"Do you suppose Lord Whinnypeg was telling us the truth?" I asked Wilde once the hansom had started off in the direction of the tramway station.

I looked over at where Wilde sat on my right as I asked the question, studying my companion as he considered the question. "It is possible to hide the truth without lying," he said at last, "Certainly, it is curious the topics he avoided and the implications he took great pains to give."

I frowned, feeling, I must confess, somewhat stupid as I occasionally did in Wilde's presence. As it had not seemed to me as though the earl had taken any particular care in avoiding topics, I asked my next question in the hopes of learning what had set off Wilde's chain of deduction. "However did you know that his father had been cold and distant?"

Wilde chuckled in reply. "Although I suppose Inspector Trunkaby would call it a parlour trick, that was simple indeed. I have never known a mammal who grew up genuinely happy to say that they grew up 'happily enough.' As Lord Whinnypeg stated quite directly that his mother cared more for his step-brother than for him or his siblings, it was no great leap to deduce that he did not know his father's affections."

I nodded my understanding, and then felt my ears rise of their own volition as I realized what Wilde must have. "His mother," I cried, "The topic he avoided was his mother."

"Precisely," Wilde said with an approving nod, "You see it now. His mother has been dead only ten years, and yet he made hardly any mention of her. Should she not have been a primary player in the aftermath of the elder Lord Whinnypeg's affair that resulted in the dismissal of the maid he dallied with?"

"But as you say, she has been dead ten years," I replied, "Long before Lord Whinnypeg claimed to have even learned of his illegitimate half-brother. Surely he may have just thought it irrelevant."

"Possibly," Wilde said, "It may have no relevance to the case. But no matter how mercurial Lord Whinnypeg's mood may have appeared, I have no doubt he was probing my responses as much as I was probing his. No matter what the general public may say about predators, I would say that it is politicians that are the most dangerous breed of mammal."

He smiled as he said this last part, and I offered him a smile of my own at his small joke, which quickly turned into a frown as I realized the gravity of Wilde's words. "Do you suppose he was trying to provoke a reaction, then, with that rot about phrenology?" I asked.

"Why, Dr. Hopps," Wilde replied, "I did not know you considered phrenology outside the scope of medical science."

He said this all quite casually, but I thought I had his complete interest when I replied. "I might agree with his conclusion, perhaps, that being a fox does not mean you must be a criminal," I said, "But I have not seen any phrenologist produce what I would consider proof positive of its efficacy."

I meant my words quite sincerely; as I have said I do not believe that we are slaves to our biology. Wilde was a particularly extraordinary fox, it is true, but he was a fox nonetheless, and if he could overcome the biological predilections of his species than surely any other fox could as well if only they desired to do so. Indeed, I could very well say the same for myself; if phrenologists had been right about rabbits I would even now be on my family's farm. "Then to answer your question, as an upstanding and honest fox," Wilde replied with a somewhat sardonic smile touching his lips, "I would say it to be quite possible. Note, too, how carefully he spoke of his siblings. It was a rather delicate—masterful, I would say—way of deflecting questions of his own involvement on Quixano's life. He allowed just enough of his dismay for his siblings to seep into his words to suggest that they might be guilty even as he said they could not commit murder, and yet did not overplay it and thus suggest he might have some vendetta against them."

"He did inherit half the estate of his father," I countered, "Even accounting for his position as the eldest, that must have been more than he could have reasonably hoped for with two full siblings and a step-brother."

"A valid point," Wilde conceded, "But did he not also rather slyly comment on their character being inferior to his own?"

Wilde was, in my opinion, quite correct on that point. He had suggested that his younger brother was a wastrel, that his younger sister held less enlightened views, and that his step-brother might have been bitter at being overlooked when it came time to split the Whinnypeg fortune. I was silent a moment as I considered the possibility, the sounds of the hansom creaking and rattling seeming to fade as I pondered the possibilities. "And what would you suppose happened in Amareca?" I asked at last, but to this Wilde simply shrugged.

"Something monumentally important in the life of the elder Lord Whinnypeg, of that I have no doubt," Wilde said, "Beyond that I could only speculate—"

"And you do not engage in speculation," I cut in.

