The fox lifts its paw and steps back — one deliberate pace — then turns and moves up the narrow lane with the unhurried certainty of an animal that knows exactly where it is going. The girl scoops up her book and follows, the worn leather cool against her palms. Above, the crow keeps pace, hopping stone to stone along the top of the mossy wall, silver eyes fixed forward. The lane bends around a stand of elder scrub and the light shifts — not darker, but stilled, as though the air here has been held under glass for a long time. Where the lane meets a crossroads she didn't know existed, something has been left on the ground: a small pale object, motionless in the damp soil. The fox stops before it and sits, tail wrapped neatly around its feet, and waits.