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A small, black fox in a thick cloak moved through the torchlit streets of Dalmatia in the dead of night. Not an unusual sight, all things considered. Cloaked and unsavoury figures would usually come out after dark. The few scattered lanterns and torches provided little light, and in this part of town it was a precarious time to walk alone. To Kieran, however, the oppressive darkness in these streets suited him perfectly. The shadows turned him into some background character whom one wouldn't afford a second glance.

One might never stop to wonder why his footsteps were soundless, why his robe never seemed to rustle, why his movements were so graceful for someone who looked as down on his luck as he did. He wouldn't display his gold and ruby signet ring, which identified him as a royal assassin to those who knew, as well as anyone who had heard the rumours. If he smiled now, two golden fangs would glint in the weak light, betraying his beggar façade, but it would only grace his lips for one person in this world. His appearance was whatever he wanted others to see. That was just how he was trained. Anyone would be justified in thinking he was nobody. But they would be wrong.

The houses around him stood like cliffs, dark and seemingly abandoned. But from them came a mess of different smells, and to anyone who could pick these smells up, the houses appeared as riotous centres of social congregation. His scent blended in nicely with the smell of the crowded houses above him. Their sheer height was impressive to anyone walking the streets. They were huddled so close to the street, and the street was so narrow, that they seemed to touch at their peaks. Small balconies draped their exteriors, sometimes blocking out the light from the moon altogether.

A flicker of light got his attention. The clattering sounds of metal on metal and the sounds of voices could be heard. The night watch. They knew the fox, though only by his sliced ear, black coat, and the fox scent. They never managed to get close enough to exchange formalities, so Kieran had to baptize them himself, from what he knew of them. The two scents which were nearing the junction in front of him belonged to Beer-breath and Skunk. For once, the fox was thankful that this kingdom was full of people who didn't wash.

He aimed for the nearest doorway on his path, leaning against the door with his hood pulled down over his eyes. The two guards rounded a corner, and sure enough, a large brown bear with a pikestaff and a holstered flintlock, and a black and white skunk with a long musket on his back came down the street at a noisy saunter. They were conversing loud enough to wake the dead, let alone whoever might try to sleep tonight. The scent of skunk musk, strong and unapologetic, drifted into Kieran's nostrils and made him wince. Had they bathed, they might be able to detect and separate a trace of Kieran's familiar scent in the mess of smells permeating the air of these streets. But they neither smelled nor saw him.

As soon as they had passed, and their scents had drifted away, Kieran continued walking towards the end of the street. Though he usually delighted in antagonizing the guards, he didn't want to waste this night on these games. Walking along the narrow street, and into another one, just as narrow, he padded over gravel, cobblestone, and wooden planks spanning large puddles. The constant background scent of waste and filth hung like a blanket all across the poorer quarters. He was heading away from the smells. This city was a dirty place, sure, but there was one place where purity could be found.

He drew up to a shop front, outside of which he'd stood many times before. The red door bore the painting of a curious looking bread, tied in a knot, with white paint denoting the glazing. The door belonged to the famous pastry chef Don Lazzaro. Kieran had often desired, but never tasted his goods. He specialised in sweets and cakes particularly, and his price was insurmountable. No commoner could ever hope to taste the craft of Don Lazzaro. He enjoyed widespread fame in the court of Dalmatia, which had made him a very rich rat. He had become so enamoured with his status and wealth that he stopped selling his goods to anyone of lower birth, not even letting them inside his shop. Kieran was a squire by rank, but he was unlikely to ever be knighted, and thus he was barred all the same. No one in Dalmatia, especially Don Lazzaro, had any appreciation for the hard work of a royal assassin. Kieran was but another commoner to be shouted at and denied.