Wilde simply nodded, his small smile appearing rather knowing. "There is some chain of events, then, that led to Lawrence Quixano's conception, and which may be of importance now," I mused, rolling the thought this way and that in my mind as I worked through the implications.

Wilde nodded again, and was silent a moment before speaking. "The question I now find of particular interest is the one of how Lord Whinnypeg induced Quixano to go along with his scheme. Certainly I would not say he was overly concerned with his half-brother's health. Although I gave him some small enticing details about the most recent murder attempts, note too that he did not ask for any clarification."

Lord Whinnypeg had asked after Lawrence Quixano's health, but Wilde was quite right that he seemed downright blasé about the specifics. "I wonder what Quixano will say," I said, trying to be mindful of Wilde's earlier admonition to keep an open mind.

"It shall be interesting indeed," Wilde replied, and then he pulled a folded-up newspaper from an interior pocket of his Inverness cape and flipped it open, disappearing behind it.

I left Wilde to his reading, and peered out the window of the cab, only half-paying attention to the throngs of other cabs and pedestrians choking the streets our cab so ably navigated. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that it took me a moment to notice when we had arrived at the tramway station, but the shuffling of Wilde's paper as he folded it small again brought me back to the present and we quickly set out.

Most unfortunately, the tramway was quite a bit more crowded than it had been when I had ridden it up Mount Collier, and the car was packed so full of mammals that Wilde and I were stuck standing several feet apart, all of the seats already taken by the time we boarded. Still, despite the much greater load the tramway moved with no less speed, although the chatter of the mammals aboard and the wetly consumptive coughs of a miserable-looking llama made it a much louder ride. Indeed, I doubt Wilde and I could have conversed without shouting at one another, but the view more than made up for the other unpleasantness of the ride.

The choking haze that normally covered the city had cleared, however briefly, and to my awestruck eyes the city was spread out beneath me in the warm glow of the setting sun. It was like a model made by a master of the art, a sprawl of buildings and streets that reminded me of why I loved the city so despite not being a native. It was so vibrant, so full of life, that I do not think anything could compare. Even our tramway car was a microcosm of the city, more than a dozen different species—from a few rats huddled near the brazier at the centre of the cab likely for safety as much as for warmth to a bull who consumed nearly an entire corner by himself by sheer bulk alone—all living and traveling together.

Despite the view, I was still quite glad when the tramway car arrived at the station and we were able to disembark. It took me a moment to find Wilde in the crush of mammals, even his vibrantly red fur difficult to spot due to the many larger mammals who flowed hither and yon, making the station nearly as crowded as the car had been. Soon enough, however, we had pressed our way outside, Wilde leading with his seemingly unerring sense of direction towards Glacier Hospital. The building was indeed quite close to the Chateau Talpen, such that it was a walk of no more than half a mile from the station, and I understood at last why the streets of Tundra Town had been built so wide. Had the streets been as narrow as many of the much older streets in Zootopia proper, they would have been an impossibly choked mess like an artery clogged by an embolism.

Instead, the streets were merely crowded, with mammals proceeding on foot or in cabs as they went about their business, which for many mammals I supposed was to enjoy holidays. Indeed, many of the mammals we passed were impeccably dressed for the many night-time amusements that Tundra Town boasted, and if there was any part of Zootopia as focused on leisure I did not know of it. As it would have likely taken longer for a cab to make its way through the traffic than it would have for us to progress on foot I certainly did not mind walking, and anyway the cabs would almost certainly passed up us for more obviously well-heeled fares.

The traffic eased somewhat as we travelled further from the tramway station, and by the time we were within a block of Glacier Hospital it was almost non-existent. The hospital itself was a splendid building quite a bit newer than St. Assini's Teaching Hospital, where I would take up my position in the new year. Glacier Hospital, perhaps in an effort to be true to its name, had an exterior façade of polished white marble that really did give it a striking resemblance to an enormous glacier. It was four storeys tall, the top of the building terminating in crenellations that were rather castle-like. Which was, I supposed, not entirely inappropriate, for was a hospital not a place where health was protected? Glacier Hospital managed to look both imposing and inviting, and the light that streamed out of the large windows set into the building was of such an intensity that it could only be electric.

