Chapter 161 Eight O’Clock

The Foxes’ manor glittered at the top of Gilded Hill, with lanterns shaped like sleeping foxes hanging in every window. Servants in copper masks lined the whole curving drive, bowing to Ganzo’s hammer as if it were an elderly relative.

"Chat, I am in the hedge beside the fountain, the hedge is judging me," Pipa whispered through the collar radio.

"Stay in the hedge, nobody at a Fox table has ever looked at a hedge."

Zinnia wore a gown the color of a struck match, her notebook hidden where no gentleman dared ask. Bruno marched on her other side in a tight velvet jacket, scowling at the doorman like a bull.

Ganzo hefted the hammer onto his shoulder, "Nobody mention the hammer tonight, it wants to feel welcome."

Servants collected coats at the door, sweeping a brass wand over every guest with a soft chirp each time. The wand reached Nilo’s bandolier and chirped three times, then fell into a puzzled silence like a stumped dog.

"Seats unreadable, the wand is confused again, please do not take it personally," the servant said.

"Everybody’s wand is confused by me, I’m used to it."

Bruno glared at the wand, "Mine called me a hazard to the carpet."

The great doors opened into a hall whose ceiling was tilted mirrors, so guests walked under upside-down copies of themselves. Nilo studied the glass above him, noticing that each reflection of Squad Nine lagged half a second behind its owner.

’Every reflection runs late, nobody else is looking up, so either they all know or they stopped caring.’

"I hate this ceiling, it has too many of me and none of them are brave," Jingles squeaked from the rack.

"Mirrors are listening," Zilch said.

Every Fox in the hall turned to stare at him, whispering behind painted fans shaped like little tails. Nilo gave them a small wave, sending three of the youngest ones ducking entirely behind their lace fans.

Aunt Marisol swept down the staircase with a hatbox, settling a velvet hat on his head before he could duck.

"It suits you, dear, much better than the last one," she announced, adjusting the brim.

"The last one had a bird on it."

She tapped his nose, "That bird was a masterpiece, you ran away from it."

Zinnia caught his sleeve while Marisol gathered the next hatbox, steering him toward the table with a hard tug. Her voice dropped to a murmur that only he could hear over the polite chatter of the whole hall.

"Eat nothing silver, touch nothing silver, tell me first if a candle moves."

"Define silver... the spoons look suspicious."

"Everything on the table is silver, that is the point of a Fox dinner."

A long table waited beneath the mirrors, set with silver tureens and one candle for every guest. Twelve Foxes in lace masks sat along one side, smiling like mourners at a funeral they planned.

Ganzo lowered the hammer onto a spare chair with great care while eleven Foxes fought the urge to comment.

"Sit, sit, the soup will not survive a speech," Master Lucan Aldermere called from the head of the table.

He was slim in a dove gray coat, with a smile so practiced it never once reached his actual eyes. Zinnia took the chair at his right hand without a flicker, her spine straight enough to hang a coat on.

"Father," she said, unfolding her napkin.

"Daughter, you look well, the gown fits."

She lifted her spoon with perfect poise, though her knuckles turned pale against the slender handle. Her father watched her with the quiet satisfaction of a man inspecting a freshly repaired clock.

"The soup is lovely, you must thank the cook," she said.

"I thank everyone, it keeps them afraid of me," he answered.

A servant ladled pale soup into the bowls, steam curling toward the mirrors like a held breath. Bruno sat directly beside the tureen and stared at it as if daring it to start something.

"Menacing near the soup, exactly as promised," Ganzo whispered, tucking a napkin into his collar.

"It is a Steelhorn tradition, Captain."

Down the table a Fox cousin leaned to whisper in his neighbor’s ear, glancing at Nilo’s cheeks for tears. Disappointment rippled slowly along the whole table of lace masks like wind through a field of golden autumn wheat.

"They expected tears, I believe we are a letdown," Bruno muttered into his bowl.

"A disappointed Fox is a quiet Fox, so enjoy the peace."

"Chat, the soup looks fancy, it looks like it has a lawyer," Pipa breathed from the hedge.

The Master tapped his glass once with a spoon, silencing the table in a single clear note. Every Fox turned toward him with the same smooth motion, like flowers following a sun they feared.

"A Fox table keeps one custom older than the Guild," he said, folding his hands, "the host asks three questions, the guest answers, nobody lies."

"Father, that custom ended with Grandfather."

"It was suspended, my dear, never ended."

’Three questions and nobody lies, I am going to lose a lot of points tonight.’

He lifted his spoon, "I am terrible at the not lying part, Master Aldermere."

"Then we begin with something easy... a matter of record, nothing more."

The Master rose and walked along the table, his footsteps echoing from the ceiling half a second late. Every candle on the table leaned toward him as he passed, the flames bending like small gold necks.

"In one month you met a Visage in a baker’s face, a puppeteer in a town of strings, a tailor with a basement of hooks," he said.

"You read our files, Master Aldermere?" he asked.

"I read everything, it is the only hobby a Fox is permitted."

’He knows exactly where we have been, so somebody is feeding him the Bureau’s files.’

He stopped behind his daughter’s chair, the candlelight sliding off his smile without leaving a mark.

"Which of you has already met my tailor?"

Bruno’s spoon froze halfway to his mouth, a single drop of soup trembling above the bowl. Across the table Aunt Marisol set down her fan, looking her age for the first time.

"Lucan, perhaps we might begin with the fish," she said faintly.

"The fish can wait, Marisol, the fish has waited twenty years."

Ganzo scratched his beard, "The only tailor I know is Mister Pocket, he hems trousers and has never hooked a person."

The rack went completely silent against his ribs, Jingles’s bell frozen mid-rattle as the question settled over the table. Nilo kept his face pleasant, the way a tired man holds a stuck door shut with his whole shoulder.

"Your tailor," he repeated, setting the spoon beside the bowl with deliberate care.

"The one who keeps my house in such lovely repair, the one I have never once introduced."

The Master reached out to straighten a candle, his embroidered sleeve cuff flaring bright silver in the flame. A thread of moonsilver ran along the stitching like a vein, brightening with every second the question hung.

"Chat, his sleeve is lit up like a—" Pipa began, then the radio dissolved into hissing static.

Every mirror in the ceiling went dark at the same instant, leaving only candlelight on the Foxes’ smiling faces.