Many a time he'd pushed his black snout up against the glass of the pastry chef's red door in hopes of catching the faint scents inside. Enticing him, tempting him, mocking him. All the nobles god their share, and he got nothing. Not even his boyfriend, Kit, the personal valet of the Duke, had been afforded these sweets. They were far too precious for a couple of low-born servants. Poor helpless Kit. He was not like Kieran, he was a pure and pretty ermine weasel, well-groomed, well-spoken, and well behaved. A true gentleman's gentleman. Not a thief. No, this task fell to the fox. Kieran's whole career involved making problems go away. Tonight, his solutions were strapped to a leather belt on his thigh.

He drew back his cloak, and the faint lantern light fell on a brace of thin metal implements. They were good quality lockpicks made from fine, castle forged steel, and would never bend or break, even against the heaviest sprung locks. Thankfully, the castle blacksmith would happily accept Kieran's money without that inflated pride which Don Lazzaro had

The baker's door was merely made to keep out the wind and rain, its lock barely a formality to Kieran, a measly single-barrelled contrivance of barely sufficient strength to even hold the door shut. It never stood a chance.

He salivated at the thought of what lay on the other side, and when the sweet, warm air hit his nostrils, he all but drooled. He pulled greedily at the door, but before he could open it more than a foot, the hinges complained loudly. He hesitated. Considering how loud the night watch had been in passing just recently, there might be people still awake in the houses around him. He didn't dare to chance it. Sighing, he squeezed inside, aware that his scent spread onto the door and frame. Oh, well, he was just another fox stealing from another shop, and the world would keep turning.

Kieran looked around in the dark room he had just entered. He could see just as well in the dark as in the day. The only differences were the colours, which were washed out in greys and blacks. He felt slightly disappointed at the limitations of his eyes when he looked at the jars of hard sweets on the counter. They looked dull and monochrome, somehow not as enticing as when Kieran had seen them from the other side of the window. Even so, their sweet scents of fruits and sugar were unmistakeable.

Kieran took a pawfull, then another, slipping the candy into a canvas bag he had slung from his belt. He wanted so badly to pop just one in his mouth, but he shovelled them all into his bag, efficient and disciplined. The fox understood the value of setting and atmosphere, if nothing else. He would take his time and enjoy them properly, like how the lords and ladies would. He'd open a bottle of wine and share the night with his boyfriend, gorging like kings. He couldn't stop his tail from wagging.

Then he noticed a treasure. A beautiful cake stood under a glass covering on a table at the back of the shop. whipped cream, shimmering white against the darkness, covered half the cake, and the coal black of coloured marzipan covered the other half. A homage to the royal court and the Dalmatians in charge, no doubt. The base of the cake had strawberries and cherries carefully worked into the cream and marzipan. Kieran could not take his eyes away the immaculate piece of art before him. It was probably meant for some party the next day. Who would notice if it were to disappear? Among the sea of other treats the nobles could enjoy, it was no great loss. The thought of all those selfish lords and ladies frustrated and cake-less delighted him. This black and white masterpiece would be perfect for a black fox and a white weasel. Surely, they didn't deserve this treat. Over the course of his career, he had snuck, infiltrated, impersonated, threatened, bled, and killed in service of the crown. He was definitely in due for some cake.

Having convinced himself that this theft was justified, even noble, he lifted the glass casing. This burglary was no longer a piece of cake, it was the whole damned platter. Carrying the cake might severely hamper his getaway, but when he thought about Kit, he found the courage he required.

Suddenly, he heard a noise, and pressed low to the floor instinctively. The clattering of metal came from outside, and the guards were returning their rounds in reverse. But he had known that, they made the same rounds every night. He'd anticipated them and had planned to hide in the bakery, waiting for them to pass before returning the way he came. The noise he had heard came from inside the bakery. His good ear perked to pick up an unmistakeable creak. The creak of a bed which had contained a dormant rat, and now didn't. The stairs, which had been shrouded in darkness, suddenly acquired a faint, flickering glow. Another creak came, from the floorboards above his head this time. The fox realised there was no way he could hide in the little shop, especially not from its owner, not with his scent, growing more marked the more agitated he became. It distinguished itself from all the other scents in this part of town, as well as in this very shop. Foxes were particularly unwelcome in fine and respectable establishments such as this one.

