I wish I could say that the end of my unwanted meeting with Rachael Cruz was the point at which I relaxed, turned my brain off, and put the rest of my Tuesday on autopilot. Unfortunately — or fortunately, depending on how okay you were with procrastination — I’d had company in the form of a four-tailed fox who was deathly allergic to the mere thought of procrastination.

  And so it was with a heavy heart and much trepidation that I closed out yesterday by sending an email I didn’t want to send, and adding an appointment to my schedule for today that I very badly wanted to blow off.

  But I wouldn’t. I’d promised Megan that I would help, and when I made promises, I kept them. Even if it meant swallowing my pride, putting a lid on my temper, and accepting that I might have to dig a grave for one of my long-held grudges.

  A promise was a promise, after all.

  My destination for this fine Wednesday was just a bit outside Bethesda, Maryland — still inside the Capital Beltway, but well beyond my usual stomping grounds. Given that this visit would be for an off-the-books matter, and that I’d be visiting the permanent residence of one of the most important secret identities in the United States, most of my usual transit options were off the table. I couldn’t hire a limo service on the firm’s dime, I didn’t have the grounds for an escort from the NMR or the Fumblers, and I wasn’t stupid enough to hire a cab or rideshare service.

  So instead, I was stuck with the only option that didn’t involve owing or cashing in a favor: a motorcycle. Specifically, a white and purple Kawasaki crotch rocket, complete with a custom fox-themed decal.

  No, it wasn’t my idea. I’d received the bike when I returned to the US for law school, as a ‘gift’ from the Japanese ambassador — and I use that word lightly because I hadn’t been able to refuse the damn thing. It had already been paid for, and since the FMB hadn’t caved to pressure and finally given me my flier’s license yet, my only other options for getting around DC had been walking, the metro, or taxi. Plus, since the ECLIPSE Act hadn’t been passed yet, I had still been allowed to use my powers if that was the difference between causing or avoiding an accident, so it was, in fact, a decently inspired idea.

  I didn’t ride the damn thing much, just enough to make sure it started up alright when I needed it, and that disuse meant I needed Gorou’s help to get it in and out of the basement. I could just teleport it out myself, yes, but Gorou was better at it. Besides, I needed that time to find that helmet of mine, and make sure no spiders had colonized the custom ear pockets.

  But eventually, I could delay no longer. I stuck my bag in the rear seat storage, tied my hair back into a low ponytail, carefully slid my helmet on (which took three attempts, those ear holes were finicky), and hit the road.

  Traffic out of DC was always lighter than traffic going in, which made for a quick trip. Plus, since I mostly kept my tail pressed tight against my lower body, I barely got a second glance from other motorists on the road, even when stopped at red lights. I did hope that today’s little excursion was over and done with before rush hour; while getting out of DC for the workday was never all that difficult, traffic back into DC after 3pm was always an absolute shitshow. More than that, though, this whole thing was off the books. I’d worked late last night getting a number of emails, filings, and other matters all set up so Gorou could just press a button and send my completed work out in relatively even intervals, but that would only last until midday.

  Well… that, and I was worried for Casey. The cover I gave him for getting away from his parents was that I expected him in the office today. And while he’d given me a thumbs-up later last night, it had gone down to a neutral thumb barely an hour later, which was where it remained this morning. That being said, Casey was an adult — he’d just graduated with his doctorate degree, for God’s sake — and he could take care of himself for a few hours while I handled my outside obligations.

  My route took me south from my townhome along 19th until I hit Dupont Circle, whereupon I took the second exit onto Massachusetts Avenue and hooked back northwest. From there, I went along the usual path towards Embassy Row, and turned right as I passed Washington National Cathedral to head north along Wisconsin Avenue. That took me out of DC and into Chevy Chase, and a couple miles after that, I moved into Bethesda, Maryland. I followed Wisconsin Avenue all the way until I passed a sign pointing to Bethesda’s red line station, hooked a left onto Old Georgetown Road, and turned left again onto Greentree Road, just past the hospital.

  The last turn I made was another left onto Fernwood Road, which led me past a mosque on my left and forked off into a pair of cul-de-sacs. My destination was the closer of the two, and so I followed the street into the dead-end, which a street sign identified as Cranbrook Court, and parked my bike at the curb, right past the driveway for the bigger of two houses at the furthest point of the circle.

