The girl pushes through the back door into cool, grey air. The paw prints continue beyond the ash — small, precise impressions in damp soil, trailing along the back wall and through a gap in a low hedge. She follows, book tucked under one arm, the faint rosemary smell still clinging to her memory. Behind her, the crow shifts its weight on the eave but she doesn't turn. The prints lead through the hedge into a narrow lane edged with tall grass and, further along, a woodpile stacked against a mossy stone wall. There, in the shadow between the logs, two amber eyes catch the pale light. A small fox — rust-orange fur, white-tipped tail curled tight against itself — watches her without moving, the same careful stillness as the crow still watching from the roof.