The creaks shifted from the floorboards to the stairs, and the clattering outside grew louder. He had to act, quickly. There was only one way.

He gripped the cake platter tightly, shoved the door open with his hips, and ran into the dark streets. Behind him erupted the sharp and agitated voice of the venerable rat as it called for the nearby guards. The sounds of clattering breastplates sped up, and came towards him, but Kieran had already reached a brisk sprint. He could easily have outrun them on a normal night, but Beer-breath carried a pistol, Skunk carried a musket and he carried a cake. No matter how quick he could run, he couldn't run that quick. If Kieran was seen... well, He'd have to avoid being seen. It would be awfully silly to die for some cake.

He soon realised his pace was not quick enough. The rattling of the guard's armours drew nearer with every passing second. He escaped into another narrow side street, as narrow as the one he had come from. He had bought himself some time with his head start, but not enough.

The fox had an ace up his sleeve, however. A rare skill, honed to perfection over years of experience and practice. A skill which would allow him to escape with his life. Possibly even with the cake.

He scanned the walls of the houses quickly as he ran, and planned out his path of escape. There was a way out that he could see, it was just about doable. He jumped onto one of the nearby windowsills, lashing his tail to the side for balance, before kicking away from it, towards the opposite side of the street. As soon as he found purchase on the top of the windowsill of an opposing shop front, he kicked his powerful legs again. Back across the street he went, gaining more height still. He managed to land on the wrong side of a first-floor balcony railing, flipping the cake platter onto a single paw, as the other one grasped for the wrought iron rails. The cake wobbled precariously as he climbed onto, and then sprang from the banister, but it remained on its platter, even when the fox flew across the street yet again to gain the second story balcony opposite. He jumped from balcony to balcony, building to building, higher and higher. Around halfway to the top, he picked up faint voices below. His climb had gone slower than he'd anticipated. How easy it must be to spot him, and draw a bead on him, silhouetted as he was against the...

CRACK!

A bullet whizzed past his good ear, threatening to make him a no-eared fox. Now that Skunk and Beer-Breath had stopped running, they could fire at him without risk. Without risk to anyone but the fox, of course.

"Come down here, thief!" shouted Skunk through the puff of smoke he had released from his musket. "It's that one-eared fox again. Hey, come down now, and we won't not kill you!"

"We won't?"

"Quickly, shoot, you dumb brute!"

Skunk was reloading frantically, but not quick enough for a second shot. The bear beside him had taken aim with his pistol. Kieran leapt to the final balcony, and prepared to vault across the street for the last time to gain the roof.

CRACK!

The bullet sailed past, missing the fox by inches. Unfortunately, those very inches had been occupied by the canvas bag on his belt. His haul leaked out from a large hole in the bottom, and rained down onto the street below, clattering harmlessly against the helmets of his two pursuers.

"No! No-no-no-no," He groaned through gritted teeth. Every single one of the sweet-smelling little marbles had been lost. He still clung to the beautiful cake, however. There was still hope.

"Hah!" Beer-Breath laughed. "Got him."

"No, you didn't,"Skunk chided, "Unless you think he bleeds... What exactly? Sweets? Why on earth?"

Kieran was already on top of the roofs, his annoyance curtailed slightly when he realised the worst was over. The loss of the sweets stung, but he kept his focus on the real prize, which he'd somehow managed to keep intact. He could feel his excitement building. The guards were far gone now, he could make his way home. He ran along the roof to its edge, and sprung across the street to the next, and then across another street to the next. The tiles might as well be the paving stones of a well-travelled high road, considering how often he had run across them as a daily exercise routine. He pointed his muzzle at the city wall, and ran.