As we approached the magnificent sweeping staircase that made an elegant curve around the front of the building we passed a bronze statue of a dignified muskox at what must have been slightly more than life size, the sculptor having managed the difficult task of giving a mammal so large and so covered with long fur a kindly and welcoming air.

Wilde's attention, however, seemed entirely caught by the mammal who loitered near the statue, a tiger cub somewhat taller than Wilde was, dressed in cast-off and filthy bits of clothing that unmistakably marked him as one of Wilde's Barker Street Irregulars. I had only encountered the tiger two or three times before, and he acknowledged me but briefly, touching two fingers to the brim of his grimy hat before turning to Wilde. "Billy!" Wilde cried, "How goes your watch?"

The tiger, who could not have been more than eleven, spat at the ground. "Colder'n I'd like and too many toffs, that's the truth," he said, "Not so much as a peep, though."

"If Molly has an eye on the door, there wouldn't be one either way," Wilde observed dryly, and I supposed he was right; the ferret kit was completely incapable of speech.

Billy ploughed on, saying, "Your mule's on the third floor, Mr. Wilde. Room three four two."

"Excellent," Wilde replied, and while he pulled out his purse he made no motion to open it, saying instead, "And what of your other task?"

Billy fumbled through his filthy coat, at last pulling out an envelope of a whiteness that was shocking by contrast. Wilde opened it briefly, looking inside and thumbing through the contents, which I could not see. A frown briefly crossed Wilde's face, but he pocketed the envelope and dug out a pawful of shillings, which vanished from his paw into Billy's with the suddenness of a magic trick. "Much obliged, Mr. Wilde," Billy said, actually tipping his hat for the fox.

"Likewise," Wilde replied, and then he set off for the hospital's main entrance.

"It would seem poor Mr. Quixano has at last caught a break," Wilde said, turning to look down at me as we made our way up the stairs, "It must be rather unsettling to be the victim of so many murder attempts."

"The murderer must not dare to act while the police are present," I replied, and Wilde tilted his head from side to side as he considered my words.

"It is a curious mixture of boldness and timidity, is it not? Of careful planning and rash action? I must admit, I did not know whether another attempt would be dared at hospital," Wilde said, and the musing tone of his words was underscored by the slow and thoughtful motion of his tail back and forth.

Before I could utter a response, Wilde spoke again, quite quickly, as we opened the door and crossed the threshold. "Try to look purposeful," he hissed in a low tone, and taking his own advice he set an unerring course for the stairs.

I thought I understood what Wilde meant, for there is no greater way to look as though you do not belong than to appear lost or unsure. On Wilde's part, one would think he had spent his every day for the past year in the grand hospital, for he did not spare so much as a glance for the sumptuous furnishings. I must confess I found it difficult to do the same, for Glacier Hospital was truly lovely in a way that no other hospital I have ever set foot in before had been. The gleaming white marble of the exterior was echoed in the interior, and the atrium had a great vaulted skylight of iron and glass as intricately worked as the one that stood above the Rain Forest District if not nearly as large.

Arc lamps set into the ceiling utterly banished shadows and I could see Wilde squinting in discomfort at their brightness as his eyes adjusted to the dazzling light. Under such harsh illumination it would not have taken much for the building to appear filthy, but that it still appeared spotlessly clean to my eyes said quite a bit about how seriously the hospital took cleanliness.

There were not many mammals in the lobby, but none of them saw fit to disturb Wilde and me as we climbed the stairs to the third floor. A series of placards on the walls helpfully gave instructions as to the locations of each room, but even without such guidance I have no doubt we would have known the room that Quixano was staying in. Outside it, in a chair that she must have claimed from somewhere else as it was the only one in the hall, sat Constable Timberlake, looking very bored indeed. Standing next to her, and seemingly taking her guard duty quite a bit more seriously, was Molly, her face set into a grim expression that brightened considerably when she caught sight of Wilde and I. Constable Timberlake very nearly knocked her chair over, she stood so suddenly, and I think she about snapped to attention. "Mr. Wilde," the wolf said, rather respectfully, "Dr. Hopps."

