And Mr. Fox and Mrs. Fox, they laughed as if that sound was a secret to share.

“Why don’t our woods say anything?”

“Because it is winter and even the trees need to sleep. Ask again in the summer, when they’re dizzy with love and aching with flowers.”

Lord Petty followed them to the grounds of a fine castle indeed, one with strong walls and a deep moat, and a gateway inscribed with the words:

Be bold, be bold.

He regarded the evocation with some care, the half-moon of his grimace as bright as a predator’s grin. They were here. He was sure. Two pairs of footprints tangled in the dirt leading through the gate; he could see too a twist of Mrs. Fox’s red hair in the brambles of a rose bush growing tall beside the path. Here, sang his heart. Here, snarled that broken-backed need at the root of his lungs, the gasping, miserable whine of his want.

Lord Petty looked about. There was no one here. The gate was open, so under its lilac-laced trellises he went up to the front doors, where he stood as he read aloud a second inscription:

Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.

Through those doors he slipped too, bow on his shoulder, a full quiver on his back, ambition jouncing against the glide of his hip. He went down a hall of black marble, gold chandeliers and rose-colored marquetry lending shape to the bowered hush. He went up broad stairs until he came to a door in the gallery, over which was written:

Be bold, be bold, but not too bold,

Lest that your heart's blood should run cold.

But Lord Petty was nothing if not brave, nothing if not starving to skin Mr. Fox of Lady Mary’s love, nothing if not desperate. So, he, despite the cold that had burrowed to his belly, despite the way it crooned to him of warnings, opened the door and what do you think he saw? Why, bodies like cat’s cradles of chewed-down cartilage, blooms of sinew worn in the bones like flowers in a fair maid’s hair. Bodies upon bodies, gnawed to the pith.

Lord Petty thought it was high time to get out of that horrid place and he closed the door, went through the gallery, haunted by the half-smiles of so very many corpses, dangling from the ceiling and trailing from the walls like marionettes at leisure. He was just going down the stairs, and out of the hall, when who should he see but Mr. Fox and Mrs. Fox dragging a beautiful young man down the gateway to the door.

“Why did they hurt the man, Papa? Why did they hurt those people?”

“Because not even monsters are safe from predators, my loves.”