  … actually, now that I was close enough to get a better look, I needed to amend that statement — the two houses at the top of the circle were connected by a covered walkway that ran between them. Huh. I’d never seen that before. Fascinating… but getting the zoning and permits for that must have been absolute hell.

  The two houses themselves were rather unremarkable from the outside, all told. They looked about the same as the other homes surrounding them, white frontage with some visible brick along the bottom, blue-gray rooftop shingles matching the other homes in the area. There was a surprising lack of ornamentation on either of the homes, save for a decorative plaque beside each home’s door. Once I walked up the cobblestone path leading to the larger home’s front door, I could more properly make out the writing on the plaque. Or, well, recognize it, sort of. If I hadn’t seen one of these before, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue what the Arabic writing on it said, but even without the English translation and transliteration below the Arabic, I’d seen one of these before, and asked what it meant then.

  As-salamu alaykum — peace be upon you.

  I had the sudden thought that I’d forgotten something in my motorcycle’s storage, but no, I had my bag in my hand. I just… a very small but very loud part of me didn’t want to do this. Wanted to let that little simmering nugget of resentment win out, take me back home, make up some cockamamy excuse for why I hadn’t been able to help. But I’d already given my word. I said I would do this.

  So I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and rang the doorbell.

  The home’s soundproofing was rather good, I’d give it that, but my twitchy ears were very sharp, and I still caught quite a few things going on behind the door. Feet clambered on hardwood flooring, two — wait no, three voices spoke, another door or two closed with a bit more force than the people responsible probably intended.

  Then, at last, a pair of footsteps approached the door. The deadbolt unlocked, the door handle turned. Then the door opened, and—

  A child.

  Whatever I’d expected, it… well, it wasn’t this.

  A child, a girl who couldn’t be older than eight or nine years old, opened the door and looked up at me with stars in her eyes.

  “You did come!” she exclaimed in English before rattling off something else in rapid-fire Arabic, almost vibrating in excitement. My ears twitched and my tail started swaying in a combination of confusion and discomfort, because once I got past the fact that this was a literal child, I was able to pay attention to some of the other details. Like the red fox hairpin holding her fringe away from her face. Or her sweatshirt, with a decal of a fox mid-dive into a snowbank. And the socks with cute little foxes running after each other around the circumference.

  Put all of that together with the fact that this was, according to Megan, Lady Liberty’s house, and I was, well… more than a little discomfited.

  “H-hello, little miss,” I began, doing my best to keep any of those complex thoughts from showing. I kneeled down to put myself a bit below this young girl’s eye level, and swayed my tail behind me in as hypnotic a fashion as I could. “Is your mom here?”

  “Mhmm, mhmm!” she hummed excitedly. “She said to bring you to the sitting room, and ask if you wanted anything to drink, and let you know we had water and orange soda and lemon soda and tea and coffee but that last one would take her a bit to get ready and that she needed a few more minutes and to ask if you wanted me to keep you company and I really hope you do and — oh wait I was supposed to invite you in first!”

  Well, uh… how was I supposed to say no to that?

  The young girl held the door open wide for me, so I stepped inside the house, pulling my tail around to my front so she could close it behind me and set the deadbolt again. There was a great big pile of shoes in front of the door, so I took off my ankle boots before following the young girl deeper into the home, making sure to observe my surroundings as I did.

  The walls were covered in photographs, showing either two separate families or multiple generations of the same family, I couldn’t quite tell. The pictures had been taken all across the United States on one side of the hall and around the world on the other, with a particularly strong focus on national monuments. The detail that struck me the most, however, was that Lady Liberty didn’t feature in any of them — the recognizable caped costume and thick, braided black hair was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the woman whose face I recognized was quite clearly the one hidden behind the cape, Mariem Mouthlaki. And while she wore a hijab in most of the photographs, the few that had her without one showed hair far too short to fit in the braid from her superhero persona.

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  And wasn’t that a surprising revelation — the visible hair of the most famous superhero in America, which had been painted by PR hacks across the country as a sign of freedom and adoption of her new country’s culture… was fake.

  I didn’t think I could write a more scathing treatise on how hollow and plastic the NMR really was if I tried.

