Sly Boots, after a long conversation in which he explained to his parents—using numerous real-life examples—that he would never be a good thief, had, at last, convinced them that this was true. Then, with his parents’ help, he had opened a small apothecary and healer’s shop on the ground floor of their house. On occasion, Quicksilver stole from his stores, just to make sure he was paying attention to his surroundings as he ought to. She always returned the stolen goods—if Sly Boots asked nicely.
The girls and sisters at the convent were not entirely the girls and sisters Quicksilver had once known—Adele wasn’t there, for one, and neither was Mother Petra. When Quicksilver visited, she saw some familiar faces, and some unfamiliar ones, and felt so entirely disturbed when she stopped to think about all that might have changed in this time, thanks to her actions in the past, that she never visited the convent again.
And yet, Quicksilver thought, finishing off her sugar cake, as much as some things had changed, much was still the same. She was, as ever, an orphan and a thief, and she still enjoyed sleeping on rooftops more than in beds, even the perfectly comfortable one Sly Boots had made up for her in the now clean and tidy attic.
Sometimes she still looked north and wondered about her parents. But not knowing who they were or where they had gone or why they had left her no longer cut her heart as deeply. She had found a family of her own—a strange kind of family, made up of witches and boys, thieves and monsters, lords and ladies—but it was hers, nonetheless, and it was all she needed.
Quicksilver licked her fingers clean, grinning as she watched the baker count over his cakes down below. When he realized he was one short, he scowled and muttered what she was sure was her name, followed by a few choice curses. He pushed back his cap and scanned the rooftops for her, but she was well hidden, and besides, she couldn’t worry too much about him at the moment.
She had just seen something far more interesting.
On the other side of the church, on a quiet corner, a farmer had set up a small pen full of puppies. Quicksilver crept down the church roof to see better.
“I already have three dogs for my sheep,” the farmer was explaining to a man and his small daughter. “Can’t take care of eight more!”
Quicksilver crept even closer, clinging to the gutter with a pounding heart. It was stupid to hope, stupid even to think it. . . .
“Five silvers for this one.” The farmer held up a wriggling pup with a speckled gray coat. “I think he likes you.”
“Can I, Papa?” asked the girl, tugging on her father’s sleeve.
“I won’t be cleaning up after it,” said her father sternly.
The girl’s face took on an utterly serious expression. “I’ll clean up everything, Papa. You won’t ever have to!”
“Right.” The man rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “Five silvers, then?”
Quicksilver watched, hidden behind a wolf-shaped gargoyle, while the day stretched on and the litter of puppies dwindled. None of them looked remotely like Fox, but there was one—the floppy-eared shaggy-haired runt of the litter—who caught her eye. He was black all over except for two white socks and a white chest and belly. He wagged his tail hopefully every time someone walked by.
“He’s quite small,” said a woman, stopping to look when the runt was the only one left. “And his face is a bit smashed, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes that happens with runts,” said the farmer. “But he’s the gentlest of the bunch, I’ll tell you that.”
The woman smiled politely and shook her head, moving on.
The farmer sighed and put his hands on his hips, looking up and down the street. The sun was setting, and the market would close soon.
“What am I going to do with you, little one?” he asked the empty road.
Quicksilver moved like lightning, climbing down the church wall, sprinting across the road, scooping the pup into her arms, and hurrying back to the church roof before the farmer had even turned around. She made sure to leave five silvers in the pen, for the farmer seemed a nice sort.
It was difficult, climbing up to the belfry with a puppy tucked into her coat. She would have to fashion him a bag, just as she had for Fox.
“Hello,” Quicksilver whispered to him once she had settled back in her spot. She touched noses with him and scratched his belly, which made him wriggle with delight in her lap. “My name is Quicksilver,” she told him, “and I think I shall call you Bear, for I can already tell you’ll grow up to be fearsome and strong, no matter what anyone else thinks.”
Bear blinked up at her and yawned.
“Yes, it’s quite tiring, being a thief, but you’ll get used to it.” Quicksilver tucked her coat about him and settled back against the wall. For a moment—a tiny moment—she felt a twist in her heart at the thought that this pup would never be her Fox, that she would never again work magic. A monster, for a witch, only happens once, and she had had so little time with hers.
But as she turned over these thoughts in her mind, she realized they did not bother her as much as they once had. After all, she had lived many lifetimes of magic as Anastazia, as a witch with her Fox. And as Quicksilver—as only herself—she had saved her kind and stopped a great evil from returning to the world. That was enough for her.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CLAIRE LEGRAND is the author of The Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls, The Year of Shadows, and Some Kind of Happiness, as well as the young adult novel Winterspell. She is also one of the four authors behind The Cabinet of Curiosities. She lives in New Jersey with two cats and, most important, her dog Odin, who patiently sat beside her every day as she wrote this book.
www.claire-legrand.com
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
CREDITS
Cover art © 2016 by Jaime Zollars
Display type © 2016 by Erin Fitzsimmons
Cover design by Sylvie Le Floc’h
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
FOXHEART. Copyright © 2016 by Claire Legrand. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
EPub Edition © September 2016 ISBN 9780062427755
ISBN 978-0-06-242773-1 (hardcover)
16 17 18 19 20 PC/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
Greenwillow Books
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
&nbs
p; www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
Foxheart Page 29