"Constable," Wilde replied, nodding his head in her direction.

In the same tone, he added, "Molly," and nodded to the ferret.

The ferret cut him a curtsy, but I doubt the wolf noticed. "I understand your position, Mr. Wilde, and I know you have done good work for the police before," Timberlake began awkwardly, "But you cannot see Mr. Quixano."

"That is disappointing to hear," Wilde replied, "Whyever not?"

The wolf hesitated a moment. "Well," she began, "Inspector Lupuson... That is... You see..."

She had clearly not anticipated being asked to defend herself, and Wilde ruthlessly pushed his advantage. "Surely Mr. Quixano is a patient, and not a prisoner," Wilde said, "And is not a patient entitled to guests?"

Timberlake hesitated a moment longer, and Wilde continued in a gentler tone. "Why do you not ask him yourself if he wishes to see me?" Wilde said, and Timberlake seemed to latch onto his words.

"Of— Of course," she said, and she entered the room, carefully positioning her body so that we could not see anything and closing the door fully after herself.

Although the hospital had been well-built, with thick walls, I had no trouble hearing Timberlake's halting question to Quixano or the mule's irritable reply. Moments later, the wolf opened the door. "He says he'll see you," the wolf said in a rather diplomatic interpretation of the mule's words, and her relief at having thus solved her dilemma was obvious.

"Molly and I shall continue watching the door, isn't that right?" she added, turning to look at the ferret.

Molly nodded seriously, her expression not changing even as Wilde slipped a few coins into her paw as we moved past her. "I am sure Quixano will have nothing to fear, with the two of you keeping watch," Wilde said, and the seriousness of his tone was belied only by a slight smile on his lips.

Quixano's hospital room was quite as impressive as the rest of the hospital. He had the entire room to himself, and though the furnishings were somewhat spartan, limited to a bed, a low nightstand, and a table that had only a single chair (and that the twin of the one Timberlake had commandeered), they were all well-made and clean. Indeed, the room was lit by the same brilliant arc lamps as the rest of the hospital, and there was a slightly antiseptic bite to the air that spoke of regular cleaning. "Mr. Quixano," Wilde began, "I am Nicholas Wilde. I am quite glad to see you awake and meet you at last. How do you feel?"

"Terrible," the mule replied briefly, and I did not think he was exaggerating at all.

He was in the bed and looked rather feeble, as though it had cost him a great effort to speak. I glanced at the record that had been affixed to the end of the bed, trying to decipher the scrawl of whatever physician had started his course of treatment, and was gratified to see that another doctor had concluded that Quixano would live. The mule sat up with a great grunt of effort and fixed his eyes on Wilde. "So you're Wilde, then," he said, and then he turned to look at me.

"Dr. Hopps," he said, "I hear you saved my life. Thank you."

"You are quite welcome," I said, but the mule had already turned his attention back to Wilde.

"What will it take you to find the mammal trying to kill me?"

"Two things," Wilde replied, "Time and information."

Quixano snorted, but the sound came out quite feebly. "What about money?" he asked, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"You did say in your telegram that you could pay me whatever I asked," Wilde replied, apparently not put off at all by the mule's attitude, "Discussing payment did not seem necessary. My rates are quite reasonable, however."

Quixano, I think, was somewhat suspicious of Wilde not demanding a ludicrous sum, and the mule scowled. "Fine, then, I'll pay your rate," he said, "Now what do you need from me?"

"Dr. Hopps tells me that you believe someone attempted to murder you twice before the two attempts at the Chateau Talpen. Describe the attempts for me, please."

Quixano scratched at his muzzle. "First one was about two weeks ago. A brick fell off a building, nearly took my head off."

"Ah," Wilde said, "And what makes you convinced it was a murder attempt?"

"The fact that the same thing happened four days later," Quixano all but spat.

I recalled that Quixano had rambled on about bricks in his delirium, and I supposed that I had my answer as to what he had meant.

"That is certainly suggestive," Wilde agreed, "Where did these attempts occur?"

"Near my shop," Quixano replied, "I was walking past a nail factory."

