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Prompt: Behind the Lights
Maturity Warning: Appeals to the child in all of us
The Foxxfyrre Chronicles Episode Six
Dinner possessed the kind of hearty, rural quality that was sorely missing from the polished dining rooms of London. It also provided a few answers, which naturally only spawned more questions.
Now, they sat in that familiar, heavy silence that descends when a meal is finished, but an uncomfortable topic remains entirely unaddressed. Rennie successfully avoided the hovering issue by ordering a warmed snifter of Grand Marnier. Foxxfyrre offered a nod of approval at the wallaby's choice of after-dinner libation, though he abstained himself, ordering a pot of hot black tea.
Yet, the unacknowledged variable remained suspended in the warm tavern air.
The sleeping arrangements.
Upon checking in, there had only been one room available, furnished with a single three-quarter bed. A perfectly cozy arrangement for a married couple, but for a stoic fox and a kinetic wallaby? Not a structurally sound equation. So, the topic remained hanging.
They finished their nightcaps in quiet mutual understanding, then made their way upstairs.
Like the pub below, the room was quaint, adorned with landscape paintings of the island’s moors and coastline. And like every building they had encountered in the village, the architecture was undeniably ancient yet showed absolutely no signs of natural wear and tear.
Rennie let out a breath of relief, spotting a large, overstuffed wingback chair with a matching ottoman. "I'll take the chair tonight, mate."
"Don't be absurd, take the bed," Foxxfyrre replied smoothly. "I shall be more than comfortable curling up by the hearth. The ambient heat is an excellent catalyst for a mana reset."
Foxxfyrre carefully withdrew the brass cylinder and the charcoal rubbings from the Cantus Sirenum, placing them on a side table. He then turned his analytical gaze to the room itself, specifically studying the brushstrokes on one of the landscapes.
"Do you mind if I open the window for a bit? It feels a little stuffy in here," Rennie asked.
Foxxfyrre gave a distracted nod of approval, his focus locked on the canvas.
Rennie threw open the heavy wooden shutters, taking a deep breath of the island air—fresh, heavily salted, and carrying the sharp chill of early evening. He glanced down at the cobblestones below. "Foxx, aren't those those two st—"
A blur of motion. Rennie instinctively threw himself backward as a small projectile hissed past his ear, embedding itself deep into the plaster wall behind him.
Foxxfyrre was instantly at the window, standing beside the recovering wallaby, scanning the street below.
Two stoats stood under the amber glow of a gaslight directly across the way, looking up at their window. They made zero effort to conceal themselves. A third stoat emerged from the direction of the Inn's entrance, joining the pair.
"We're being surveilled," Foxxfyrre noted, his voice perfectly level, "but evidently not discreetly."
"So now they just want to kill us," Rennie breathed, dusting off his vest.
"I don't think so, Rennie. Warn us away, perhaps. But kill? Surely not. Yet."
"Those are some reassuring words, mate."
Foxxfyrre stepped away from the window and approached the wall, pulling the projectile free. It was a small, feathered dart. Rolled tightly around the shaft was a scrap of parchment.
He unfurled it. "It simply says: 'Be forewarned. Death lurks behind the lights.'"
"And what do you suppose that means? Really?" Rennie asked, his ears swiveling.
Before Foxxfyrre could process the metaphor, a soft scuff drew his attention to the floor. A crisp envelope had just been slid under their locked door.
Foxxfyrre picked it up, walked back to the window, and held the envelope up so it caught the gaslight from the street.
Below, the three stoats looked up at him, turned to each other, gave a synchronized nod, and scattered into the island fog.
"Only messengers, Rennie. They were only messengers."
"Then why would they try to shoot me with a dart?" Rennie demanded.
"They didn't shoot that dart. And no one was trying to shoot you."
"If they didn't shoot it, then who did?"
"I am not entirely certain," Foxxfyrre said, his glowing blue eyes calculating the geometry of the room. He raised his hand and pointed his purple, mana-whisped finger to where the dart struck the wall and traced the path in reverse. "But based on the trajectory and the angle at which the dart struck the plaster, it originated from the second-floor window of the mercantile across the street."
Foxxfyrre turned his attention back to the envelope, breaking the wax seal. He slid out the heavy stationary and read the elegant script.
It was an invitation for both of them to attend dinner tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. It was to be held at the residence of the mayor of the Weeping Hollows.
And it was signed simply: Mayor Huxelley.
