“What?”
“Shh. I have to make sure no one can hear.” The fox jumps down, then runs to the corner of the building and looks around it.
“No one could understand you even if they heard.”
“Correction: No people could understand me. But there may be animals. Think about it. When you were on your way over there, did you see anything, a dog, perhaps, or a cat? The innkeeper has some really nosy cats.”
I think about it, then shake my head.
“Take one more look. But give me a cran-orange muffin first.”
“Okay, but only one.” I hand it to him, then take the bag with me. I walk around, as much to reassure myself that no one’s watching as to satisfy the fox. I haven’t let myself think about it, but now that I’m out, I wonder who trapped me there, who was watching. Will they do it again?
When I’ve looked under every bush and into every tree, I return to the fox, who has polished off the muffin and is licking his whiskers. “Enjoy it?”
“Yes! More! More!”
“After you help me.”
“Well, I shouldn’t. You haven’t proven yourself very trustworthy.”
“But . . .” I take a scone. It’s still warm from the oven, and I blow on it.
“Oh, okay.” The fox sits back on his haunches, eyes never leaving the scone. “But since you failed the first test, I need you to do something else. Now, instead of just staying in the motel, I want you to steal something for me.”
“Steal?”
The fox nods. “In the bar lives a golden bird, the bartender’s pride and joy. It sleeps by night in a golden cage, by day in one of wood. The bar is closed for three hours, from four in the morning until seven o’clock. The bar is locked, but the door is unsupervised, so a guest in the hotel could get in—particularly if he had a magic cloak.”
“But I don’t steal.” I think of the swans at the hotel, how Farnesworth loves them. Maybe this bird is like that for the bartender. I also think of the guys who could beat me up or worse. “I can’t.”
“Fine.” The fox turns away.
“Wait! There’s nothing else I could do?”
“Nothing. You already failed once. If you want the information to find the frog, I need that bird. I’m trying to help you, you and your poor mother. But no one ever said winning a princess was easy.”
The scone in my hand is cold now, and hard. “Are you going to kill the bird?”
“What if I was? Is a bird’s life worth a prince’s? But no. I won’t kill it. I just want to look at it.”
I think about that. It must really stink to be turned into a fox and have to eat garbage. Maybe the bird is a used-to-be too. “Is the bird a friend of yours?”
“What difference does it make? Do you want the information?”
I do. It doesn’t matter. If that’s the only way to get the frog, I’ll steal the bird. Sometimes you have to be a little less picky about things to get what you need.
“Okay,” I say.
“Atta boy. There’s only one thing you have to remember. The bird sleeps in a golden cage. His regular, wooden cage waits beside him for morning. Before you take him, you have to transfer him from one cage to another. If you don’t, the bird won’t go with you.”
“Wooden cage. Got it. But why?”
“It’s part of the test.”
I nod. I’m trying not to think about the part where I actually have to steal something from those scary bar guys.
“And give me that scone now.”
I do. I keep some muffins for myself and give him the rest of the bag. I start to walk away, leaving him feasting on a croissant, when his voice stops me. “Johnny?”
I turn back.
“What is your mother’s name?”
The question takes me by surprise, but I say, “Marie.”
The fox nods. “Pretty name.” He goes back to his scones.
I start toward the motel. It’s a long time before nightfall, a very long time. But I don’t want anything to mess me up today. The fox might not give me another chance. As I walk up the path to the motel, I see a frog. The frog! It looks right at me before hopping toward the bed-and-breakfast. I start to take a step toward it. It lingers there, staring at me.
No. It’s not real, and I need to ignore it. I turn my back and go to the door of the motel. To my relief, it opens. When I look out the door, the frog has vanished.
Chapter 20
I enter through the side door, a different door than the one that leads to the bar. Hopefully, a safer door. No one’s at the desk, so I wait. Nothing. After a few minutes, I ring the bell. I do it softly, so as not to enrage whatever disturbed individual might work in a place like this. Still nothing.
I sit on the floor (because there’s no chair) and wait. An hour later, I realize no one’s coming. I also realize I’m hungry. I’ve had nothing but muffins in the past day, and I gave the fox most of those. I hear rough laughter from the bar. My watch says ten a.m. Those guys get an early start. I smell something like food, and I need it bad. I’ll ask where the desk clerk is too.
I stand and walk to the bar entrance. It’s dark enough to look like night. I linger in the doorway, not wanting to go in. But what are they going to do? Beat me up? I’m a nice, polite person who never gets beat up.
The guys at the bar are the same ones from yesterday, and they’re wearing the same clothes. The golden bird, which looks like a canary, hangs over the bar, asleep in his wooden cage. I wait (politely) for the men to finish their conversation before I approach the bartender.
“Excuse me? I wondered if you had any food? I want to check in for the night too.”
“I got leftovers from yesterday I could warm up for you.” The bartender squints at me. “Hey, didn’t I see you out by my Dumpster before?”
“Leftovers will be fine,” I say, ignoring the other question, and also ignoring any nagging concern about what leftovers would be like in a place like this.
“Yeah, you was out there, talking to yourself.”
“Can you please get me that food?” I hand him a twenty. “Keep the change.”
“Ooh, big spender.” The bartender laughs but takes the money and turns to look at the refrigerator. “We just got a couple burgers.”
“Burgers are fine. Anything.”
I hear a noise outside, a motorcycle. It sounds familiar. Too familiar.
No, that’s just paranoid. I know nothing about motorcycles. Probably they all sound alike. Still, I look out the window.
A pair of broad, black-clad shoulders come into view. I turn real quick and duck behind the bar.
“Hey, what the . . .” The bartender stumbles over me.
“Please. I need you to hide me,” I whisper. “That guy wants to kill me.”
“What guy? What are you talking about? Get outta here.”
I hear a door slam, then hard footsteps. I’m a dead man.
I could use the cloak, but then the bartender would be on to me. I reach into my backpack and withdraw one of Victoriana’s hundreds. These are going faster than I’d like. I flip it up and show it to the bartender. He reaches for it. I pull it away, mouthing, “Later.”