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I take a deep sip from the aromatic drink beside me; a fine roasted tea from the east. Unsweetened. Saturated with herbs. This tea shop is a haunt of mine, and they know my preferences. As does the friend across the table from me.

The fox leans forward with an interested look to him. His eyes are young and friendly. And sad beyond words. As true a friend as I could ever wish for, he's been by my side throughout. It's time I told him how I found my love.

"Monday, a good while back, I spent my evening with Rickard Cavendish, from the Glensdale Cavendishes. Long line of prong horned sheriffs and tax collectors."

The fox offers me his most concentrated expression, prevalent on foxes presented with a conundrum of class and society. He shakes his head after a while.

"I don't suppose you've met him. A buck of the liturgical bent. Sings in a choir, and very sweetly indeed. A perfectly maintained voice to go with his striking red and brown coat, which he delights in grooming. After his latest shedding, I told him his smooth, un-antlered head looks as beautiful as any doe. He did not appreciate my observation."

The fox chuckles at that. Though he is ever so dear to me, I cannot join in. Today, it is difficult for me to laugh.

"The buck lashed out at me when I commented upon his vocal exercises. His neck could bear scrutiny as well as it bore his crown, however, and soon, I had the truth of him. His father didn't approve of his choir, or his grooming, and had told him that one such as he was never meant to carry the crown antlers; the magnificent fourteen points of his father's coat of arms. Shame drove dear young Cavendish into my bed, it would seem. Anything to upset his father. Boy, did he sing then."

The fox wonders why I'm telling all this? Where, he asks, is the significance in another one of my many excursions into another gentleman's bed? He's heard enough of those stories. I silence him with a gentle paw and remind him that I'm getting around to cover that subject. He wanted the truth, and by god, the truth is what I'll impart, and nothing less. I take another sip of my tea cup to wet my tongue, before carrying on with my tale.

"With a little enticement, I could make Cavendish assume the role society had thrust upon him --the commanding one-- if only for a night. Could he bear the weight of the crown he would once carry, and walk straighter? If he felt what it was like to be in charge, as he had so rarely felt under his father's dynasty? I let him conquer me as I had conquered him, but I refused his pleas for me to remain, as I've refused the others before him. Cavendish is a vain, air headed fool who holds too high an opinion of himself. I couldn't love someone who would bend so easily to his own vanity. When his antlers finally do come in next summer, and he shows them off with his newfound confidence, his friends will think he's become a true crown stag. Know this, if you meet him, that it is but an outward show."

My companion's charming black ears cup towards me in the most direct and unseemly manner. A likely question about my taxes follow. A lesser man might baulk at such. But I'm born of a proud line of barons under the crown of the greatest empire the world has ever seen. I should stand firm through any strife. Some days that's not so easy though. But alas, I promised the fox a truthful tale, and that is what he shall have.

"On Tuesday, I enjoyed the company of the young monsieur Baron d'Avigny, of the mink persuasion."

My friend proclaims that he has met a M d'Avigny. He asks if we're thinking of the same gentleman.

"Soft round ears and a gentle and elegant rake to his muzzle, you'd know the one I'm referring to, I'm sure. The one with that gorgeous ermine coat. I initially considered us a good pairing, if only for our matching white coats, though his is more elegant and purer of hue than mine. I'm ashamed to admit as much. These curls on my humble poodle head simply cannot shine like M d'Avigny. I know you often tell me not to be seen with any of my conquests. But I wouldn't usually dare to approach the venerable M, even at one of my own parties, lest he outshone me in front of all my friends and embarrassed me. He and I might be of the same social standing, but we were not the same. He had no love for dogs. There was no question. I had to have him."

Why could I not settle for M d'Avigny, the fox asks, surely a perfect match. I cannot help but scoff lightly at his ignorance. His theories of attraction are strange. Intriguing, and curious. A gentleman of the colonies, he prefers more than one partner, but not as normal people; with a casual ménage à trois. He loves them as if they were equal consorts. Paramours, my friend prefers to call them. Which is why he finds my behaviour so strange. I vow that it is he who is the strange one. A fox in a tea shop, who would've thought? Though I am intrigued by his lifestyle, I cannot let it distract me from the tale. I must continue.

