Laverne Hopps was a lady of such distinguished character and high standing in the rabbit community, that her eccentricities endeared her to rather than ostracized her from fellow bunnies. Few in the Burrow knew not of "The Silver Belle"; so named for the soft gray of her fur and the clear, heavenly voice which filled an already packed concert hall twice a week. Fewer in the Burrow knew of "The Steel Horn", however; a righteous clarion call which many in polite society would consider wholly improper and unfitting someone of her station.
Lovey, as she was known by her nearest and dearest, awoke in the early morn of a performance day, a day that meant rigorous practice followed by an afternoon of rest. First, was her favorite part of waking.
"Good morning, Miss," chimed her housebunny, a portly auburn toting a breakfast tray with a covered plate and readied papers, setting it all on the bed before her mistress with the utmost care, "Rest well, I hope?"
"Soundly enough, Tillie," Lovey said, arms stretched overhead and chest arched to work out the sleep, "mind abuzz with tonight, of course." Her violet eyes spoke anticipation as dawn spilled through opened curtains upon a brown-wrapped parcel of papers.
Tillie became bashful when she returned to the bedside, "If it's not too bold, Miss, I full remember your telling that you're to eat before reading those," the bunny-in-waiting reminded, and then lifted the cover from her mistress's breakfast.
A relinquishing sigh loosed Lovey's lips, "You're quite right," she agreed, and pulled a napkin from the tray to lie across her lap with a chuckle, "Without your vigilance, I'd wither away in a week's time."
Sharing in the jolly with her own giggle, Tillie's eyes fell to the assortment of almond, raspberry, and cream porridge tarts on the breakfast tray. They smelled delicious, and knew that the outer crust was warmed by piping hot innards; when they reached her mistress's bed, they were the perfect temperature to eat inside-and-out. "You're a lucky bunny, Miss," she said, pouring the tea, "to find the favor of two charming suitors as you do."
"Now, that is too bold," Lovey mused.
"Beggin' your pardon, Miss, it wasn't my place," Tillie withdrew, but hid a smile as she readied the clothes of the day; with her mistress still in undergarments, and no intention to leave the house until evening, the dutiful auburn bunny set aside a simple dress best suited for comfort but nice enough to entertain any spontaneous guests.
Lovey savored the first bite of a tart, sinking her teeth into the warm, flaky crust and creamy filling; each morning a new batch of familiar, yet unique pastries greeted her, and each time felt like discovering a brand new delicacy. Washing down the tart with a sip of tea (though by no means did it need washing down), she hastily grabbed up the unmarked parcel, for she knew what waited inside. The twine and brown wrapping fell away to reveal handsome penmanship, but it was no resolved legal matter or intimate correspondence that re-lit her eyes as she read.
Tillie hopped closer, recognizing her mistress's excitement and eager to share in it, "Is that another song, Miss?" she asked, leaning on the bed a bit to get a better look.
With a soft sniff, Lovey wiped at the corner of her eye to nod, "It is, Tillie, and it's divine," she cleared her throat after a stuttering breath, intent to regain ladylike composure, "He always does this to me, sending a new song only on performance days. As if I'd set aside the entire night for him…"
"Miss?"
"And he's right," she admitted, spreading the sheet music adjacent on the bed to finish her breakfast, but scanned it while humming around a mouthful of either tart or tea.
"He sounds like such a nice bunny to meet, that Nicolaus Wilde," Tillie said, nodding to the signature on his prose as she lifted the tray away, "Shame about his mange, though, keeping him from society as it does. It's a good thing you can't catch it from letters, or else it'd keep his music away, too."
"Yes…" Lovey concurred, gathering up the manuscript to lay it on her nightstand, and then crawled from bed to wash up and dress.
"But if I could, Miss, I'd want to know who makes you these sweeties each day," she continued, setting the tray with great care near the sheet music, "I've asked that grocer who brings 'em with the morning goods, but being a fox he can't help but talk in riddles."
"Tillie."