"On both occasions?" Wilde asked, "What time of day?"

"Yes, both," Quixano said, "Around six in the evening each time. I used to take the same route every day until that second brick fell."

Wilde nodded, but he appeared distracted and lost in thought and it was a moment before he spoke again. "Tell me, if you would, about what happened when you went to the deceased Lord Whinnypeg to beg for help for your mother."

Quixano took a moment to collect his thoughts, and when he spoke his voice was as rough as ever. "I went to that big estate of his in the Meadowlands. I told the prissy little servant to let me in or I'd tell the whole world I was Whinnypeg's son, and that did it. Old Lord Whinnypeg wasn't happy to see me, I can tell you that. He said it wasn't his business what happened to my mother, so I let him have it. I told him he was selfish and cruel and if he had any honour he ought to be ashamed of himself. I told him I'd do anything for my mother, that I'd go to the papers, but he said no one would believe me. He wouldn't budge, not him. So I left."

Although Quixano told it all so simply, I could not help but imagine the raw emotion that must have been involved between the mule begging for help and the proud earl refusing to do anything. "But two days later he sent a cheque, not that it made a difference."

The bitterness in Quixano's voice was mixed with almost unbearably raw pain, and I did not have to ask to know that his mother had not survived the surgery that had been her only chance. "I am very sorry for your loss," Wilde said, and there was unmistakably genuine empathy in his voice.

His words were quiet, his expression solemn, and Quixano must have seen it for his own expression softened for the first time. "It was hard," Quixano said gruffly, "But I put Lord Whinnypeg out of my thoughts until he died. Some fancy barrister came by, saying I had ten million pounds in a trust. I don't rightly understand it, myself, but I'd bet anything it's why those children of Whinnypeg are trying to kill me."

I had known that the Whinnypeg fortune was vast, but I had not expected Quixano's share to be quite so large. The mule appeared almost embarrassed at naming the sum, but Wilde showed no sign of the amazement I was sure had been visible on my own face. "Does this fancy barrister run the trust?" Wilde asked, "I should like the name."

"I think so," Quixano replied, "Her name is Agnes Areion."

Wilde nodded, obviously filing the name away for further reference. "And when did you first encounter the current Lord Whinnypeg, William?"

"A day or two after Areion came to see me," Quixano replied, frowning as he called up the memory, "Didn't trust him, not after meeting our father. He said he thought I could make a difference for other hybrids."

Quixano snorted weakly again, the expression of contempt apparently as strong as he could manage. "More like he wanted to make himself look good, but he said he'd pay for everything. Said there was no reason I couldn't stand before Parliament and look every bit as noble as all the rest. So I agreed. What does it matter if it helps him if it can help other mules, eh?"

I thought I understood, as Quixano spoke, why he had attempted to dress himself so finely when we had first met. Although I doubted that he would admit it, I thought it likely that he had been afraid of appearing like a fool and had been trying to appear as proper as possible. I thought I could even hear it in his voice as the coarseness he had grown up using struggled against his attempts at sounding more refined. "I see," Wilde replied, "And how often did the two of you meet?"

Quixano took a long moment before he replied, and I thought it was likely that it was as much a matter of him marshalling his strength as it was him searching his memories. His voice was not nearly as robust as it had been before his poisoning, each word spoken with an undercurrent of heavy tiredness, and he obviously found the interview exhausting. Still, he did eventually answer. "Twice a week or so, while he was laying out the idea. After I agreed about a month and a half ago, it couldn't have been more than three times."

Quixano frowned. "I think he was the one who tried killing me in the hotel. He planned it, anyway," he said.

Wilde nodded. "You told him about the attempts on your life with the bricks, didn't you?" Wilde asked, "And he recommended the hotel."

A brief look of astonishment crossed the mule's features, and to my great surprise he laughed, weakly at first and then with growing strength until it sounded almost normal. "You really are clever," Quixano muttered, "Yes, that's right."

The mule yawned broadly as he slumped down out of his seated position, for the effort of laughing seemed to have drained his final reserves of energy. "Thank you, Mr. Quixano," Wilde said, "I understand if you are somewhat sceptical of what mammals recommend to you as a place of safety, but I would say that the Diognues Club is the safest place in the city if you can bear their peculiarities."

