I was roused from my slumber far too early in the morning by the insistent knocking at my bed-room door of my fellow-lodger. "You must get ready," said he, his voice muffled slightly by the door that separated us, "Our carriage shall be here shortly."

I pulled myself out of my bed and started to make my way towards my dresser when Wilde knocked again. "I have an outfit for you to wear to-day," he said, "Open the door and I shall pass it through."

"Is there something wrong with how I normally dress?" I asked, as I picked up my dressing gown and limped towards the door.

"I shall explain once you are ready," he said.

Once I was satisfied that the combination of my nightgown and dressing gown was sufficient to preserve my modesty in front of my vulpine flatmate, I pulled open the door to accept the bundle that Wilde was holding out. It was a daytime dress of the sort a proper lady would wear, with a skirt and jersey in a muted orange color, the hems and seams trimmed with piping in a darker shade of orange that was almost brown. Paired with the dress were matching gloves and a hat with an enormous green feather in it. "I shall look like a pumpkin," I remarked in distaste.

I had never much cared for dresses, particularly those that necessitated a corset. Trousers or bloomers were more to my style; even the loose-fitting skirts that my mother and many of my sisters favored would have been preferable to what he had offered me.

"Rather more like a carrot, I imagine," Wilde replied, a small smile playing across his muzzle as he leaned casually within the doorway, "You should be the envy of the upper crust; the half of them that have not starved and corseted themselves thinner than waifs would give much to fit a dress like this so well."

"It remains to be seen if it fits at all. Should it fit, they are perfectly welcome to spend a month or two abed with fever if fitting a dress after my fashion is their desire," I replied, and Wilde shut the door to allow me to change.

In point of fact, Wilde had been quite correct that the dress fit well. Although the skirt included a bustle, it did not protrude so much as I had feared. The dress overall was just short of being tight, even with the corset loosely fastened—a mercy, as I had no desire to let Wilde see me half-dressed and beg his favor to lace it. I took the fit of the dress as another reminder of how, even months later, my illness had left me diminished. As I fastened the last of the many small buttons on the front of the jersey, it occurred to me to wonder how Wilde had come by a dress so perfectly sized for me, and once I had left my bed-room I asked him straight out. "I cannot say that I care for the style, but it does fit quite well," I admitted, "However did you come by a dress so completely matched to me?"

"I did not," Wilde replied, without looking up from where he was sitting.

He was in the chair closest to the fireplace, poring over a thick black-bound volume, which he jammed a scrap of blotting paper into and shut, turning his attention to me. "It was one of the errands I attended to last night, altering a dress in my possession to your size. Seeing you before me, I will make no attempts at modesty and say that I have done so perfectly."

"You altered the dress yourself?" I asked in wonder, "How did you know my size?"

"I have a certain talent with my paws," he remarked, yawning widely, "And an eye for detail."

At his yawn I was struck by another question. "Have you slept at all?"

Indeed, his eyes, half-lidded as usual, had bags underneath them, and it could not have been a simple task to alter the dress. It seemed a more reasonable conclusion to assume that he had started with a dress intended for an entirely different species than to assume that he had a dress intended for a bunny. Moreover, even if his starting point had been a bunny's dress, I was tall and—at the moment—unusually slender for my species, which both would have had to have been accounted for. "I can go without sleep for days, if I must, while I am on a case," Wilde replied, "Though I think that I shall drop into a nap while you are at your task. All of that is besides the point, however. I see that our carriage has arrived, so I shall explain en route."

Inside the hansom, he passed me two more articles, remarking, "I am afraid that I shall have to ask you to substitute your cane and doctor's bag with these, in case Mr. Goredian proves to be more observant than most."

Wilde had provided an umbrella and a clutch that matched the dress he had provided. "The upper class, you see, is rather concerned about fashion, and even those of us nowhere near their lofty heights may notice the details marking a pretender."

