Where Foxes Hunt with Wolves (Folk Lore 2)

Radek grunted with relief as he pressed his burning forehead to the metal gate and typed in the code that opened a small door next to it. The snow on the other side was pristine, with the exception of foot-shaped dips, which must have been left by Mrs. Irena when she came in this morning. For a few more moments, the tall spruces created the illusion of still being out in nature, but then Radek faced the front yard, complete with a circular flowerbed in the middle and tear-shaped thujas planted around the house at regular intervals.

The cream shade of the walls contrasted with the pristine white of the snow, which somehow made the large building even more like a little palace, complete with columns on either side of the main door, and an elegant balcony above. The double garage attached to the main building like a mismatched transplant was the only reminder that this was in fact the twenty-first century, and the house was not some nobleman's hunting lodge.

Following Mrs. Irena’s footprints, Radek sped to the door, loving the warmth that hit him as soon as he stepped inside. There was still a chance Mom might not notice his presence if he avoided making noise, so he took his time removing all outer clothes before entering the white expanse of the living room furnished with imitation antiques barefoot.

It was deathly quiet.

Was Mom still in her bedroom? Was this one of the bad days? Did she have a flare-up of her symptoms?

Guilt chewed at Radek’s throat like a rabid chihuahua, but its jaws didn’t have the strength to do real damage.

Mom had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis soon after he’d moved to Cracow, and while her symptoms weren’t debilitating all the time, leaving her felt both like relief and a constant burden. Their relationship deteriorated once Radek had stopped being her perfect little angel and forged an identity of his own, but her health added to the impasse. The responsibility of taking care of her hung over his head like a guillotine, but couldn’t he at least organize this death sentence however he liked?

Begrudgingly, and really only out of a sense of duty, he’d proposed they sell the property and buy a home in Cracow that would suit them both, but she flat-out refused. The fox fur farm was now technically Radek’s, because Mother preferred to ignore it despite profiting from it, and Dad had given it to him in his will, but using his financial power to make her surrender it would feel wrong. Not to mention she’d never let him hear the end of it.

So here they were, unable to make a decision for two years now, locked in constant conflict.

The kitchen. He needed coffee, or any liquid that wasn’t snow melting on his tongue.

Radek tiptoed across the huge living space with ceiling-to-floor windows opening onto the main garden, straight at a large fountain topped with a plaster figure of Aphrodite Mom had the producers age so it looked as if it had been there for fifty years, not five.

Radek found it embarrassing to the point of leading his friends in through a different corridor when they visited.

He entered the large kitchen with tiles that, like many things in his family home, pretended to be something fancier, and older than it was—in this case, stone slabs—and poured himself a whole jug of water from a golden tap. He was glad Dad hadn’t gone as far as making the toilets golden too, because his friends wouldn’t have let that go. Radek had held week-long parties here a few times when Mom was away to a wellness resort by the sea, and when Dad was still alive, the house had always been bursting with guests. Dad’s huntsmen friends spent every weekend here in the summer, grilling outside, and in winter, people had actually used their sauna.

Everything was deserted now.

Radek could hear the echo of his voice in the corridor, and even though every single room was cleaned diligently, most weren’t in use.

He took hold of the jug and went to the home-cinema room, eager to lie down on soft pillows without the need to climb the stairs to reach his bedroom. It was an informal space meant for lounging while the flat screen that took up half of the wall on one end showed each pore on the skin of movie characters, each droplet of sweat on football players.

But as Radek stepped inside, eager to help himself to the candy stashed in a side cabinet for occasions like this one, Mom’s punishing gaze met his from the middle of the sprawling beige sofa.

He stopped mid-stride, his foot hovering over the floor as he wondered whether there was still a way to make a U-turn.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, because her hard gaze told him there would be no way out.