"We jawed for a while, and the talk grew passionate and fierce. I have seldom exchanged words with anyone in quite such an aggravated manner. I found myself deeply moved. After the third bottle of red, I could finally stop his sharp tongue with a mortal thrust from my own. A direct hit, for which he had no more parries. He tasted of sweet victory, and his soft fur yielded in the most pleasing way underneath my paws. Our talk had built a desire in me. I conquered him twice in quick succession. When our lovemaking had concluded, he rolled over on his back, defeated. I saw what mess I had made. I had blunted his sharp tongue and cooled his boiling blood. Conquest had truly rendered him mine. The fire which had driven me into his bed was all but snuffed out. He meekly asked if I wanted to share his bed for the night. I knew I wouldn't find the same mink the next morning."

The fox's head tilts curiously. What has this all to do with the story he asked for? A fox of immediate gratification, he is. Short sighted. To truly understand how I found my love; one must understand the journey I undertook to reach him, no matter how long it might take. It's important to me that I tell the whole story.

"On Wednesday I persuaded our mutual friend, Percival Carr, to come to my home. You remember Percy, son of the great explorer and lord of the admiralty, Sir Rainier Carr?"

My friend nods and smiles. Percy is a friend to us both, and the fox knows him well. I believe they served together in some conflict or other. It matters not, this story takes place before that. I try to smile back, and let the story unfold.

"Anyways, where was I? Oh yes. In his company that day, his talk revolved mostly around his father. It grew somewhat grating, so I asked him -- in my own words -- whether "exploring" was hereditary. One develops one's own sense of humour when one is brought up an only pup. Percy had not explored as I hinted at, though his sights had long been aimed askew from the ship's heading, so to speak."

At this point my companion asks me not unkindly to refrain from the exploration analogies. It is a gentleman's duty to accommodate the company he keeps, and never baulk, even if it means removing all the life from my tale.

"Percy desired his own apartment. But he needed money, the poor dear. His father was a miser. If only I could grace him with my patronage."

My companion shakes his head, his ears flicking down as he does. He dislikes the old profession. I sometimes forget that he comes from a land where people are still sold as chattel. I put a reassuring paw over his.

"I am not unfamiliar with prostitutes, as you well know, but I always pay them well and treat them kindly. You shouldn't worry. Percy wanted it. He suggested all by himself by which method he could reimburse my patronage, before I could broach the subject. Being the kind patron that I am, I put his muzzle to use, once I could distract his tongue from the subject of his father. Judging by the glint in his eyes, my 'payment' might have been enough to satisfy him alone. He has the faculties to follow his father into the world of politics, no doubt. Additionally, he has the sort of figure one relishes to see leaving. I did, after he'd lightened my coin purse, so to speak. I told my valet to stop him at the threshold if he came back. I could not let him grow attached. He is a picture, when all is said and done, not a painting. Like the great, distant deserts and mountain ranges his father might once have seen, once explored, then conquered, and from there on avoided at all costs.

My friend cannot stand the roasted variant of tea which I enjoy, so a cup of hot chocolate serves him. He pays only in gold, and whenever a fox serves him, he begs the server keep the change. A dualist, if ever I saw one. A squire with the raiment of a lord's steward, the easy smile of a commoner, the threatening air of a soldier, and more gold about his paws, his purse, and even in his muzzle than any lord might be seen with. He tells me he's tired of disguises, so he wears what he likes, and fashion be damned. He's bold, like I was once. Doesn't hide his intentions from the world. When my tea arrives, I continue my tale.

"Thursday, I sought my luck in the household of another member of parliament, the serjeant-at-arms, or more specifically his son, who had the house to himself that evening. A pointer named Daniel Darling-May... the younger."

There was once someone, long ago, who would've smiled at that. The fox is not impressed however, and I should know better than to boast to him.

"At twenty, Daniel was the youngest of all my conquests. A fellow canine, his compliance towards me was unique; We knew what we wanted without prompt. Though only five years separate us, his vigour makes me feel as though I'm halfway to the grave. He's not just a dog, but a hound, with a voracious appetite for crème de poodle.

My companion rolls his eyes at that. He's blunt, this one, but I'd take his bluntness over him being sharp with me. Especially today. I've been subject to his sharp tongue before, and unlike other foxes' tongues I've had, his was decidedly uncomfortable. But he is kind, and the bluntness is round and soft, and quite surmountable.

"The poor dear wanted it so badly, it'd be rude to refuse him. He reminded me of a blank canvas, bursting with potential. Equally receptive of any colour or hue, ready to be transformed in any way I see fit. Should I desire a ride, there was my steed. Should I desire to mount up, there was my saddle. Should I desire comfort, there was my friend. A semblance of one, at least."

