The girl crouches slowly, one knee pressing into the damp ground. The fox holds perfectly still. She draws the leather-bound book from under her arm — holds it a moment, feeling the worn cover — then sets it flat on the soil and slides it gently forward. It skids to a stop halfway between them. The fox's amber eyes drop to it, then rise back to her face. A long silence. Then it steps from the shadow between the logs, one careful paw at a time, and lowers its nose until it nearly brushes the cover. It doesn't open the book. It presses one small pad flat against the leather and stays there, as if listening through its feet. When it looks up again, something in the amber eyes has shifted — sharper, less watchful, more deliberate. Above her, the crow lifts from the eave and arcs overhead, landing on the far stone wall with a quiet click of talons.