When he reached the edge of the city, he bounced across the last gap, and gained the broad walkway of the city wall with several feet to spare. He stood back for a moment to admire his effort. He went up to a nearby lit sconce on the wall, studying the cake in the torchlight. It was well shaped and pristine, not a single crumb or berry had fallen from its immaculate form. Kieran was good at what he did.

At its northernmost point, the city's surrounding wall was broken by a gatehouse, which stood opposite another gatehouse on the castle's outer wall. A drawbridge connected the two gatehouses across a shallow moat. The path was clear, he was almost home. He saw no flicker from the torches of patrolling guards. Then he found that he hadn't been as close as he'd first imagined.

The drawbridge had been raised while he'd been out. The gatekeepers had again done what made the least amount of sense. He had studied them for weeks, but never learned to interpret their random whims. All those lonely days of looking at the same spot must have made them quite eccentric. So much so that they had suspended a single, narrow rope bridge between the tops of the two gatehouses. Kieran was sure it existed mostly for the perverse and unfathomable pleasures of these strange guards, rather than any wall patrol. He hated this bridge. It was impossible for him to feel confident on the slippery wooden decking, regardless of how he dug his claws in, or planted his feet, or gripped with his paws. But there was no other way across, and he was ever so close. The smell of the cake was constantly goading him on. He stepped carefully onto the bridge.

Balancing his cake in one paw, he gripped the rope tightly as the bridge wobbled underneath him. When he'd gotten half ways across without any problem, he started to taste excitement on his tongue again. Then, it happened. A gust of wind blew unexpected from the east, and rocked the bridge suddenly. Kieran felt his footing slip, costing him what little that remained of his balance. He saw himself as in slow motion, teetering and staggering towards the edge. Instinctively, he grasped for the ropes to save himself. The cake flew into the air, where it seemed to hang, as if drifting gently on a breeze. Kieran could only look helplessly on as it plummeted away and into the moat. A small splash sealed its fate.

"NO!" Kieran cried, and the despair he felt was greater than he could have imagined. It had been the most beautiful, promising and evocatively potent thing he'd ever held in his paws with his clothes on. No protests would return that cake to him. His ear flicked down, and undiluted disappointment filled his thoughts. He had been so close. So close that he could have tasted it, and yet there was not a crumb to be had. It was as if the cake had never existed. If he'd just spilled a little, he might lick his paws of cream now. He had been too good at what he did.

He padded across the bridge, down the gatehouse stairs and through the courtyard, muttering and feeling sorry for himself. The porter let him inside the servants entrance, but he didn't exchange familiar nods tonight. He went through the kitchen without even thinking about skimming bacon for his supper. He didn't want supper. How could he go back to regular food again, after seeing that cake? He returned to his bedchamber, and curled up underneath his sheets.

The regret burned inside him long into the night. All he wanted was a little morsel, a tiny bite, Just the most minute piece of paradise that he could have to himself, was that so damned much to ask?

He woke up the next morning with a white weasel in his arms. Kit must have come in during the night, and wrapped himself around the little fox for warmth and comfort as he was wont to do. His presence softened the reality, as Kieran relived the last night's events. When he moved to get out of bed, he felt a warm paw around his wrist, and his boyfriend looked back at him with sleepy eyes. "Hold on, fox..."

"Really, Kit? Now?" Kieran asked. "I have to get going. Daily exercises, you know that. I'll be back in an hour if you still want to..." Kieran flashed his grin and winked knowingly to the weasel. Not unusual for them to share a moment together before their work began, and he wouldn't mind a pick-me-up after last night's events.

"Not what I meant, today is special. I'll fetch something," Kit murmured, crawling out of bed and draping a morning gown over his bright white fur. His short tail was wagging slightly, and he had a clever glint in his sleepy eyes. "There's something you have to see. A surprise."

Kieran sat back down on the mattress, looking questioningly at his boyfriend as the little weasel exited. The boy returned a little later, with one of the saddest looks Kieran could ever remember seeing on him. His tail didn't wag, his eyes didn't glimmer. His round ears were flat, and his whiskers drooped. He looked like he was about to cry.