The fox cannot understand my feelings on this, so I don't elaborate them too closely. No pack instinct, these foxes. He can only understand my encounters in terms of love and companionship. In his eyes, all my encounters are failures but one. When he and I first met, I figured him sentimental. I'm not so sure he was all that wrong, now. And by god, he's not soft. His heart is locked in a cage hewn from black iron. I know it's not easy for him to hand the key over.

"I've partitioned out my affection sparingly among my conquests. But Daniel was different. I couldn't resist lavishing my love upon him. In great quantities, on his muzzle and cheek."

My friend threatens to leave if I don't furnish him with some reason for my ribald tale. The humour is but a brace for my tale, a crutch which I lean upon. I ask kindly that he forgive my tangents.

"There wasn't any love in Daniel's eyes, however. Only desire. If love could satisfy him, he might've been mine. An aimless young hound, scouring the gentry for tractable young men. We were alike, no doubt. Too alike. I saw what I hated in myself in him. The heartless conquistador, plundering and ravaging, and leaving naught of value behind. I waited until he slept, and stepped out of his window; an exit most of his visitors made use of. He is on his own path now. I am past that point in my life."

The Fox mistrusts my redemption because I used to share prostitutes with my husband, I can tell. Yet another thing he cannot understand. But his desire to learn is honest. A single flick from his ears informs me that he didn't wish to offend. He wants to scratch the scar tissue on his right one, a wound from some conflict or other, but his first paramour has broken him of the habit. How I wish that one was with him today. His paramour is altogether gentler and softer than he. Not hewn from strife. The other one is a treasure too. Joy and life made in the shape of a fox, a red one. Not like my friend here, with his coat black as sin. Something of a sweetheart, that red, whom I know well. But my friend's vision is clouded by the history we share. The poodle he knows never needed anyone to lean on.

"On Friday, I led a sheep astray. A ram to be specific. Father Clarence Nightfield is known for his heated sermons. The more he condemns his flock for their sin and vice, the deeper he sinks into his own. I can't say I cared much for the ropes at first. But my title is granted by the grace of god, same as my peers, and I am but a servant. It is my god given task to unlock that part of a man's heart which lets him truly love himself as the lord made him."

A smile breaks out on the fox's muzzle. He hasn't forgotten. It was I who brought him and his second together. But I must focus on this story, and cannot break off to reminisce of his joy.

"Celibacy was just a word to Father Nightfield. Since there could be no offspring from our union, no matter how enthusiastic his attempts, he would be safe from scrutiny. He knew words and deeds which no man of god ought to know. But as the night turned to dawn, I left him there all the same. Our meetings in the church could be likened to his sermons. One day in a week is quite enough. I can never be bound by desire alone, not even the fierce fire which burned within this ram. It was the flames of hell; Clarence was bound by the shame his god demanded. He could never love someone as drenched in sin as himself."

There's a light in the fox's eyes. I used to spend hours wondering why it was so dim, back in the days before I knew what he'd seen. But when I inform him that I've reached the sweet meat of the tale, he lights up again. As if the memory I curate grants him hope, too. Or perhaps it stems from the unbidden smile which breaks out on my muzzle as the memories return. Clear as they ever were. I thank the lord they have not gone to dust yet.

"On Saturday, I retreated to my accustomed hotel in the city, where I usually spend my weekends, cooling off and entertaining my own whims. I had made a conquest of one gentleman or another in every room here but one. The topmost apartment was currently inhabited by Laird McAllison, down south for a meeting of the minds at his club."

I inform the fox that if he will not cease to interrupt me, I will not say another word to him. That stops his muzzle. It'll remain as stopped as a bottle of champagne falling from a tower naturally. It's one of his many charms, which endears him to me more than I care to admit. But for a while, I have peace. Peace to draw another breath, take another sip, and reminisce one more time.

"He was an old skunk. However, he kept with him, close to his side, his charming nephew Douglas. An aspiring gentleman, a year or two my junior, come south to learn the ways of high society. As I caught sight of his beautifully maintained coat, my interest was piqued. I realised, having overheard some conversation of theirs, that blood was one of the very few, if not the only thing the two skunks had in common. Then there were those eyes, you know?"

The fox does know. He used to admire those eyes, same as I. His muzzle moves, but nothing comes out but a sigh. It is with difficulty that I carry on.

