“Another bathhouse? Does this one have a name-stealing bear as well?”

  Anya and Renee stood in a dingy alley just off the Parisi slums. A hand-carved wooden sign hung above them - DELIGHT OF BEYROUTH BATHS and sanctuary of st. jeanne.

  “No bears, I swear on St. Math! Used to work here, and we’re going to see a friend. You’ll love her,” Renee replied. She was in an excitable mood, and ran circles around Anya as she spoke.

  “Have you worked in every brothel and moll-house in Parisi?”

  “Just the good ones.” Renee laughed. “Anyways, this place is a perfectly respectable bathhouse.”

  A discreet wooden door burst open, and a rooster and a tomcat stumbled out. They were clearly inebriated, and their pawings were clearly amorous in nature.

  Anya raised her eyebrows, but Renee merely shrugged.

  They entered, and found themselves in a narrow series of dim, steamy rooms, decorated cheaply in a faux-oriental style. Renee led Anya to the back of the establishment, carefully maneuvering around couples in various states of passion.

  “Hey, you done it with Yvon yet? You know, tied the knot?” Renee made what Anya assumed was an obscene gesture.

  “Slept with him? Um, we tried once. I…got nervous, I guess. Nothing came of it.”

  “And he was alright with that?”

  “He let me go. Hasn’t said a word since.”

  “He can be a real muttonhead sometimes, ‘specially when it comes to the females of the species. Probably been running it back in his head for weeks now, trying to figure out what he should’ve done.”

  “But there wasn’t anything he could’ve done. It was my fault.”

  Renee jabbed Anya in the ribs.

  “No it wasn’t! He’s asking a lot of you, and you two need time to get to know each other.”

  They came to a dilapidated staircase. Renee climbed slowly, probing each step before fully placing her weight.

  “Renee, what will I do if he seeks me out? I can’t say no to him again.”

  “Why not? You have value to him as a concubine, but also as a magus of a royal line. Show him that you know your worth. Negotiate. He won’t risk your loyalty by forcing the issue.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t, really. But he lets you keep your knife on your person now, doesn’t he? Just stop his heart again.”

  Anya’s tail flagged up.

  “How do you know about that?!”

  “Never forget that walls have ears.” Renee twirled mischievously.

  They came to the top of the staircase, and Renee found a door plastered with a faded icon of St. Jeanne. She rapped, sparking a commotion on the other side.

  “Sister Lucie? It’s Renee.”

  No response.

  “Got a friend with me. A sweet little doe-rabbit, cutest nub-tail you’ve ever seen.”

  The door nearly burst off its hinges, disgorging a half-dressed cuckoo with a flushed expression. She raised her rumpled dress to reveal a rumpled butt of feathers, winked salaciously, and careened down the staircase.

  “One moment…ah. Do come in, dear.” A quiet, sing-song voice.

  The door led to a cramped, dingy room, its crooked walls seeming to let in every wind-gust from the alley outside. An entire wall was dedicated to amateurish icons of the young mare St. Jeanne, and its center held a single strand of hair in a glass case. The rest of the room held a frugal living-space, where a fox in cleric’s robes hastily straightened out her wimple. She rose to greet them, grabbing a worn walking-stick with a square of white cloth attached to one end. Anya saw that it was crudely embroidered with a depiction of an altar-pyre amidst a sea of yellow lilies.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Renee and the fox embraced tenderly, and Renee made introductions.

  “I’m-” Anya began.

  “Um…may I touch your ears?” The fox asked. Her watery eyes glistened orange in the candle-light.

  “If you’d li-”

  The fox stepped forward, embracing Anya. The rabbit shivered as the fox’s long claws combed through her ears, but there was no hunt-lust behind the motion.

  Anya thought of how her mother had caressed her, before she had become a magus. Before the bird that was no longer a bird.

  “Your spirit, I can feel it. A single lick of flame, cradled in ash.” The fox frowned, and stopped her combing.

  “Hey, can you save the gloom for later? We could really use your help.” Renee said.

  The fox lifted her hands away. She was warm, and the wind was cold in her absence.

  “You’re a cleric of St. Jeanne? I thought she only took grass-eaters,” Anya asked.

  “I am from Briezh, far to the northwest. My family was gentry, but we had little money, and only ate meat once a year. When I was sixteen, St. Jeanne revealed herself to me. I was to make a banner and walk to Parisi, so that I might be an instrument of her grace. So I did.” Lucie clutched the makeshift banner close to her chest.

  “She’s the real deal. Cured me of Albion-pox after I’d been pissing needles for the better part of a year.”

