The Owl led Greg deeper into the forest, where the winter was hiding and defying the spring. In some forgotten places the snow managed to reach his waist, which prompted Jason Funderburker to escape the hitherto safe positions on the inside of Greg's coat and climb on top of his head. They crossed a small frozen stream, where Greg attempted a few ice-skating tricks and got a bit carried away, both literally and metaphorically. The Owl instructively reminded him that there wasn't time for follies, which made him almost happy Wirt wasn't there, as those two would have made a boredom brigade of unstoppable power.

"Where are we going anyway?" he asked as they were skirting another hill, this time a considerably less imposing one.

"We shall reach Llewellyn's Gift before sunset."

"Whose gift? Will he share?"

"It's a placename," explained the Owl patiently. "Llewellyn's Gift is a small valley just beyond Silverwood. There is a hidden cottage where we shall meet some of the other Guardians, and they will decide what to do and how to protect you."

"Uh."

As Greg decided not to elaborate, the bird had to ask him:

"Is there something wrong?"

"Well, you know, Beatrice told us she'd get us to this kind helpful lady called Adelaide, but she turned out to be a nasty witch. Adelaide, not Beatrice, I mean – Beatrice was kind of all right despite all that… I'd love to have her here with us, you know," he mused. "Beatrice, not Adelaide."

"I am sure wherever she is, she wishes the same. And I can swear on my very life that I am not taking you to any witch nor planning to come out as one."

Greg uh-ed once more, which was his wordless opinion on birds' vows, but this time the Owl decided not to keep the fire of the dialogue going. She wasn't a very conversational bird, just like the actual owls, and she bored him to death by nagging him to go faster instead of ice-skating or playing snowballs. Greg, however, wasn't going to charge her with evildoing on such a flimsy evidence. He decided to keep his eyes open instead, and comforted himself with the knowledge that if he survived the Beast, he can definitely survive a suspicious solemn owl.

"Whatever happened to you anyway?" enquired Greg. "Why on earth did you think throwing rocks at an owl was a good idea?"

The Owl looked confused.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I mean, to be turned into an owl you must have…"

He was interrupted by a thin, nasty snigger – Jamie Douglas from his class produced a noise like that all the time, and it infuriated everyone around him, which, Greg supposed, was why he persisted with it. Jamie Douglas, though, had never had the chance to surprise anyone with that snigger in a supposedly empty forest where no sunlight dwelled, so Greg gasped and took a step back, anxiously looking around and seeing no-one.

"Who's there?" hooted the Owl sharply. "Show yourself!"

She descended and spread her wings defensively around Greg, or, depending on one's interpretation, hid behind his back.

The mysterious stranger whistled in appreciation – a mocking sound that seemed to come from every side at once. Then a sly, melodious voice with no obvious source started singing – first quietly, but steadily gaining volume.

Check your locks

And count your flock

See that you don't fall to a hoax, good sir.

Unleash your dogs

And wind your clocks

And don't ever listen to my coax, good sir…

The playfulness of the song and the performance didn't do much to hide the implied threat. Even fearless Greg swallowed a lump in his throat, while Jason Funderburker burrowed as deep as he could into the side pocket of the boy's jacket – only his thin, webbed feet remained outside, jerking wildly.

Deep dark Nox

Sees chicks and cocks

Scared of their shadows and wily old Fox, good sir.

Croaks and mocks,

And creeps, and stalks,

And robs you down to the last pair of socks, good sirrrrrwhat have we here?

The ingratiating voice with a hint of a strange accent effortlessly turned the last line into a question without breaking the rhythm. "Here" coincided with the appearance of its master: from somewhere between the trees which seemed to grow too close to each other to allow anyone slip past them, emerged a tall, graceful figure of a Fox. The Fox wore a sleek blue coat, a long yellow scarf that fluttered behind him like a banner, and the most magnificent black fedora Greg had ever seen. Under the hat there was a maniacally grinning muzzle, and two emerald-green eyes shone wildly in the near darkness of the forest.

"You," was how the Owl greeted him, disdain dominating her voice.

"Me," the Fox simply answered, grinning even more widely. "And if it isn't our little feathery Guardian – and, as it happens, guarding. Whom might you be guarding, my dear? You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"Owl, who's that?" Greg narrowed his eyes in what he perceived to be as threatening an expression as a human being can possibly produce.

"Yes, let us be introduced to one another!" the Fox cried in jubilance, spinning around in place. Or not quite in place – Greg had a nasty suspicion that just before the pirouette the Fox had been a good couple of feet further away from them. "My name is Monsieur Renard – an adventurer, an entrepreneur, a fantastic specimen in every possible aspect. Your name, on the other hand, is the Key to Riches, Wonders and Powers. Nice to meet you, Key! Please tell me you're glad to meet me, too."

"I'm actually Gregory," said the newly-named, taking a step back and feeling the Owl do the same. "And I'm not glad, because you're creepy."

"Oh, it seems I am too late to the party," the Fox waved his paw in exasperation and performed a ridiculous somersault, gaining a little bit more ground. "You've clearly spent too much time with this tedious no-good bird."

"I met her a couple of hours ago!"

"Like I said: too much," Monsieur Renard flashed a smile of sparse, sharp, snow-white teeth. He took another step forward. "Come with me, young man. I'll show you the Unknown like you've never seen it before! We'll take the world and give it back and make it ours again! We'll booze and carouse on that old windbag's treasure for days and weeks!"

"I'm too small to booze and carouse." Greg was all reason.

"Well… I can booze and carouse for both of us," the Fox assured him. "Boozing and carousing is generally not a problem. What I need is that small, Beast-ridden hand of yours to procure my, m-m… how shall we put it… share of the inheritance. Which is, as it happens, all of the inheritance."

"I'd rather not, you know."

"So young and so impolite," the Fox made a face. "In this case, I suppose…"

Before Greg could hear what Monsieur Renard supposed, the well-dressed predator lunged forward in a murderous blur, his scarf blazing a trail behind him. Greg wouldn't even have a chance to be scared properly if not for the Owl, who pushed him down in the snow and just as quickly rushed to meet the attack, thrusting her talons forward like daggers. For all her taciturnity, this time she gave out a piercing screech that must have reached the farthest corners of the forest. The Fox lost his fedora, grunted and shuffled back, seemingly unprepared for the repulse, but as the Owl attempted to hit him with her beak, he deftly evaded it and counterattacked with his deceptively slender paw, and the impact sent the bird spinning into the snow.

The Fox howled, a mixture of joy and blood-thirst and anything Greg was too scared to discern, and threw a mad glance at the boy, but in doing so he allowed the Owl the time to recover her balance. She rushed towards Renard and latched onto his back, furiously pecking his head and neck with her powerful beak. The Fox threw himself on the ground and rolled around to shake her off, and the Owl screeched again and again, madly flapping her wings, and out of that mad confusion of feathers, fur and snow one word reached Greg's freezing ears:

"Run!"

And he did just that, ploughing through the snow as fast as his legs would take him and not daring to look back.