"Two shimmering sapphires, unlike any I'd ever seen, cut smooth as marbles. I could only imagine the passion behind them; I knew it was there as sure as I knew my own name. Before I could so much as open my muzzle however, the older Laird commented, loud enough that I could not fail to hear, that such rabble as I was should be avoided at all costs. Lest my sin transmit somehow, I don't know. I despaired, but I swore I could see the young skunk doubt his uncle's words. I was of a lower birth than him, and of a lower standing by far. To him, and certainly to his uncle, I was nobody. But there was something about him. A desire to resist the northern Laird, even as he was forbidden to. The demure look he gave me was as sweet as anything and promising besides. I had to have him; any means necessary. With passion clouding my mind, I snuck out, waited for them, and followed the pair to Laird McAllison's club. I managed to talk my way inside and found the old skunk in the smoking room. A smattering of keen ears around him forced him to allow my approach, unhindered by his contentious opinions. I introduced myself to him. He didn't fail to recognize the name, and he made no attempts to mask his prejudices towards me."

The fox remarks, not unkindly, that what I have suffered can barely be called prejudice. He cannot know what it means to be excluded from the only society one such as I am allowed to keep. My rank disallows me to associate with ninety-nine in a hundred, and the last one percent despise me. My name is dirt, and it's all I've got. Lands? Enterprise? Ships? As hollow as the friendships I once curated. Barons cannot find themselves a brotherhood of the kindred downtrodden. Would that I were a fox.

"I reasoned, eloquently I thought, that someone as depraved as the subject of those rumours would not be able to stand tall and straight backed in the company of a true and fine laird such as himself. Of course, he fell for this appeal to vanity. With my past conquests fresh in my memory, I could see the skunk for what he was, and play to his vices accordingly. Would he be greedy too? I offered an invitation to him, one which I had myself received to a party at Duke Gainsborough's estate. I deceived him to understand that the invitation was only for one, and that he needs must leave his nephew behind in his apartment. His duties as a guardian all but forgotten, he practically salivated at the prospect."

You must believe me, I tell the fox, these lies were in service of good. I strive for that which is right, when all is said and done.

"I called for the concierge when I arrived back at the hotel, and requested the company of the soon to be prodigal nephew. He was a marvel to look at. His fine shirt and waistcoat went well with his black and white fur, brushed to perfection. His scent in particular was remarkable. Hidden under the most masterful application of perfumes. Coquettish. Inviting me to search for and discover it. I was intrigued, but lost myself in his eyes, and his conversation. It quickly dawned on me just how much of a treasure he was. We convened in his uncle's apartment, where I bestowed more of my famous company upon him. I did everything I could to present myself in an honest and amiable way."

The fox comments that I'd ought to choose one or the other. I wish I could retort in the same coin, but the ache in my heart has claimed my wit. He ought to take this more seriously. I ought to, too. But it is joyful and sad, and I cannot bring myself to make light of it as I'm recounting it.

"Douglas found my company very enjoyable; the smile which grazed his muzzle found no difficulty staying there, nor transmitting across to mine own. With the aid of his uncle's collection of whisky and bourbon, which the miserable old skunk was otherwise loathed to share, he confessed to me his deepest secret. Even had it not been for his shy glances, the way his eyes wandered when he thought I wasn't looking, or the way his tail would gently touch against mine, I'd still have guessed. I could smell his affection. Not just the layers of perfume, which I was sure had been applied just for me. Underneath them lurked that scent no perfume can truly hide. He was bathed in a new light then; I was emboldened enough to consider what I had before me. He was humble, unlike Cavendish. Headstrong and determined, unlike D'Avigny. Unlike Percy, he had no interest in my wealth or status. He was a restrained, respectable sort, unlike Daniel. As a boy, he used to pray for fallen butterflies. I doubt Father Nightingale ever prayed for anything so pure and sweet. He could not be conquered, ravaged and left in the morning. He wasn't a treasure; he was a gift from god. I halted my advances then and there and excused myself. I couldn't continue down the path I was heading.

I shake my head at the fox before he can speak up, and sip at my tea. He can keep his questions to himself this time. All this talk has made my throat raw. My aches all convene in my heart. Would that I could live that night again and be with him one more time.

"I ran to the famous L'attilier, an establishment of some renown. Securing a table was not the difficult part. That came when I went back to extend the invitation to the skunk. His courting should be the finest time he could spend in this city. However, I had lost myself in our conversation, and by the time I returned, his uncle had too. But my ancient name was once associated with fierce field commanders and stalwart admirals. I would not be cowed by a mere Laird, no matter how far north he hailed from.

As I take a break to wait for my third cup of tea, the fox asks me why I drink this foul stuff so copiously. On my Husband's insistence, I tell him.

A while back my physician gave me a herbal mixture for my nightmares. The mixture caused such a deep sleep that I was unable to perform my husbandly duties. It was, additionally, a difficult habit to shift, as the herb had sunk its claws in me over the years. But when the sickness came, I swore not to miss another night with him, come hell or high water. I don't tell the fox this. I ask if he'd like me to finish this damned story. I don't know for how long I can maintain my poise.

"I hatched a scheme to secure the night with my sweet Douglas. I summoned his uncle to the hotel's drawing room. I had prepared a fine new cocktail to celebrate the skunk's friendship with his grace. Though dubious at first, he relented when I explained that this was what all the high lords and ladies in the city drank. More fool him. Safe to say, the old skunk would not have trouble with his sleep. I waited until his speech grew slurred and I could take my leave.

I took Douglas with me after that. He glowed divine in the light of the chandelier which makes L'attilier so famous. The fractured light added to his own shimmering eyes. I wanted him more than I wanted my next breath. I didn't want to break the spell. But he had shared his secrets with me. It was my turn. I told him of my own escapades, and many there were. My honour bound me not to obscure them behind faults in my own character but relay them as they happened. For nine years of my life, I had dishonoured myself. I thought he would be disappointed in me. Angry, or even repulsed; a reaction I'd grown used to. But the strangest thing happened. His smile held, and his eyes filled with joy. That smile was the finest one I had ever seen. He asked me if he was my first. I didn't understand, thinking I might have been unclear in my explanation. I'd loath to be named a liar for obscuring tales behind complexity, so I told him the truth again, in even simpler terms. I had lost count years ago, but if he was my hundredth, I'd not be surprised. But was not what he had meant. I would be his first, he told me. Not "might be". I would be. He won me then and could've made a conquest of me then and there, if he'd just let me look at him for a moment longer, just feel his scent close for another heartbeat. Just another touch of his soft paw. Then he said some words. Words which I didn't know how to answer. Outwardly, I cut the same dashing figure as always, with my neat curls worn in the correct fashion as you've come to expect, I'm sure. But inside my heart, I was an uncouth, unfamiliar traveller in a foreign land. Instinctually, I bucked against what my heart told me to do. His words were so utterly final. I could just leave now, and never see him again. But could I leave those eyes behind? Could I seek flighty and temporary happiness in someone else's arms the next day, knowing full well that none such as he would ever come around again? None so perfect? He'd accept me for who I was, faults and all. It was love, I knew, nothing more, nothing less. He was my first. There would be no second."

The fox smiles broader now. That sad smile he has, which barely reaches his eyes. Though they glitter with reflected light, they are also dimmed. How I wish our companions were here with us now. His weasel, and his fox, are both at his home, thousands of leagues away in a distant country. And my Douglas is gone into the earth. The fox and he were friends, as dear to each other as he is dear to me. They wanted to visit each other. But the fox's prowess with his blade couldn't stay the sickness or prevent his passing. Swords rarely do any good. I'm amazed it took the fox so long to work this out and lay his down.

The rest of the story I keep to myself. I took Douglas back to his suite that night, which we had to ourselves. I showed him what I had learned, and he showed me a world beyond what I had thought I knew. I delight in the detail of my recollection. I can see it so clearly, as if he's right here with me. I miss him, but I have him with me, all the same. Because I remember the way his little ears would quiver when I brushed his head, and his tail would lash and flick uncontrollably when I held him close. That scent which he had no mask for was all about him, the loveliest scent I've yet smelled. All the little things which would make me smile, has now made me smile again. The only just conquest I ever made.

Douglas would've wanted me to go with the fox. He could never stand to see me unhappy. He would not want me to squander my life and waste precious days of it mourning. He would not want to meet me before my time. I sip at my cool cup of tea. It's frightfully bitter, all of the sudden. They sweeten their tea where the fox is from. I ask if he might tell me how he came by his first love, and his second, even when I know those stories well. Instead, he takes my paw, and asks if I'd not like to hear about the third. I believe I would.