I hefted the umbrella doubtfully, but was pleasantly surprised to realize that it was solidly made and quite capable of substituting for my regular cane. The clutch contained an elaborately embroidered handkerchief, a small but beautifully beaded purse with an assortment of coins in it, and an engraved silver case for calling cards. I retrieved the last of these and opened it. There were perhaps half a dozen calling cards, all identical, printed on fine card stock the color of bone. In embossed letters, the cards read simply, "Mrs. Thaddeus Cotton."

"Who, pray tell, is Mrs. Thaddeus Cotton?" I asked, though I suspected that I knew the answer.

"You, of course," Wilde replied, "I said that I would explain and I shall."

I leaned forward a hair, curious as to what machinations he had in mind. "Let us consider the options that were before us," he began, "It would be quite impossible for me to interview Mr. Goredian, as he would not lower himself to answer questions from a fox. If you were to question him yourself, with your motives undisguised, he may be less than forthcoming, particularly as you are not an officer of the law."

"Surely Inspector Trunkaby could have joined this little venture," I interjected, seeing an obvious hole in his logic.

"She would never deign to allow me to lead," he replied, "She has far too much self-importance for that."

It struck me as a peculiar bit of hypocrisy for Wilde to consider some other mammal self-important. "I can see how that would create a problem," I said dryly.

"Therefore, a simple ruse should be sufficient to obtain the information which I need. As soon as you step out of this cab, you are Amelia Cotton, wife of Mr. Thaddeus Cotton. The two of you are members of the nouveau riche, having recently moved from the country to the city to see to the needs of your business."

"What business would that be?" I asked.

Wilde shrugged. "I would suggest oil, but it could be whatsoever you desire so long as it is believable that a pair of country bunnies could amass a fortune from it. Mr. Goredian has had, I am sure, many dealings with wealthy and paranoid mammals, and should he believe you to be upstarts it will go a long way towards excusing your accent and any errors in your manners."

"You forget that I served in the army," I said, with no small measure of annoyance, "My manners are impeccable."

"For an army officer, perhaps, but surely you can recall fellow officers from, shall we say, a higher social standing?"

I could. In fact, an officer such as I had been, having neither family fortune nor so much as a drop of noble blood, was very much looked down upon by those who did. In my first week of training, I had heard more than one of my fellows remark that only the nobility had the inborn qualities necessary to serve as an officer, a comment usually pointedly made within earshot of those of us from more common stock. The shared suffering of our training had evoked some small amount of esprit de corps, but there was no mistaking those from higher up the social strata. I conceded the point, "Very well. But to what purpose is this charade?"

"I have not finished your background," Wilde replied with what I imagined to be mock severity, "Last night, thieves attempted to rob your mansion. In the ensuing fracas, you twisted your ankle while your servants beat back the forces of villainy, and you have to-day made haste to purchase the finest safe or lock box made by mammalkind to ensure the continued safety of your valuables."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow at his somewhat grandiose explanation. It explained, rather neatly, why a relatively young and supposedly wealthy mammal would walk with a limp and appear so frayed; he meant to play my still sickly appearance as the result of a horrid shock rather than illness. "That seems a bit overdone," I remarked.

"Hardly so," Wilde replied, "For, especially if you can give the impression of tears, I have no doubt that Mr. Goredian shall tell you anything you wish to hear in order to convince you that his is the company from which you should purchase that safe."

I could admire the devious end to which the fox had turned his natural gift for deception. "What are you hoping that I learn?"

"Anything and everything that you can," Wilde said, "I will sift through whatever you can tell me and separate the wheat from the chaff. Everything shall ride upon your skills as an actress; if you do not believe yourself up to the task I shall have the carriage turn back now."

I was somewhat doubtful that Wilde had ever separated wheat from chaff in the literal sense, as I had, but I had already seen him use his remarkable gift to derive conclusions that appeared obvious after the fact but relied on details most would overlook. I will admit to no small eagerness to see him display his talent again, although it was a fine thing for him to question my preparedness so close to the critical juncture. My skills at pageantry were limited to those I had acquired as a kit and were not, perhaps, up to the standard my companion seemed to desire, but I would try nonetheless. "I mean to see this through," I said firmly.

