The young man with the fiddle stepped forward as the floor began to fill with eager dancers. He carried his instrument under his right arm, the bow dangling from the hook of his finger. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a sonorous voice, “animals, all. The next number will be a jig to the tune of ‘Colton’s Fancy.’ Please take your partners.” He hefted the violin to his neck and began sawing out a quick and vibrant tune, which was soon picked up by the ensemble behind him. The bear slapped mightily at the single string of his washtub bass, his claws giving the instrument’s low tones a fine edge; the girl with the banjo, a teenager in blond braids, focused in on her whirling fingers as she plucked out a staccato roll. The rhythm was held down by an acoustic guitar, wildly beaten by a mustachioed young man in overalls sitting on an upturned apple crate. The music soared over the crowd and wove its way between the rafters of the hall like a murmuration of sprites. From the first note, the crowd came alive, and Prue and Curtis were swept up into a whirlwind dance, all led by the band as the fiddle player occasionally pulled his instrument from his chin and called out instructions.
“Promenade!”
“Do-si-do!”
“And swing your partner, round and round!”
The two of them had spent enough time running square dances in gym class to keep up with the more basic moves; when they fell out of step, there were always plenty of revelers around to catch them up. By the time the song wound to a halt, their faces were flushed and strands of Prue’s bangs clung to her forehead, wet with sweat. They barely had time to catch their breaths before the fiddle player stepped forward to announce another number.
That was when the commotion sounded from the back of the hall.
A tussle of some sort had broken out near the door. The band tried gamely to play over the ruckus, but after a time, everyone’s attention was so diverted that they had to grind to a stop. The chill wind of the outside had been let into the hall; a shower of fine snowflakes blew frantic cyclones in the air, like unwanted revelers rushing into the room. Prue and Curtis looked over to see a grizzled old wolf with an eye patch scrapping in the open doorway with two members of the local constabulary. One of them was a hare wearing a colander on his head.
“Hands off, vipers!” the wolf was shouting. “Get yer mitts off me!”
Sterling, who’d been planted by the banquet table most of the evening, sprang into action. “What’s this?” he demanded of the constables. “Why’s this wolf being handled this way? Samuel?”
The hare stepped forward and, adjusting the rake of his colander, presented himself. “Chief Constable, we found this one in a ditch off the Long Road, babbling to himself in a very loud and disruptive manner. By my figuring, he was not comporting himself in an appropriate way in public. Reeks of drink, this one. He’s raving. Keeps talking the craziest things. I’d say he’s taken one to
o many flagons of poppy beer; he’s got the hallucinations. Anyways, I thought it was prudent to check in with ye before we haul him down to the drunk tank so’s he can sleep it off.”
The wolf had slumped down to his knees, and the two constables struggled to keep his arms secured. He now began to weep. His sobs came in sloppy waves, and huge tears welled and fell from his one unpatched eye.
Sterling, suddenly recognizing the drunkard, strove to contain his anger. Grabbing the wolf by the front of his worn military jacket, he hefted him to eye level. “Corporal Donalbain,” he hissed, “what do you have to say for yourself?”
The wolf’s weeping suddenly turned to fits of strange laughter as he was confronted by the chief constable. “Ha!” he said loudly. “Do yer worst, friend. Do yer worst.” His words were badly slurred, and flecks of spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. “I ain’t afeard of you shape-shiftin’ fffff-oxes.” He shoved free of Sterling and staggered a couple steps back, pulling his paws up as if he intended to challenge the fox to fisticuffs.
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Sterling. “You’re clearly off your rocker.”
“Wait a second!” This was Prue, who had raced from the dance floor to watch the commotion. “Shape-shifting foxes. The Kitsunes! What does he know about them?”
Curtis had followed her. He eyed the corporal with pity. “This is the wolf who warned us about the assassin. The real question is: What’s he even doing here?”
“Answer, wolf,” demanded Sterling. “Why are you out of hiding?”
But the corporal seemed oblivious to the fox’s demands. He was suddenly staring at Prue and Curtis, a horrified look on his face. He stumbled momentarily and reached for a nearby table, upsetting a platter of silver mugs in the process. “You!” he shouted. “You—children!”
“What’s the matter?” asked Curtis, inching forward.
“NO!” shouted the wolf shrilly. “NO! You—you’re supposed to be—to be dead!”
Prue and Curtis shared a worried look. “What are you talking about?” asked Prue.
“Away!” shrieked Donalbain. “Away, foul spirits! Back to the netherworld from whence ye came!” He had grabbed a slotted spoon from the table and began brandishing it wildly, like a sword. Those guests within swing range leapt to a safe distance. Sterling had drawn a pair of pruning shears, his weapon of choice, from his belt; Samuel pulled out a small gardening spade.
“Take it easy,” said Sterling. “Relax there, old man.”
Donalbain did not take his one eye off Prue and Curtis; it was wide and bloodshot and darted crazily in the cavity of his skull. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, and his yellow teeth were bared inside the matted gray of his muzzle. And then something changed in him, as a look of realization suddenly poured over his face and his mouth contorted into a severe pout. Tears sprang to his eye as he again collapsed into a heap on the floorboards.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he blathered. “So, so sorry.”
Despite Sterling’s sputtered objections, Prue ran to the wolf’s side. She put her arm on his shoulder. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
The wolf looked up at her tearfully. “Blast it all. Blast me. I’ve sold you away for the price of a pint of poppy beer.”
“What do you mean, sold me away?”
“You and the boy. And the old woman. All of ’em. Sold ’em down the river. And I’m ever so sorry.” His words were lost in a new torrent of sobs.