"I'm sorry, Miss," she bowed her head before reciting, "I know the bunny who sends 'em doesn't want to share his name, and it's not the fox's fault for keeping it a secret."
"Well put," Lovey nodded, stepping to the freshly-filled water bowl to wash her face, paws, and ears, "We rabbits have our way, and the foxes have theirs; simple as that." Grabbing up the nearby towel, she looked over to the breakfast tray and its gifts, especially to a flower acting as decorative garnish: a single, yellow tulip. "Is Mr. Fox out in the garden?"
"Since the dark hours, Miss," reported Tillie as she readied the dress, "And beggin' another pardon, Miss, but it never sits right how he can move about the night as easily as he does. Not a lantern or even the moon, but-"
"But he gets his work done, Tillie," interrupted Lovey, adjusting the garment as the back was laced up, "His flowers are the envy of the neighborhood and the grocer's produce is best in the Burrow, bar none." She then turned to her fluster-withheld housebunny and cupped a cheek, knowing full well that her personal view on foxes was as unique as her voice, "I'm sure my father will wake soon, and would love his morning coffee and newspaper to greet him," comforted the Silver Belle.
To this, Tillie softened, smiled, and curtseyed, "A good morning, Miss," she chimed, ducking past to collect the breakfast tray, but not before setting Mr. Fox's flower atop Mister Wilde's manuscript, as she knew her mistress preferred.
With a new song to learn and perfect before the performance, Lovey had a great deal to do in the day ahead, yet she decided to spare another few minutes and sit upon her bay window overlooking the garden. She cradled both song and flower in her lap to gaze out, admiring the handiwork of their diligent Mr. Fox; she walked the garden frequently, but found it prettiest outside her window.
"The east end of the garden is best for flowers," Mr. Fox would articulate, "Warmer mornings, cooler afternoons." And there was his tall, fire-red form, bent over to pull weeds with the utmost care so to not damage the adjacent blooms. As expected of his species, no sooner did she catch sight of him than he scanned the garden, and then glanced up to her window. Lovey smiled and gestured in greeting, but he only spared a polite nod before casting his green eyes down again. She sighed in begrudging acceptance, fully knowledgeable that if he was caught lingering on her for too long it could risk his livelihood, and depending who caught him, his life.
Well into late-morning, Lovey remained in her music room with Mister Wilde's latest work propped up on her piano. There was no doubt that his prose was fit for royalty, and while it boasted a certain melody to its pacing and emphasis, it always needed refining to make a proper performance piece. This was a task Lovey shouldered with grace, for it etched it upon her heart, and so made a more exquisite song to sing. Charcoal pencil in grip, she placed music notes about inked words as a jeweler cuts a raw diamond, and would more often than not dismiss the outside world until satisfied.
There were times, of course, when a knock at the door interrupted deep concentration, but ever the proper lady, Lovey permitted each intrusion cordially. "Come in" she bade, turning about on her piano bench to address what was either Tillie or her father, but indeed, he was neither. "Grav?" she wondered aloud, pivoting full to face the debonair, butterscotch rabbit.
"Lovey, was our time apart so vast that my presence surprises you?" he asked, stepping into the music room, "Surely the years have not changed me that much."
"Well, mayhaps you're a bit taller," she noticed, watching his approach with amiability, "What brings you back from your worldly travels?"
"No more or less than I've seen what the world has to offer," he grinned, and took a seat on the piano bench when she spared him the space, "but despite it all I feel my soul yearn for the Burrow; so, it is here I return."
"And many a story you've brought with you, no doubt," she said, smoothing out her dress over the knees, "Will you be in the Burrow long?"
"I should certainly think so," said Grav, "My soul is the Burrow's, but my heart is home for a different reason entirely. Lovey, I intend to woo a mate and settle a family."
"I'm happy for you, Grav," she beamed, and rest a paw upon his in familial gesture, "I should delight to meet this lucky bunny who earned your eye."