  While the young girl led me down the hall, she also yelled something in Arabic up towards the second floor. And although I couldn’t understand the response, I was able to recognize the voice, and felt a frisson of apprehension when I did.

  That was Lady Liberty. Here I was, in her home, and I’d just walked inside willingly.

  God, I hoped this didn’t go badly.

  “Is everything alright?” I asked as the young girl led me to an enormous family room, with multiple couches, armchairs, and large cushions set across it. The furniture surrounded a somewhat recessed area covered with rugs and cushions, and in the center sat a large table, not unlike a kotatsu. The girl sat cross-legged on one of the massive cushions near the low table, and I found myself joining her without even thinking, though I sat in a somewhat more comfortable version of seiza — superhuman I may have been, not even I could manage that for long.

  “Oh, Mama was just asking if there was anyone else with you, like an old man,” the girl answered, practically bouncing on her cushion. “But I didn’t see an old man, so I told her that, and she said to tell you that she needs another couple of minutes then.”

  “Why would…” I frowned, ears folding back in confusion before realization dawned, at which they perked back up. “Oooh, it’s a hijab thing, isn’t it?”

  “Mhmm, mhmm!” The bouncing continued, but slowed a bit as the girl took on a somewhat apprehensive expression. “Um, Miss Foxfire? Can, um…”

  “Hm?” I tilted an ear in question, drawing an exuberant little ‘squee’ from the little girl. “What is it?”

  “Can, um, can, canIpetyourtail!?” she blurted out in rapid fire.

  “A-ah?” I blinked.

  “It’s so soft and fluffy and I really wanna pet it but Mama said you always have to ask before doing something like touching somebody’s hair and to not touch an animal until it smells you and lets you touch it and, and, please? Please please please please pleeeeaaassssseeeee?”

  Oh, God. Oh God she was giving me puppy dog eyes. This was Lady Liberty’s daughter and she was asking to pet my tail, and God help me, but—

  “I… guess so?” I swallowed, but shifted slightly so I could more easily bring my tail around and towards the girl. Her eyes went positively huge, and she made this strange wheezing gasp as she tried (and failed) to contain her excitement. “Just be careful to—”

  I didn’t get to finish my warning before the child’s fingers combed through my fur, and the sensation that ran up my tail had my spine trying to shoot out the top of my head. The feel of fingers through your fur wasn’t quite like a back rub or even a head massage — the fur itself was just hair, but the skin it sprouted from was sensitive in the extreme!

  “It’s so soft,” the little girl breathed, her touch far more delicate than I had initially anticipated. “It’s even softer than Zara’s!”

  “Huh?” I mumble-asked, shutting my mouth before a squeak could escape, and squared my shoulders to hold back any such involuntary utterance before responding further. “Is Zara a dog or cat?”

  “No, silly!” the child giggled. “She’s a fox!”

  What.

  My ears fell down and out in raw disbelief, the tip of my tail twitching in the girl’s grip. A… huh? A fox. A fox? That this little girl had named?

  “A pet fox?” I asked, not able to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

  “No, silly!” she laughed, what had previously been a giggle fit growing beyond that at my rather emotive response. “One of the foxes living in the yard!”

  “… so she’s a wild fox?” I asked, getting a nod. “And she let you pet her?”

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh!” she nodded emphatically, then pulled her hands away from my tail and opened a drawer on the low coffee table we sat beside. The girl grunted a little as she brought out a picture album, and flipped through it a bit before pointing at a photograph. “See? It’s me and Zara!”

  I leaned forward to take a look, drawing a quiet moue of disappointment when I subconsciously pulled my tail behind me again to help balance, and—

  “Awwww!”

  Oh, my, goodness! This was just too cute!

  The picture clearly showed the young girl in front of me, though whereas I estimated her to be eight or nine years old at the moment, she was maybe half that in this photograph — and a scrawled date in the corner ending in 2016 suggested that my guess was on the mark. She was dressed in pink sweats, her black hair pulled up in cute little pigtails… and on her lap?

  A fox kit, nibbling away at a bowl of food that the girl held in her hands.

  “Oh my goodness that’s so cute,” I whispered, and oh my God, oh my God it really was just so cute, oh it was too darn cute I was gonna cry—!

  “And then, and then and then!”

