The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities

He looked around the far-too-small kitchen, where even if he hunched over, the tips of his ears scraped the ceiling. He touched the stool that creaked underneath him and glanced across the table at the tiny, bird-boned woman with the silvering hair. “I do not know their ways,” said Liam.

Mrs. Wells stroked his cheek like she had when he was small. “Then go to the big city down east. All manner of folk live there. All manner of different customs. Maybe there’ll be a place for you, too.”

Liam nodded, knowing that she was right. “I will leave in the morning,” he said.

Mrs. Wells packed up cheese, bread, apples, preserves, and sausages for his journey. Mr. Wells gave Liam five shiny dollar coins to get him started. John gave him a fishing pole so he’d be able to catch some lunch any time he wanted. Toby gave him a Bible and a flask of the strong liquor they distilled from potato peels. It wasn’t a small flask, but in Liam’s paw, it might as well have been a thimble.

“Where’s Charlotte?” Liam asked. “Won’t she come and kiss me good-bye?”

“She’s taking this very hard,” Mr. Wells said. “Feels responsible.”

“Is she very hurt?” asked Liam, thinking of the marks on her face. Wondering if they would scar. Wondering how it would be for her if they did, for she was thought of as a great beauty and much admired. Would that change?

“She’ll get better,” said John. “Lottie knows you didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“And we all know she’s not vain,” said Toby, which made Liam feel even worse. Toby’s mouth lifted on one side. “I wager you’ll always be her favorite.”

“Tell her,” Liam said in his deep, growling voice. “Tell her that I will write.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Wells, neither of them mentioning that mail took ages to find its way up to their town.

He embraced them, one by one. He tried to be as gentle as he could, tried not to crush them against him, tried not to press his nose against their necks as he drew the scent of them into his lungs one final time.

Then, sack of food tied to the fishing pole, fishing pole slung over his shoulder, Liam started the long journey south.

He walked for half the day, stopping to eat everything Mrs. Wells had packed for him. His stomach hurt less, but self-pity still gnawed at his gut.

That night, he slept under the stars. A cool breeze tickled his fur, his ears twitched, and he could almost imagine that he had always lived this way. He was tempted to throw away his rod and flask, to strip off his clothes, and never to walk upright again.

It thrilled him and made him afraid, all at once.

For three days and three nights, he journeyed thus. He spoke no words on his journey—there was no one to speak to—and although sometimes the smells of humans and woodsmoke gusted toward him, they were being replaced with the vivid smells of crushed pine needles and the clotted sap of trees.

One morning, he stopped at a river to catch his breakfast. Slowly, he waded into the water on all fours, the bright, bubbling river shockingly, joyously cold. He felt every pebble against the pads of his paws. He reached out to sweep a silvery fish into the air, where he knew he would catch it between his teeth. Just then, the wind changed directions, blowing a familiar scent to his twitching nose.

He stood and lumbered into the woods.

Charlotte was running toward him, wrapped in the fur of his mother, the cloak’s lining as bright as blood. A dirty and tear-stained bandage still covered her face.

Her eyes went wide.

For a moment, he imagined roaring up and striking her down. He imagined chewing her up, sinew and bones. He imagined being a bear and nothing more.

Then he remembered himself.

“Charlotte,” he said, his voice cracking with disuse. Three long days in the forest had almost made him lose his human speech.

She was shivering with cold. She went to him and pressed herself against him, so that, with her cloak, he didn’t know where he ended and she began.

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, trying not to rest his claws against her, even gently. He was apologizing for what was beneath the bandages, but also for the terrible thoughts he tried to put out of his mind. “Very, truly sorry.”

“What you are is wet,” she said, with a laugh. “And your nose is cold.”

With those words, he knew he was forgiven.

He gathered wood and Charlotte made a fire, talking the whole time. She told him about her plan to sneak out and come with him. She told him how cleverly she’d snuck out of the house with her little suitcase and waited for him by the ford in the road. But, as time passed, she realized he must have taken a different road entirely. She headed out after him, thinking she might yet catch him, but by nightfall, although she was sure she was following the right road, there was no sign of Liam.

“And such sounds the night makes!” she told him. “I was sure I was going to be eaten up by wolves. I barely slept a wink!”

Her relief was so great that she couldn’t stop talking. His happiness was so great that he was content to listen.

“But why did you come?” he asked finally.