"Kit!" Kieran exclaimed, rushing over to take the weasel in his arms, but he had a bad feeling about it all. There was something he was missing. "What's the matter, sweetheart. Did someone bother you?"

"Oh, it's terrible, Kieran. It's just awful."

"What's happened?"

"Oh, Kieran..." Kit said, sniffling. "It was meant to be a surprise."

"Is this the surprise? A sad weasel? That's not what I wanted." Kieran murmured, but Kit didn't smile at his feeble joke.

"No, I mean... Well... You see..." Kit hesitated, looking to his feet. "Some days ago, I asked His Grace to place an order for a cake from Don Lazzaro, the pastry chef, you know? I spent all my savings on it. But when I looked in the kitchens... Someone must have thought it belonged to a noble, and taken it. It's gone. I'm sorry, fox."

"F-for me?" Kieran swallowed. Suddenly he felt dizzy. He plunged down onto his mattress, still clutching the weasel, completely lost for words. He'd stolen that wonderful cake from his own boyfriend, regardless of his initial motive. Not only had he deprived the world of a nice and innocent cake, but he'd taken the excitement and anticipation from his nice and innocent weasel, replacing it with sadness. Now he held his victim on his lap, trying to comfort him. But he couldn't comfort himself.

"You always said you wanted to try something sweet," Kit murmured into Kieran's chest. "I felt bad, so I chanced to sneak something away from the kitchens." He dug around in a pocket and pulled out something colourful. "Happy anniversary, fox. Two years, huh?"

The weasel presented a few round, colourful shapes. Kieran understood how much this had meant to the weasel. If Kit was seen stealing, it would've been the end of his job as a prominent servant. Kieran felt like he deserved a kick to the stomach, not candy. He didn't dare to taint that sweetness with the bitter sting of guilt.

"You didn't have to," Kieran murmured ashamed. "It's the thought that counts, right?"

He couldn't bring himself to eat the sweets, so he pocketed them. Neither could he admit that he'd been the thief. Not like this, not on their anniversary. He would make it better again instead, whatever it took.

A few days later, he finally had the time. He made his way back to his crime scene. Passing through the red door, which still carried faint traces of his scent, he was met by a rat dressed in a white apron.

"Get out, boy. These pastries are for the castle. Nothing here is for sale, especially not to you," Don Lazzaro said, shaking a flour-covered fist at the fox. Kieran wasn't going anywhere. He'd brought the rat all the wealth he owned, almost half a year's worth of his wages. Even if had been enough, it was no guarantee of his compliance.

"My pardons sir, a moment of your time?" Kieran pleaded. He had his good ear splayed to the side, and put the money on the rat's counter. "I've come to make things right, and to apologize for..."

"You! That cake, it was you!" The rat shouted when Kieran's fox scent hit him. He rounded the bench and advanced on the little fox, rolling pin held high.

"Please don't, sir." Kieran winced, drawing his lip back and covering his face with his paws. An unsuitable reaction for a trained killer perhaps, but the rat stopped in his tracks.

Don Lazzaro's eyes travelled from the golden ruby signet ring on Kieran's paw to the two golden fangs in his muzzle. He looked the fox up and down, and chewed on his lip, restraining his angry tone. "I see... Speak on then, fox. Make it quick."

"Oh... The cake was meant for me. It was a gift from my b... from my partner," Kieran mumbled, "I came to pay for the damages, ask your forgiveness, and to beg you to make that cake again."

"You should be glad I don't call the guards," Don Lazzaro said, waving his money away.

"Don't do that, please, I want to make it up to you." He looked hesitantly to the rat. Would he have to beg? Should he get on his knees on this surprisingly dirty floor?

"Do you know how to make a cake, fox?"

"N-no sir, that's why I'm..."

"Then you can't make it up to me," The rat said and turned his back to him. "The ingredients have already been consumed, the labour undertaken, and the artistry expended and exhausted. I will not make a cake twice."