A card bearing the name and address of the club seemed to simply appear in Wilde's paw in an impressive feat of prestidigitation, and he tucked it face down under Quixano's pillow. "One of my... Irregulars," Wilde said, casting a side-long glance in my direction as he spoke the last word, "Would be quite happy to take you there, once you are ready to leave the hospital."

Quixano nodded wearily. "Thank you," he said, and then yawned again, "I apologize if I have been difficult. Most mammals..."

He trailed off awkwardly, not seeming to know how to end his sentence, but Wilde nodded in understanding. "Most mammals look at you and make assumptions," he said quietly, "I understand."

Quixano nodded again, his head barely moving, and Wilde turned to me. "We ought to let him rest," he said, his voice little more than a whisper, and I nodded.

Wilde had been quiet from the moment we left the hospital room, speaking only briefly with Timberlake and Molly on the way out. He had obviously been deep in thought, and when he had asked if my medical opinion aligned with that of the physician who had treated the mule after me it had been with such a distracted air that I was not sure he had really heard my answer.

Although I desperately wanted to question him, and in particular hear what he made of the new information we had learned, I left him to his thoughts and focused on my own. Lord Whinnypeg had indeed not told the whole truth, and I could not help but wonder why.

"Tell me, Hopps," Wilde asked me suddenly as we set forth from Glacier Hospital, "Do you care for comic operettas?"

I could only turn and stare at my companion as though he had gone half-mad. It was a non-sequitur of the highest degree, for he had posed this question with absolutely no provocation after we had been walking in silence for nearly a block. "I have never attended one," I managed at last, "Why do you ask?"

Wilde pulled the envelope the tiger cub had given him from his pocket. "Billy, the enterprising extortionist that he is, purchased two tickets instead of one, doubtlessly assuming that you would wish to accompany me. I could, of course, attempt to re-sell the spare ticket myself, but I am afraid there is very little time left before the show begins. Not that I mean to pressure you, for—"

"I would love to accompany you," I said, cutting Wilde off before he could equivocate any further.

I was somewhat surprised that the tiger cub had shown that sort of initiative, for while his feeling towards me had softened somewhat since our first meeting he still seemed rather suspicious of me and my presence in Wilde's life. Still, I supposed that Wilde was correct that it must have been merely an effort on the urchin's part to squeeze a few additional coins out of Wilde, any dislike edged out by greed. I knew, too, that no matter what Wilde might say, his heart was not so hard as to force the cub to swallow the cost of the unwanted ticket, and it really would be quite a shame to allow it to go to waste. I thought I knew enough of Wilde's mind to know that he would not frivolously attend the theatre for no reason while on a case, and the obvious conclusion struck me. "By any chance does this operetta feature a performance by Adam Hayes?"

Wilde nodded briskly, seeming rather more pleased by my bit of deduction than I thought was warranted. "It does indeed, and one I am led to believe is a significant role," he said, "He plays the part of the Major-General."

I could not stop myself from grasping Wilde's arm as I realized what he meant. "Do you mean to say that it is a production of Pirates?" I asked eagerly, for although I had arrived in Zootopia too late for the original run I had read the reviews and seen the advertisements for the traveling version.

"It is," Wilde said with a chuckle as he disentangled his arm from my own, "My, what enthusiasm! Farm life must be dull indeed."

I heard the note of good-natured teasing in his voice and looked up at him. "Perhaps you ought to try it yourself," I countered, "Surely such a clever fox as yourself would be a peerless farmer."

"There is too much of the city in me," Wilde said, smiling, "You ought to take care yourself, or you too will never be at home anywhere else."

"I think it already too late for me," I replied, and Wilde's eyes filled with an expression of mock dismay.

"Alas," he said, rather dramatically, "Then I suppose I have no choice but to show you the sights."

"I suppose not," I said, and we continued walking.

