My spine stiffens; I exhale through a grin I can’t quite suppress.

“Dr D”—that’s one of the boys, then. But the voice continues, and I catch the gravel beneath the mischief, the particular cadence that only decades, and heaps of rye, can build into a throat.

Not Bartley. Nor any of the siblings.

The old Fox himself.

“Well, ‘ello, me darlin’ Elena. Thought you could scarper by, did ya? Two days in the manor and not a sniff nor a bell, eh? Wot’s the world comin’ to, love?”

Still half-wrapped in my coat, months of mountains and myth clinging to my clothes, I sink against the counter. Laughter climbs up my throat. London’s chill seems softer—a warmth blooming behind my ribs at the sound of him.

“Roger Boswell,” I say, savoring the syllables. “Only you would break into my flat with a burner just to avoid leaving a voicemail. Why not a pigeon and a pint of gin, like old times?”

“Because pigeons ain’t shiftin’ three dozen favours, luv. Need to clap eyes on ya, en’t I? Pub, couple hours. You owe me the tale of a lifetime—‘less you fancy Bartley knockin’ round wiv flowers, messin’ up your good name.”

I roll my eyes. “Tell your son if he tries, I’ll publish those baby photos he sent to my phone. See you soon, Fox.”

The line goes dead, but the kitchen feels less empty.

Even after everything. myth, exile, wolf-shadow: Roger’s call brings me back to the world with that breakneck love and loyalty only forged through time and battle.

---

Flashback: London, 20 Years Ago

A rain-spattered afternoon outside a makeshift car auction—I’m not yet streetwise, hunched over the bonnet of a battered Volvo, my brow knotted in suspicion. Roger Boswell, then in his prime—sharp-suited, hands heavy with rings, every inch the unrepentant South London operator—sidles up behind me.

“You don’ want that one, professor. Gearbox is all spit n’ hope, ‘tis. Anyways, the geezer floggin’ it still owes me a ring from some wedding, can you Adam and Eve it?”

I glare, half-amused, half-guarded. “You a dealer or a prophet?”

He grins—foxy, generous. “Bit o’ both, innit. If you’re after wheels that run sweet as ya reckon, swing by Kingsland Road. Drop the word the Old Fox sent ya—gets things moving, quick sharp.”

Later, I’ll laugh at my own bravado, but that night I do as he says. By midnight, I’m the owner of a purring little Mini, and Roger starts calling me “darlin” with the affectionate menace reserved for family. It’s the beginning of a strange, beautiful friendship: my mind, his favourite mystery; his world, my unexpected sanctuary.

In the years that follow, we share laughter in smoky pubs, duck cop cars on foggy roads, and trade favours as casually as cigarettes. He proposes three times, each time in public, each time half a joke—but I never say yes, and he never seems quite disappointed.

---

Back in the present, I straighten, heart thumping, thoughts swirling: Dacian mountain winds tangled with London’s earthy magic. I set my groceries on the shelf and steal one last glance out the window. The SUV is gone.

I let myself smile—a rare, wide thing. London’s foxes and wolves might roam different terrain, but both know the scent of me when they find it. And tonight, for the first time in a long season, I’m glad to be hunted.

I.Ph.