She asked because it was a practical thing to ask at that moment, but also because the fox seemed different. Oddly subdued. His tone was tentative, almost depressed, and she was trying to figure out what was wrong. She wondered where he lived now. On the street?

I am a bit peckish, he said.

All right, said Bitterblue, realizing that she herself was ravenous, with that sudden, almost violent onset of the feeling common to a person who’s been recently underfed. She turned left. Is everything all right?

Certainly.

Oh, good. Do you know Quona Varana?

Yes.

Do you know about her seven secret foxes?

The fox didn’t respond at first, just scampered on ahead, trying to keep a low profile behind signposts and under counters. But he sent her a tired kind of uneasiness.

What is it? she said.

They’re my siblings, he said. Rascal, Rumpus, Lark, Pickle, Gladly, Genius, and Sophie. Sophie is short for Sophisticated.

Oh! she said. Your siblings! What a coincidence. That’s—nice, isn’t it?

She has more than seven secret foxes, the fox blurted out.

She does? said Bitterblue. How many?

I don’t even know, the fox said, almost wailing. She keeps them everywhere! At the academy, the Keep, the Cliff Farm, the Varanas’ airship hangars. And they’re all so obedient!

Goodness, said Bitterblue. She’s more of a force than I realized. Well. Is that such a bad thing, for them to be obedient?

Maybe it’s not a bad thing if your person isn’t a monster, the fox said gloomily. It’s a luxury I’ve never had.

I expect Quona is much more compassionate to foxes than Ferla Cavenda was, said Bitterblue sympathetically. And certainly more fun. You, my fox, have had to be a hero. That’s much harder.

There was a long pause, during which Bitterblue examined the street, bustling with shops and vendors and small, noisy children. It was quite a smelly place, really. Fishy.

Fox? she said, suddenly thinking of it. If your siblings have names, does that mean you have a name too?

Yes, he said.

What is it? May I call you by it?

There was a longer pause. My name is Adventure Fox, he said. Adventure, for short. My siblings call me Ad.

That’s an excellent name, said Bitterblue. Thank you.

This was followed by the longest pause of all. Then the fox spoke in an almost inaudible voice. I don’t deserve to be called by my name. I’m not a hero.

What? Whyever not?

Because I did something terrible.

She’d been right, then.

It was objectively terrible, he said. You’ll never think well of me again.