"Well," he paused with a hopeful smile, and turned his palm up to cradle hers, while the other rest atop, "You already know her better than anyone could."
Lovey reeled in the most composed way she could, feeling her throat run dry and ears turn warm, "Grav, I…"
"I understand it is quite a lot to comprehend at once…"
"It certainly is, but…"
"A great deal of thought went into this, I must stress; this is no boyish bluster…"
She quickly pivoted away and tucked the paw against her stomach, "I confess, you caught me quite off guard. You see, I have a performance tonight, and I am not in the mindset to decide on so important a matter."
"I… I understand," he admitted and sat up straight, back full to the piano with his paws on his knees, "Perhaps it was a boyish bluster, charging in here from out of the blue and asking you to commit without so much as a hint of my intentions. I hope you can forgive such a foolhardy rabbit as I, whom would forget so much etiquette in his travels."
"If nothing else," she sighed, and glanced over her shoulder with paws folded in her lap, "I commend your pluck and daring." Lovey smiled, however, and turned to face the keys, "You've always been the brave one, your trip around the world is evidence to that. While here I stay in the house I was born and raised, never chancing to see what else is out there." Her fingers caressed the white-&-black keys, and walked a gentle chord.
"And you were always the sensible one," he answered in kind, likewise turning to face the keyboard to run his fingertips along it, daring to pluck a note or two before joining her in idle playing, "I'd not be half so blessed if not for you, Lovey." She did not respond except for a warm, grateful smile, which he accepted. Spotting the music sheets, Grav studied them a moment longer, "My absence was longer than I realize, for I do not recognize this composer."
"Oh," paused Lovey, fingers lingering on the notes, "he is quite new. I found his music completely by chance and was moved to sing it. In all my experience, I cannot recall a more passionate songwriter. I receive the occasional piece and add it to my repertoire as appropriate; this one arrived only this morning."
"Ah ha," Grav realized, tugging at the cover page when he found it, "So this is the mysterious 'Nicolaus Wilde' I heard from the household gossip. Lovey, are you already spoken for?"
Despite her training and steely nerves, Lovey indeed wavered and drew her fingers from the black-&-white to steeple their tips, "Ours is… a professional relationship. If you heard from the help, then you know poor Mister Wilde is not at liberty to show his face in public."
"Yes, his is a tragic circumstance, but of all my stories overseas, I doubt one could match the intrigue as to how you crossed paths with a mange-ridden composer," Grav challenged, fingers still tapping along the piano.
"As I said," she explained, adding dramatic keystrokes in the meanwhile, "'Twas a chance meeting. I began my singing career with childhood lullabies and Blessed hymns, done with all the flourish and passion I could muster. After a time, however, I felt they were… I won't say 'lacking', but I needed something no one's heard before, to truly light the fire in their souls. While composition was part of my training as a songstress, my pieces always had certain…"
"'Lacking'?" he prompted.
"I needed inspiration," she mused, "As it was, walking in the garden helps me think, so one day I walked somewhere new, letting luck guide my path. After meandering quite a good deal, a sudden breeze whipped past me; with it were sheets of paper and a cry of dismay from an open window."
"Those would be Mister Wilde's songs, no doubt," he observed, "but what an awful shock it must've been to discover his lot in life."
"Quite so," she sighed, "I knew I couldn't go near him, but you needn't proximity to talk. He was shy about his music at first, but since I had a few of his works in hand, I perused them and was amazed how easily they accepted a melody. I needed more of his songs, so I only gave back what I had on the condition that he would write more for me in the future."
"How especially sly of you," Grav pointed out critically.
"Desperate times, I'm afraid," Lovey admitted, "I could feel his longing for acceptance, and I required new material; so how could I turn down what fortune thrust upon us both? He only need see that, and it would be the beginning of a fruitful cooperation." Lovey's fingers continued to play all the while, but hesitated at times in Grav's accompaniment; he was playing the notes she wrote on the sheet music, and while he was in the wrong octave, the timing and notes were remarkably accurate. Her only real concern was how he calmly, forcibly struck each key instead of caress them. Every tone spoke of his severity from when they were children, and it always seemed to set her on edge.
