Mask felt a cold hatred for the cruel vixen, but long practice had taught him to keep a straight face.

Fortunata watched the two little ones tussling happily in the loam. “We’ll get the credit for them, eh, mate.”

“You’ll get what’s coming to you today.” Mask’s voice had sunk to a grim whisper.

Fortunata only half-heard her strange companion. “Eh, what’s that?”

Mask looked around him. “I said, I’m not sure if this is the way.”

“Oh no, don’t tell me we’re lost,” Fortunata groaned.

Mask pointed to a fork in the trail. “No, wait a moment, it’s one of these two paths. Listen, I’ll take this path to the right and keep an eye on these hedgehogs. You take the one to the left. If it’s the real trail, you’ll come across a fallen beech. Give me a call. If I find the beech on my trail, I’ll give you a yelp.”

Fortunata parted from them, calling out to the hedgehogs, “Be good, little ones. Stay with Uncle Patchcoat. I’ll see you later.”

When the vixen was gone, Mask sat on a chestnut stump. He gave Spike and Posy a sugared hazelnut each.

“You’re not really our Uncle Patchcoat, are you?” Posy giggled.

Mask patted her gently. “No, I’m not. And Besomtail isn’t your aunt. But I don’t think we’ll be seeing her again.”

Spike stared gravely at the otter. “Can we call you Mr. Mask again?”

Mask gave them his canteen to drink from. He wiped nut fragments from their faces with his false tail.

“Not until we’re safe back at Brockhall tonight,” he said firmly. “Pretend for now that I really am your Uncle Patchcoat.”

Posy hugged the false tail to her comfortingly. “You’re a nice old Uncle Patchcoat.”

Beneath his disguise Mask blushed with pleasure.

* * *

Fortunata spotted the fallen beech ahead. She leaned against it with a sigh of relief.

“Phew! Thank the fang this is the right trail,” she said aloud. “Soon as I get my breath back, I’ll give Patchcoat a call.”

“You’ve done all the calling you’re going to do, traitor!” Lady Amber and ten squirrels dropped from the trees and stood blocking the vixen’s path, each with an arrow notched on a drawn bowstring.

Instinctively Fortunata knew her plans had gone badly astray. She cowered down with drooping ears.

“It was Patchcoat,” she whined. “I wasn’t going to harm the little ones. He forced me to go along with his wicked plans. He said that—”

“Silence, fox!”

Lady Amber dropped her bushy tail flat along the ground.

Ten bowstrings strained tighter.

The squirrel leader pointed an accusing paw at the trapped spy. “We knew who you were from the moment you entered these woods,” she rasped. “When you left Brockhall today I was only a treetop away from you. I heard every word that passed between you and Mask.”

Fortunata crouched low, trying to offer as small a target as possible.

“No, you’ve got it wrong, he’s Patchcoat the mercenary,” she argued. “I don’t know any creature called Mask. Wait, yes I do, there’s another fox named Mask. He lives over by Kotir—a real evil creature. He’s the one you want. I’ll take you to him.”