As if we’d found some common ground, the little fox slowly relaxed its grip on my forearm, its jaws shaking as if it were going against its better nature by releasing me. I stood, pressing my hand against the puncture marks in my skin, attempting to stem the flow of blood. The fox shot Kingfisher a wary look and darted under my skirts, hiding beneath the folds of the shifting fabric. “Oh, look,” Kingfisher observed.