"No... no-no-no, Please." Kieran pleaded, with a thin, cracking voice. "I'll... I'll clean your shop, I'll wash your pots and pans, I'll do whatever you want. Please make that cake again, I beg you."

The rat scratched his chin, and looked meaningfully to a bucket and broom in the corner. He looked back to Kieran, who was kneeling before him.

"You mean to say that you..." The rat gestured at Kieran's ring. "You would clean the entire establishment of Don Lazzaro? You would willingly spare Don Lazzaro of that burden?"

"I have scrubbed floors before," Kieran said. He would happily clean for the rest of his career, if it would bring a smile back to his weasel. Don Lazzaro seemed to hesitate.

"I don't bake just for gold. I have higher callings... But, the world is owed another Don Lazzaro cake. I'll take your money for the inconvenience you have caused me already. You will take the broom and the sponge, and make yourself useful." The rat waved his paw at the broom and bucket in the corner.

Kieran got to work, scrubbing every single floorboard with practiced care. He cleaned every surface carefully, and took care of all of Don Lazzaro's dishes, pots and pans. He moved on to the rat's private quarters where he scrubbed the floors and cleaned the windows. The work was tough and dirty, and not suitable for a royal assassin, but it was just what Kieran felt he deserved. With every brush of the broom and scrub of the sponge, he felt his guilt dissipate and his hope rekindled. Come afternoon, Kieran's fur was matted with dough and dust, and drenched in soap and water.

"I suppose there's nothing more to wash but for yourself, fox. You've done well today. I wish more of your kin were like that." Don Lazzaro brushed flour from his paws as he pushed the cake mould into the oven.

"Does that mean you're satisfied?"

"I'd have been more satisfied if you'd not stolen from me in the first place," The rat mumbled, but he wasn't angry anymore. "But it is commendable that you came back to repent for your sins against the world, God and Don Lazzaro. I'll remember you, fox, I might allow you to buy a Don Lazzaro cake someday."

"I'll have to save up, sir," Kieran mumbled with poorly disguised shame. "Maybe next year. Thankyou."

As Kieran was picking clumps of dough from his fur, the cake came out of the oven. It's heavenly aroma filled the kitchen and threatened to put a smile on his muzzle. Don Lazzaro filled the cooling cake with sweet jam. He spread whipped cream across it to create a white canvas, onto which he scattered blackberries to cover half the cake. Though it was slanted and uneven, it looked like its predecessor. It was the most precious cake the fox had seen yet.

"Just one more thing, fox, before you take this cake." Don Lazzaro said and held out a finger to Kieran's muzzle, speaking in a low tone. "This is the only cake that could be made on such short notice. A true Don Lazzaro cake takes days to craft. This one is hastily made, and though it will taste of heaven, it is not a Don Lazzaro cake. Understand?"

"I promise sir, not a single soul will see this cake," Kieran lied.

The weasel was out when Kieran found his way back to the room. He deposited the cake on his low table. He put out plates for them both, lit a candle, and poured two cups of claret from the bottle he'd been saving. The weasel would be back soon and there was going to be quite a surprise in store for him. Kieran could hardly contain himself. Seated on a chair by the table, he wagged his tail rapidly against the chair legs and licked his lips incessantly, never for a moment removing his attention from his treasure.

His concentration was interrupted when a creak came from his door. Kit entered the room, tail first. It was wagging.

"Kieran, guess what?" Kit asked over his shoulder, he was holding something in his paws. "His grace consented to replace the stolen cake. It arrived this morning, but you were out, so I..."

Their eyes met as Kit turned. For a moment they could only stand there staring at each other. Both equally speechless. Kit's eyes travelled from the fox to the black and white cake on the table, and Kieran's eyes found another cake in the weasel's paws, almost identical to the one he'd lost. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but there was no doubt. There were two cakes in the room. Kit smiled, and Kieran answered with his own.

"Happy anniversary, dear."