With the last letter finished, my dear, I was left to contemplate our difficult situation. Here we were trapped by and with deceivers, one infatuated with cruelty and the other with himself. As William surmised, both were superior to him in their arts, for when he tried to play their game he failed. He had even risked his life in those woods, but we were no closer to a solution than we had been during our first night in Baden.

 

Dressing myself and tidying up the room (I could not wait for a maid, the place was so intolerable), I thought hard on how to best deal with this challenge. Though I am loath to admit it even now, I considered how my father would handle two such foes. He often dealt with devils, after all, and did so masterfully.

 

I was thinking on a meeting he once had with a particular minister when there was a little rap at the door. 

 

“Yes?” I asked, “Who is it?”

 

“Your host,” came the response with French accent and high tones. I opened the door and saw again the shop-owner, rescuing spirit, and Lord of Baden with his red hair and smiles. The Fox was smaller than I remembered.

 

“Good afternoon,” I said, “How may I help you?”

 

“Ah, mon invite, how good to see you well,” Reynard’s tone was friendly, his expression open and kind – he was plainly an excellent actor. “I don’t suppose William is in?”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t where he is, but you are more the welcome to wait.” Reynard looked past me to the shambles of our room.

1