He finished with a soft, satisfied sigh, "Well, Miss Laverne," and turned to her with a polite smile, "I shan't keep you from your practice much longer, as I also heard that your preparations before a performance are quite arduous."
With a playful scoff, she reoccupied the vacancy left by his standing, "No need for such formality, Mister Grav, I am still 'Lovey', through-and-through, but thank you for visiting. We shall need to catch up, time permitting."
A charming, smug smile crossed his lips as he stood upright, and puffed out his chest, "Pardon my impertinence, Lovey, but I am 'Mister Grav' no longer. As of my return to the Burrow, I am 'Sir Grav', of the Blessed Court."
"Oh!" she gasped, turning to face him once more, "You are a knight?"
"Quite so," he teased, and dramatically took a knee, "For my 'heroism overseas' and 'loyalty to the crown'; perhaps, my dear, that I should have lead with that bit of news."
Lovey sat upright, as though to mimic royalty with a regal gesture towards him, "Fancy it might have changed our answer, Sir Grav?"
"I can only hope it would prompt you to consider it," he replied, reaching up to cradle Lovey's paw anew, and with a gentlerabbit's kiss on the back thereof, so retested her composure. He stood, "But let us start with lunch, and see where fortune takes us from there."
"Oh, thank you, Sir Grav," she lamented, and gently withdrew from his loose grip, "but I cannot stop practicing now, and certainly not to eat. When I am finished with this song to satisfaction, though, I would want nothing more than to join you for a meal."
Though dejected, he nodded graciously, "I understand. Your handbunny warned it would take a great deal to pry you from the piano," he recalled, "and it's clear to me that you are still the determined, beautiful bunny I know you to be. When you are free again, Lovey, do call for me." He bowed again, much more intimately, and left the room.
When the door closed and Grav's footsteps fell from earshot, Lovey walked over and turned the key, as she often did on days that her concentration trumped all other issues. Returning towards the piano, she continued past it to the window cracked open, and pushed the pane so to sit upon the sill while observing the northern side of the garden. "You truly are a credit to your species," she said matter-of-factually.
"Forgive me, Miss," the fox pleeded, sliding into view from behind the edge of the window, eyes still cast down and away, "I was merely pruning the ivy on this lattice, but eavesdropped despite my full intentions not to."
"You needn't explain yourself," she forgave with a kind smile, "What are your thoughts on the song thus far? I rather hoped you were listening."
He smiled, and dared catch her eyes to whisper his answer, "It's greater than I could ever dream."
"What will you call this piece, other than 'Nicolaus Wilde's Unnamed Song, no. 48'?"
"Bless me, forty-eight…" he awed, "Has it truly been that many?"
"It would be a favor unto me if I can tell my appreciators and sponsors its title."
"Forgive me, Miss Hopps, but I only-" he looked around, and whispered lower, "I only write the words; they are your songs."
"Nicolaus," she sighed and shook her head with a patient smile, "how many times must I ask you call me 'Lovey'?"
The fox inclined his head politely, "At least once more, Miss Hopps," he reminded.
She turned from the window to unseat herself and so hide a bashful smile, "Thank you for your time, Nicolaus, I cherish each moment we can spare to talk."
"As do I, Miss Hopps."
"And we both have our tasks to complete before too long. When I finish practice, I would enjoy seeing the results of your pruning."
"Of course, Miss Hopps," he smiled.
It was mid-afternoon before Lovey satisfied herself with the newest piece; except for the title. Lovey considered the validity of Nicolaus's point, fingering the wooden grip of the charcoal pencil. The songs belong to them both, after all, so perhaps naming them fell on her shoulders, not his. It was time to put the bunny's creative writing skills through their paces after relying so long on the fox's brilliant prose, and throwing caution to the wind she christened the song with the first pondered title: "If You Could Come With Me, by Nicolaus Wilde," she read aloud, feeling a momentary rush of excitement at the decision. Her eyes darted to a chest in the corner of her music room, wherein hid a lock-box securing the forty-seven other songs written by her groundskeeper and friend; would she have enough time before the performance to review each and title them appropriately?
"Perhaps another day," she determined, and gathered up the sheet music to bring it over to the hideaway for safe storage, and then approached the window. Despite her eagerness, she knew better than to call out the fox's name, so she simply leaned over the sill and searched. Disappointed but understanding, she lamented his absence and took a moment to, instead, admire the ivy creeping up the lattice; she hadn't realized how messy it looked before, but after a thorough pruning it was remarkably tidier. It also meant that she would find fresh ivy leaves garnishing meals, or in flower vases, and eventually, dried ivy leaves accenting the potpourri around the manor.
"A chance meeting…" Lovey wondered, sitting on the sill and swinging her legs out to look across the garden. Barely visible through the surrounding hedge was Nicolaus's shack with a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney. It was purest chance that she found his sheet music, caught on one of the rosebushes and fluttering in the breeze. "Forgive me for my falsehoods, Grav," she rued, heart heavy with guilt, but it was a burden gladly born, knowing that it kept her friend and his music alive.
It was not all false, though. The lullabies and hymns were indeed beautiful, but also well known, and Lovey could feel that while her audience enjoyed her singing their excitement waned with each performance. All attempts to write her own songs failed to stir even her own passion, knowing that the ditties she chimed throughout the day paled in comparison to the deep roots of familial or Blessed songs. It was at that window, around that time of day when she spotted the errant piece of paper nearly two years ago; not since childhood had she hopped out a window and ran through the garden, but there was the tug at her curiosity which pulled her through and discarded her ladylike composure...
With great care, she retrieved the single sheet from the thorns and read it through. Lovey could not remember the last time her heart was so moved by the written word, and with tearful eyes she swept the garden, hoping to find the author of such beauty. Her keen ears discovered Mr. Fox hidden behind a shrub, trying in vain to maintain grip on an armful of scattered papers. Too soon was her heart aloft with joy before it sunk with pity at the terror in his eyes; maybe he could explain the possession of one or two, but no less than a half-dozen sheets of handwritten paper was condemnation, or worse.
"Lose an eye for reading; lose a paw for writing."
Though Lovey's voice was "heavenly", "angelic", and "divine", it was but one against tens-of-thousands believing that a fox's pen ascribed a curse. So, she did what only she could and sang songs written by a fox, to the praise of those tens-of-thousands of bunnies; not to mock their wrong thinking, but because it was the right thing to do.
"Careful, Lovey," interrupted Grav's voice, "you wouldn't want to fall out a window mere hours before your performance."
"Oh," she started, returning from her reverie to the rabbit standing outside her music room's window, "Yes, solid advice," she chuckled, bracing against the wooden frame, "I didn't think you the garden type, Sir Grav. What brings you to my little world of flowers and shrubs?"
"Well, you mentioned that a walk helps to clear your head, so I hoped it would do the same for me," he said, and held out his hand to aid her from the window sill.
"Indeed, sometimes I like to imagine that the smoke from Mr. Fox's chimney becomes the clouds in the sky," she said, nodding at the downy wisps, and then grinned, wondering if he would propose a third time should she accept his gesture, "However, I can't imagine what in this wide world could trouble such a stalwart knight as yourself."
"Only hearsay and gossip," he reported, one paw holding hers while the other held her back as she hopped down, "Not that I endeavor in such things but I cannot help but overhear them, from time-to-time."
"Thank you," she said, and gently slid from his grip to present her best twirl, "And what sort of gossip do we hear from chasing housebunnies, Sir Grav?"
"Those days are long behind me," he shrugged in good humor, putting his paws behind his back as she folded hers in front; the childish teasing was short and fun, but his demeanor spoke of business as he walked towards her and down the garden path, to which she politely followed, "Your singing career began when I left for the sea, Lovey, I was shipped out mere hours before your first public performance, and in all that time I dreamed of nothing more than to see and hear you on stage. It was one of the few thoughts that kept me going. I daresay that half the world knows your name, by now, how often I went on about 'The Silver Belle'.
"As luck would have it, I returned the day after one of your performances, and I hardly had a moment's respite since then, so I promised myself that I would be at your next performance, no matter what. Well, in the evening I was knighted, I chanced upon a conversation amongst some of the higher lords in the Court, perhaps spurred by my plans to see you. Though I've not a shred of evidence to prove it, nor any manner of specifics," he leaned in to whisper, "I heard that Her Majesty entertained the notion of attending your concert."
"By the Four-Leaf, the Blessed Queen…" she gasped, halting mid-step.
"Lovey?"
"I'm alright," she assured, taking a breath and regaining her composure once more, "Pardon me, that was quite uncouth…"
"I can hardly blame you," he smiled, "earning even her notice is the height of fortune."
"For any outside the Court, at least," she teased, "Though it is hearsay, simply knowing that my voice reached the palace is blessing aplenty. Come, we've a meal to honor, and I'm quite famished," she said, holding his arm as they walked to the kitchen through the garden. Lovey knew she had a meal waiting for her, Tillie saw to that whenever a new song came in the morning; since Grav stayed as long as did, it was no great leap of logic that a meal awaited him, as well.
Lo and behold, they were greeted in the dining room by two place settings and a smiling Tillie, "Good afternoon, Sir and Miss," she chimed, perhaps brighter than that morning.
As Lovey approached her place at the table, he was quick to pull the chair out for her. "Oh, thank you," she acknowledged with a simple smile, tucking her dress beneath her legs and sitting back he returned the seat. Lovey caught sight of the muted, unmistakably happy sigh her bunny-in-waiting tried to hide; perhaps there was a benefit to having a young gentlerabbit like Sir Grav around, if only to make her dear Tillie swoon with his ambient charm.
"Miss, not to disturb your appetite, but the grocer came around about an hour ago asking for you," Tillie reported, "I told him you were not to be disturbed under any circumstances, and he seemed awful upset by it; I could tell because his tail sagged-"
"'His tail'?" Grav interrupted, standing on the other side of the table in the process of pulling out his own chair, "Is the grocer a fox, Lovey? That shaggy brute I saw skulking down the alleyway, perhaps."
"Yes," she confirmed, catching the suspicion in his tone, "there's neither crime nor shame in that, despite the state of his fur."
"A fox around the household is good luck, but to have a second visiting does not bode well for your fortunes, Lovey," he preached, "I had half-a-mind to drive him away when I saw him, were he not already leaving."
"It was not a 'visit'," she corrected, "He must've forgotten the day of his voice lessons, is all; nothing more."
"That fox is your pupil?"
"Enough," declared the Steel Horn, standing from her seat to set her gaze, "The grocer suffers from a debilitating stutter and incoherently accented speech, both of which I have substantially improved by my tutelage," she rebutted, and continued justly, "It's said that the masters of a craft are those who can teach it to the simplest students, and I daresay I could have him reading poetry to the gentry if given enough time."
A deathly disquiet fell across the dining table, which Grav broke with a calm, dark tone, "And how, pray tell, could a fox read poetry?"
She stood for an unwavering beat, but then drew back her righteous front to the ladylike composure she wore so exquisitely, "Forgive me, Sir Grav; I oversimplified. He would recite from memory a poem that I read to him."
"Which he would recite, more likely than not, to the gentry's children or guests; as entertainment."
"Undoubtedly," she conceded through a clenched jaw, and sat back down to lay a napkin across her lap; he followed suit, awaiting the arrival of a warm, liquid meal contrasting the cold, stony silence.
