The world in Foxhunt is one version of the future, hopeful and green, lovely and deadly. This novel is part of a larger movement I can already see where authors and creators, tired of the grimness forced on them in their everyday lives, sing by the fire of brighter times. Helping us to remember, or imagine. Giving us hope. Working towards a future you can’t imagine is hard, so let imagination be a map, let fiction be a tool to aid your fight.

We need stories of hope, visions of a world that is not a blasted wasteland but balanced and careful and, overall, kind. Here is one such world. There are others. We can build such a world ourselves.

The Brink is now, and we can still step back from it.

Part One

The Wolf

Chapter One

Tinctora: a haven for dyers. The primary source of indigo and its backward cousin, woad. A few reputable wayhouses, but overall a sleepy, quiet region, unlikely to be of much importance.

- From the journal of Rivasoa

Orfeus went out that night to win her lady’s heart. Perhaps this was made difficult by the fact the lady in question was married already, but Orfeus was resourceful and not about to let such a small thing stop her. Morality was important as far as things went, but this hurt no one. No one but the husband, anyway, and it was more Primrose’s actions at fault there than Orfeus’s.

So she dressed as if for performance. A sleek cream shirt with sleeves that blossomed out like rose petals, dark pants that clung to her legs like they were painted there, and the cloak she had dyed herself, the deep blue a little patchy in places, yet sincere, heartfelt, the imperfections charming as a crooked smile. So she hoped.

Primrose entered the dining house later than they’d agreed, far after sunset. Orfeus kept her eyes on tonight’s entertainer, an adequate pianist, and stretched out in her seat, lounging and comfortable, tapping her fingers lightly in the air to the beat.

“Orfeus,” Primrose said as she sat down. Orfeus started in her chair and turned to her and smiled.

“Ah, you’re here,” she said easily, as though she hadn’t had one eye on the door since rather before sunset.

Primrose looked tired but as well presented as always, from her short hair with its slight curl to her perfect makeup. She was one of the few people Orfeus knew who wore makeup, and Orfeus was privileged to know she looked just as good without it. The tips of her fingers were tinted with indigo so she must be fresh off her work.

“Sorry to be late,” Primrose said, and flicked her fingers in the air, dismissing her lateness.

“No matter,” Orfeus said. “Hunger is the best sauce, they say, though I feel if that is true then they should really try mole.”