat from an old warlock friend of his.”
The coat was stunning. Literally magical. Too much in every possible way. Heroes of myth would have probably wept for this kind of material. It wasn’t meant for me.
“I can’t accept this.” I folded the coat carefully and started to put it back in its wrapping. “It’s beautiful, but I can’t.”
“Because of the orc?” Reynard’s voice was knowing, completely without judgment. “I thought that might be the case. Keep it anyway, darling. Who knows how it might come in handy? I don’t think Isengrim would want it back, not when it was made for you.”