  Lucie blushed and turned away.

  “The reliquary took me in and trained me in ministry, but many of our patients were…uncomfortable with receiving treatment from a hunter. Once can hardly blame them, poor terrorized souls. Better for me to be here, where species is more fluid.”

  “And no one pays much mind to celibacy,” Renee added.

  The fox blushed harder, the insides of her ears becoming a glorious crimson.

  “Anyhow, it’s about the reliquary. You know of any patients that disappeared?”

  “Disappeared? No, of course-” Something snagged in the fox’s mind.

  “What is it?”

  “I am but a penitent hunter, hardly worthy of her grace. To slander her holy work would be to slander St. Jeanne herself.”

  “Lucie, Lord Clary has evidence of a conspiracy operating within the reliquary, though I have my doubts as to its truth. It’s not enough to take to the gendarmes, but it might be enough for the hunting council.”

  Lucie’s eyes opened wide in alarm.

  “They know how many grass-eaters depend on the reliquary for healing! They would not dare.”

  “They would.”

  “Then you must prevail upon your master. Perhaps I could sway him. By grace, it could be done, it must be done!” The fox’s claws dug into her banner-staff.

  “Calm down, alright? Clary knows the reliquary’s worth to the grass-eaters. He won’t go to the hunting council unless he feels he has no choice.”

  Silence. Lucie rubbed her thumb inside her ear. Anya’s breathing quickened.

  “…It would still be wicked thing.” Lucie crumpled onto the bed. Anya could not imagine that such a pathetic beast could be a hunter.

  “I’m sorry to place you in an. It was my decision to get involved in this mess,” Anya said, crouching down. She removed the saint-icon from her dress, turning it over in her fingers. “You should do what your heart tells you is right. St. Georgei trusts me, at least I think he does, even though I am a magus with little courage in my heart. If Renee looks up to you, then surely you are a person worthy of St. Jeanne’s trust.”

  The fox took her staff and ran a palm along its length, whispering something indistinct. The guilt on her face slowly melted into resolve.

  “The third wing.”

  “Hm? What’s that?” Renee said.

  “The reliquary has two wings. The first wing is for treating the poor of Parisi, while the second wing is for treating soldiers returned from war. The third wing is a euphemism, used for those on the brink of a painful death. We would administer last rites, and move them to a room where we could release them from their suffering. The other clerics often had me do it. Since I was a hunter.”

  Lucie exhaled slowly, and looked to the icons across the room.

  “It wasn’t just for the terminally ill. There were never enough beds, and sometimes it was better to give one to someone with a better chance. And then…”

  “Yes?”

  “Sometimes, someone would be third-winged, but instead of going to killing room they would just…vanish. It was the matriarchs’ decision, so I never thought much of it.”

  “Ever see a marmot get vanished?”

  “No?”

  “Never mind. Where do you think they went?”

  The vixen drew in the air with her fingers, trying to recall something.

  “The reliquary has several underground floors. I doubt any patients were being taken elsewhere.”

  “Alright, that makes it simple. Hey, Anya, up for another outing?” Renee smiled a sharp-toothed grin.

  Oh dear.

  “Um, you don’t mean to…”

  “Either we confirm that we’ve been chasing our tails this whole time, or we get ironclad evidence with a name attached. Clary’s favorite gendarmes nab ‘em off the premises, we show the evidence, and we get a confession and a list of conspirators. No blood, and the hunting council doesn’t find out until the case is already closed. Easy as catching dormice in winter.” Renee replied.

  “St. Jeanne, have faith in me, for I have little in myself.”

  “Hey, chin up! Even if we fail, nothing bad happens that wouldn’t have happened anyways.”

  “We could get caught, and they could kill us,” Anya interjected.

  “Yeah. There’s that. But we won’t get caught.”

  “There will likely be wards formed from saint-arts. You will need a trained cleric to bypass them,” Lucie said.

  “You don’t mean-”

  The vixen rose, holding her banner resolutely. It flapped slightly in the drafty room.

  “If St. Jeanne told a forlorn hunter such as I to journey to Parisi, it must be because there is something here that only I can do. If this is it, then I must take up my banner and answer.”

  “I would really prefer nobody else gets dragged into this,” Renee replied.

  “The path is clear before my eyes, clearer than it has been for a long while.”

  “Never been one for turning back, have you? Alright, welcome to the team.”

  “As St. Jeanne stood on the field of Orleans, I will stand beside you.” Lucie stepped forward, taking Renee’s and Anya’s paws in her own. The room no longer felt so cold.