  The girl flipped to the next page, and pointed at a new set of photos — her petting the fox kit in what was clearly a vet’s office, a vixen being held steady just off to the side by somebody else’s hands while the doctor’s gloved fingers wrapped a roll of gauze around an IV, which led into the kit’s leg.

  “There was one night when it was really late, and we hear this loud yell that’s kind of like a bark and kind of not, and it woke us all up so we went to look outside and saw the mama fox and Zara, and both of them were all hurt but Zara was hurt bad, real bad! So mama took us to the animal doctor, the um, what was that big word… vetrin, vettynary…”

  “Veterinarian?” I offered.

  “Yeah, that!” she exclaimed, nodding. “So mama took us there, and the doctor said to give them some meds and keep the mama inside for a week or two, but he had to put Zara’s back leg in a cast and said she needed to stay inside for three whole months, and mama asked what we needed to get to take care of them, so we had this big fox pen in the backyard that summer and I got to play with Zara every day, but then we had to let her go and I was sad and crying but then she came back!” The girl flipped the page again, showing herself and the same fox kit, but as a yearling this time. “And then she came again, and again! And she even brought her own babies last year! But I think they’re already all grown up and left because I haven’t seen them again? And her fur was so soft and fluffy, but yours is even softer!”

  “Well, that’s probably because I shampoo and condition my fur regularly, just like my normal hair.” I smiled at the little girl, who reached for her own hair with a look of realization, but then she wrinkled her nose like she’d smelt something bad.

  “Zara never wants to get her fur wet, not even when she’s got mud on her.”

  “Yeah…” I sighed. “Yeah. Water in the undercoat feels awful, but at least it’s all nice and pretty once I’m done.”

  “And it’s super soft!”

  “And, yes, it’s super soft,” I agreed.

  I was about to say more when I heard something, and flicked one ear in that direction to try and get a better idea of what it was. It was the sound of breathing — soft, subtle, and unaccompanied by the footsteps that should have preceded it.

  Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. I sighed, looked away from the little girl and photo album that had held my attention far more easily than I’d initially anticipated, and felt my smile fade into nothingness as I looked into the eyes of the host some part of me still wished to avoid.

  “Huh? Why’d you close it? I wanted to show more pictures!” The girl turned, and I could tell she’d followed my gaze when she stood from her pillow-cushion and flung herself at the new arrival, who kneeled down and caught her in a hug. “Mama, mama! You were right, she did come! And I got to show her my pictures, and tell her about Zara, and she even let me pet her tail!”

  Lady Liberty’s — or Mariem’s, I suppose, since she was out of costume — smile turned ever so slightly brittle at that, but she rallied quickly enough that I doubted her daughter noticed.

  “Hounaida, you weren’t bothering our guest, were you?” Mariem chided, though her tone was gentle.

  “Nuh-uh!” the girl, or Hounaida, I suppose, shook her head emphatically. “I was on my best behavior!”

  “Good, good.” Mariem sighed and stood, though she retained a gentle smile for her daughter. “Now, Mama needs to talk to her guest in private. Can you go over to the other side for me?” And here, her smile turned a bit sly. “Isn’t it about the time Zara comes by to see if you’re home?”

  Hounaida’s surprised gasp was so loud as to be almost theatrical. If it hadn’t come from a child, I’d have thought it to be an exaggeration.

  “You’re right! Okay I’m going, I’m going!” She turned and looked like she was about to race off, but stopped and waved at me first. “Bye, Miss Foxfire! Thanks for letting me pet your tail!”

  Then, the young girl was off to her own devices… and in her absence, the air became heavy with expectation.

  I took a deep breath and stood, looking my host in the eye.

  “Liberty.”

  “Foxfire.”

  “I… suppose we have a lot to discuss,” she said, anxiety written all over her face.

  “That we do,” I agreed, sitting back down on the cushion I’d claimed. She walked down to the recessed, carpeted area herself, and sat one side over on the table. Not opposite, no. But there was distance between us.

  Fifteen years. For fifteen years, I’d avoided this confrontation, nursed my grudge against the woman in whose home I now stood. And if there was one thing true about us foxes, it was that we always, always got even.

  And now, it was finally time to take my long-denied pound of metaphorical flesh. Given the favor I’d been asked to provide?

  I deserved at least that much.

  “So… ah,” she hesitated. “Where would you like me to begin?”