As our carriage brought us into view of the Rain-Forest District, I let out an involuntary gasp of awe. The reader may think it a sign of my country upbringing, but I would challenge anyone not raised in Zootopia to see it as I did and not be moved. Neither New Yak City, that modern upstart, nor Romulus, that long-standing and self-declared Caput Mundi, had anything that I think could compare. In the light of the rising sun, the Rain-Forest District glowed like an immense ruby, the tremendous structure of wrought iron and glass that stood atop the canyon below catching the sun's rays. The elegant and seemingly impossibly fragile ridge-and-furrow design of the world's largest greenhouse only added to the resemblance of some spectacular jewel.

My reaction did not go unnoticed by my companion, who chuckled at my reaction. "You have never been this way at sunrise or sunset before, I suppose?" he said, smiling indulgently.

I could not take my eyes off the District as we approached. "Never," I said, "I have gone during the day, but I have never seen it as it is now."

"Then you have missed quite the treat," he said.

Once the carriage was within the confines of the Rain-Forest District, there was no mistaking it for any other location within the city. The air was hot and humid, the glass of the canopy that trapped the sun's rays and the steam pipes that ran throughout the District conspiring together to give what I assumed was an incredible level of verisimilitude to the imitation of a natural rain forest. The carriage took the long, circuitous path that wound its way around the edges of the canyon towards the ground far below at the bottom, passing by a multitude of homes and businesses carved into the rock of the canyon walls. In the light of the rising sun, the Ratenbach Falls, which flowed down the walls of one side of the canyon, made spectacular rainbows. I had seen the falls when I had previously visited the district and been amazed by their height; it must have been near to a thousand feet from the top of the canyon to the bottom. I spied also the cables and gondolas that marked a more rapid means of ascent and descent than that offered by taking the path down.

I resolved to visit again on some other day to view the sunrise from one of those gondolas; I could only imagine how spectacular it would be to view suspended over the large tropical park that formed nearly an eighth of the canyon floor.

The carriage stopped suddenly, perhaps three-quarters of the way down, and I saw that we had reached our destination. A sign bolted into the rock of the wall read, "Goredian Lock & Safe Co." in large gilt letters above smaller ones that read "Est. 1853."

"It is here that our paths must part," Wilde said, "Please do keep in mind what I have told you. And do not purchase a safe unless it is absolutely necessary; I doubt poor Trunkaby could afford the expense."

I accepted the carriage driver's hoof to step out of the hansom and steeled my resolve.

Author's Notes: I had planned on this chapter delving into Judy's investigation, but during editing made the decision that a little more set up and world building was necessary, and getting in some more character bits would help too.

My description of the dress that Judy is given to wear is, to the best of my ability, the description of something that would be fashionable in 1881. In the early 1880s, narrow skirts and tight-fitting button up sweaters worn over a corset were the style, although the skirts became increasingly large and elaborate as the 1880s went on; towards the end of the period, a fashionable orange dress really would have made a woman resemble a pumpkin. I can't imagine wearing a tight-fitting dress with a heavy skirt and a corset to be very comfortable, and given Judy's nature it makes sense to be less than pleased with it.

In this story, I've tried to keep the level of technology roughly equal to what it was in the real world at the time. One of the major changes, therefore, is how the city would work in terms of having different districts. With Victorian-level technology, I just don't think it would be feasible to make a rain forest in London that is open to the air. Actually, it probably still wouldn't be feasible. In any case, in this story the Rain-Forest District takes inspiration from the Crystal Palace, an enormous greenhouse that was built for the 1851 Great Exhibition and unfortunately burned down in 1936. I'm not a civil engineer, but building a giant greenhouse over a canyon seemed like a plausible way to still have a different biome without having to hand-wave away how it was possible.