Half-way through their tomato, celery, and rice soup, his eyes cast up to her with head bowed; a gesture unfitting a knight of the Blessed Court, but apt for a boy caught in his own bluster, "It is I who must ask forgiveness, Lovey," Grav finally said, "I've been too far asea to remember quiet life in the Burrow. My eyes and ears bore witness to horrific displays of savagery and wickedness, that I scarce believe peace can reign within these hallowed gates. Too many of my fellows fell to the slyness and trickery of foxes, Lovey, for their script is some of the most sinister machinations known."
She quietly sipped, listening to him talk, and when a pause lingered enough, she responded, "Sir Grav, my daring knight, we needn't fear dark magics and curses under the protection of the Her Majesty, the Blessed Queen; we must remain vigilant, of course, for it is during complacency that evil strikes the fiercest. However, in my heart-of-hearts, I do not believe a fox is evil because they are a fox."
He looked to her, and then down to his soup, which he stirred idly for a minute, before his back straightened and shoulders squared, "It's truly remarkable how so much can change, and yet stay the same." He continued at her questioning glance, "From the smallest bird to the gruffest fox, you've always loved and cared for the less fortunate, even as a young girl."
She set her spoon down with a soft smile, "And you've always been the vanguard. I knew I was safe with you around, and that holds true today."
The warmth of the soup thawed the chill in both of them as they finished their respective bowls. "Thank you," he said after the dishes were removed.
"You're quite welcome," she responded, and smiled amiably, "What for, though?"
"Too many to count. For the time being, I am grateful for the afternoon together, rough waters notwithstanding."
"It was delightful, all things considered," she agreed, rising from her seat, and he followed suit, "Shall I see you tonight in the audience?"
"Come hell or high water, Lovey."
"Splendid. Doors close at a quarter-to-8 sharp, so don't be late."
"I wouldn't dare," he grinned.
Lovey saw him out to the front door and bid him a fond farewell, and while she was happy to see her childhood friend after so many years apart, his company always left her with an uneasiness she could never quite explain. So, once again, she traversed the hallways to her music room, remembering that not only had she left her charcoal pencil on the piano, but locked the door and exited out the window. In a wholly unladylike manner, she leaned forward until her head dully thunked against the wood with a frustrated groan at yet another delay.
"Miss Hopps?" whispered a voice beyond the threshold, so low that were it not for her keens ears nearly pressed to the wood she would not have heard it.
"Nicolaus?" she whispered back, and soon recognized the swift, quiet turning of the key. A bright green eye peeked through the crack in the door before she slipped inside. "What a stroke of luck," she smiled as he closed and locked the door, "But, why are you in here?"
He turned to face her, eyes glancing up to the open window and stepping aside so he was not in direct view of it. Nicolaus then pulled out a square envelope, "This is from Big Gid," he hushed, "He was eager to give it to you directly, but your visitor prevented that, but then the open window allowed me to set it on your piano so you might find it later. I nearly jumped from my fur when the door handle rattled."
"From Big Gid?" she wondered, and stepped out of direct view from the window to accept the missive. The grocer was known by bunnies as "Mr. Fox", same as Nicolaus and every other fox in the Burrow, but by his own kind as "Big Gid" for his substantial height and girth. She untucked the paper flap to pull out a single card covered in a careful, albeit messy scrawl:
I thank you,
Miss Hopps.
Big Gid
Lovey was struck silent, and were it not for Nicolaus's quick ushering into a chair, she would certainly have collapsed to the floor. Tears streamed from her eyes as she tried to reread the note, cupping a trembling, proud smile.
What began with an incoherent greeting and a cordial correction, lead to weekly speech lessons tucked away in a hidden alcove of the garden. So ambitious was her dear pupil to learn, and so just was she to do right in the face of wrong, that she willingly committed the cardinal sin of the Burrow: she taught a fox to read and write.
Cradling to her bosom the simple token of gratitude brought at such great peril, Lovey managed to speak around a choked sob, "He wrote his first sentence with neither aid nor prompting, to thank me, and even signed his own name," she marveled, though it was more than plenty that he baked the most delicious pastries every morning for her, "Truly, I could not be more blessed."