great,â she said, but he was already gone.
Moira left the cave after him. Outside, red fur gleaming in the sun, he looked like an ordinary fox, certainly quite beautiful, but not magical at all. Glancing past him to a wall of sturdy pines where a path ran between the two tallest trees, Moira whispered, âMaybe ⦠maybe we should just go for help. The police. The National Guard. The FBI.â
âYou cannot leave Trollholm without permission,â he told her, the words buzzing inside her head.
âWhat do you mean, âpermissionâ ? Thereâs a path.â She pointed. âIt must lead to somewhere.â
âIt leads to nowhere, human child. Look more closely. You must open yourself toââ
âTo the world of the impossible,â she interrupted, but nevertheless she leaned forward and stared at the path and the trees beyond. She saw now what she hadnât noticed before. The path was flat, as if badly drawn, and the trees it ran between were equally flat, unmoving, not fully realized. The whole was like a painting on canvas. Like the backdrop in a play or an opera. Sheâd been in the orchestra for enough stage performances to recognize them. They fooled the eye if the audience gave itself over to the sets. âBut howâ¦?â She knew before the fox told her. Magic .
Turning, she glared down at him, knowing what to say. âThen give me permission to go.â
He laughed that sharp barking laugh again, but this time she heard the pain underneath. âIt is not mine to give, child.â
Not his to give. That was when she understood. He needed her as much as she needed him. He was a prisoner here, too.
âThen first we get the princesses,â she told him. âAnd then we get the permission.â
âNo!â He shook his head and his silky red coat trembled with the movement. âFirst we get the fiddle. Once we have that, we can get the princesses, and thenâ¦â
She didnât believe him. How could she? Balance a fiddle against lives and lives win, every time. Though if it had been a Stradivarius or a Guarneri ⦠she knew some violinists who would make the same choice as the fox.
He smiled, showing his teeth. âWe have time yet to rescue your friends.â
Moira bent over and glared at him, hands on her hips, trying to intimidate him with her size. Alpha female. It worked with her dog. âIt may not seem such a big deal to a fox, â she said, âone who can have lots and lots of litters. â The way she said litters made it sound like garbage on the ground instead of baby foxes. âBut human girls are used to dating someone before making up their own minds about the boys, even before they get married. Soââ
He cut her short. âTrolls do not date. And they only marry on Friggaâs Day,â he said. âToday is Wodenâs Day.â
âWho is Frigga and why does she have a day?â
The fox bristled with impatience. âWhat do they teach human children these days about the gods?â Showing his teeth, he snarled, but the voice in Moiraâs head was clear. âHave you not heard about the old gods? Frigga was Wodenâs wife. Wodenâs Day is what you call Wednesday. Thorâs Day, Thursday. Friggaâs Day, Friday.â
âOh.â Moira nodded slowly. Theyâd studied that in fifth grade. So, since sheâd driven to the bridge after her regular Tuesday rehearsal and had slept overnight in the cave, this would be Wednesday, Wodenâs Day by Fossâ reckoning, which meant they had till Friday. His counting made sense if you believed in talking foxes and trolls. It made sense if you didnât have parents back in Minneapolis and St. Paul calling out the National Guard to look for them.
âWe need to go now, human child.â His words were gentle in her head but she could feel the steel beneath. She recognized it at once, having