Author's Notes:

The llama having a cough that Dr. Hopps suggests is consumptive means that it sounds like he has tuberculosis, which was commonly called consumption in the 19th century due to how sufferers tended to waste away. Before the development of antibiotics tuberculosis had no really effective treatments, but it wasn't always fatal. Most people who are infected are asymptomatic, and even in people who do show symptoms they can cycle through periods of relative health and periods of worsening illness. However, the damage that tuberculosis does to the lungs is permanent, and so sufferers who receive no antibiotic treatment have their lung capacity slowly decrease as their lungs become composed of more and more scar tissue.

The description of Glacier Hospital is as true as I could make it to real world 19th century hospitals. Hospitals at the time did not have nearly the same tools available to them as modern day hospitals do; X-ray imagining, for example, was first used clinically in 1896, 15 years after this story is set. However, the 19th century was a time of exciting developments in medicine, with anaesthetics and antiseptics making surgery less risky and easier to perform. Therefore, a large, modern building with at least some private rooms in very much in the line of the leading edge of medicine.

Muskox are native to the arctic, so I thought it made sense to imply that the mammal who likely either funded or founded the hospital was a muskox. As Dr. Hopps notes, they do have quite shaggy fur, which would be something of a challenge to depict in bronze.

Billy the tiger showed up briefly in "A Study in Gold," although he wasn't referenced by name there. In chapter 15, he's among the urchins that Molly recruits to help find Wilde, and he refers to Dr. Hopps somewhat dismissively as "Long ears" and is noticeably sceptical of Dr. Hopps's promised reward. He's named after Bill Watterson, creator of Calvin and Hobbes.

A toff, in British slang, is someone well-dressed, typically with an aristocratic background. The first use of the word dates to about 1850, and is thought to have derived from a corruption of the word "tuft," a term used at Oxford University to refer to undergraduates whose caps bore the gold ornamental tassel that indicated their fathers were members of the House of Lords.

In "A Study in Gold" it is mentioned that the Rain Forest District is a valley with a greenhouse built over it, taking inspiration from the Crystal Palace.

Arc lamps were an early form of electric lighting, which produce light by applying electric current across two electrodes with an air gap between them. Even after the invention of lightbulbs, which have a mellower light and are more reliable for long term usage, arc lamps remained in use in certain applications that needed high-intensity light, such as searchlights. Arc lamps were available commercially in 1881, and their presence in Glacier Hospital suggests a very modern building.

Although medical records saw increasing use throughout the 19th century, it was only towards the end of the century that anything approaching modern patient records began to see use.

Cheques, as checks are known outside the US, were indeed in use in the late 19th century, and pre-printed cheques were first used by the Bank of England in 1717. Cheque books were in use starting from 1811, making it a less cumbersome process than the original requirement of filling out the cheque at the bank.

Ten million pounds in 1881 is worth more than a billion pounds today, so suffice it to say that Quixano's trust is worth an absolute fortune.

Areion or Arion is the name of a horse from Greek mythology, said to have been sired by the god Poseidon when he took the form of a stallion and found Demeter, the goddess of grain and fertility who had turned herself into a mare and hid in a herd of horses to avoid his advances. Mythology can be kind of weird.

The comic operetta that Adam Hayes plays the Major-General in is, of course, The Pirates of Penzance; or, the Slave of Duty. Although the authors, Arthur Sullivan and W.S. Gilbert, were British, it actually premiered in the United States in 1879 before it was ever performed in the UK. The reason for this was an attempt at getting a copyright in the US; their previous work, The HMS Pinafore, had been widely pirated in the US since at the time the US did not really offer copyright protection to foreign authors. The Pirates of Penzance was an immediate hit both in the US and in the UK (where it premiered in 1880), and in its original run in London it ran for almost a year with 363 performances. By the time this story is set in late 1881, that original theatrical run had been over for more than half a year, but it was still a popular work with a touring version that ran until 1884.

Adam Hayes may seem a bit too young to play the Major-General, who in modern productions is frequently played by a man in his sixties or older, but in earlier performances it wasn't unusual for the role to go to a man in his mid-thirties. Indeed, the first actor to play the part, J. H. Ryley, was only 38 at the time. I'll leave further commentary for the actual appearance of the operetta.

As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought.