Her laughter dances like low music through the dark. Whatever fear caught at her mind evaporates, and Caneo watches it go without ever knowing its source. Tandavi closes the distance between them in increments, and Caneo watches her nightlight cast its long, sharp fingers through the dark. She carries it like a beacon of truth; it shines beautifully, but obscures the moonlight, all the same. Warm golden pools glimmer in the metallic sheen of his coat when at last the girl speaks. “You look like the moon.”

        A little whoosh of air draws suddenly into his lungs; Caneo’s head jerks up and he stares, surprise written boldly across his face. He knows he is nothing like the moon; she is beautiful and ever-changing, reliable only in her inconsistency, and she hangs heavy in the sky behind him. For the briefest instant he frowns, tilts an eye back at the heavens. Then abruptly it falls over him – a joke! She must be joking; graciously he laughs, a strange high sound ringing its surprised complement to the deeper music of her voice. Possessed by mirth he ignores the kitsune, ignores his own sense of decorum, and allows himself a moment of pleasure.

        Too soon, the boy seizes silence again and collects himself. Something bright still glimmers in his eyes though, when he looks at her – appreciation – wonder. She wears gold light like a halo; her entourage of sparks looks less to him like stars and more like the hazy aura of a wildfire, reckless and unpredictable. As he collects himself, Caneo studies her face with a grave sort of dignity. “What were you doing?” she wonders aloud. She is always asking questions like that; he recalls their last meeting going much the same way, only then he was confused and now – now he stands with his mask slipping off, blue eyes bright and quite amused.

        Caneo draws in a slow breath and tilts his muzzle heavenward. Any other day he would have lied – lies are easy and fast. But now – tonight – his blood beats as if some child in the back of his mind still lives. “I was looking at the stars,” he says honestly. Perhaps it sounds like a rebuttal. Perhaps, in this world of Helovia, such a statement sounds less like I was praying and more like go away. His tail stirs quietly behind him as he searches for the words to clarify. “My grandfather told me no one can ever get lost if he knows how to talk to them.” He thinks of the old man, of ridged scars and cold eyes, of voices carrying across black water. One of his ears tilts back to paint his narrow features with the slightest frown. “He said at night, no one is ever alone.” With a sigh, the boy shakes his head, lamenting the errors of wisdom and the tragedies of the brave. It is not a story for telling, in his mind; it is not a story worth remembering, and yet it lingers in him like a wound.

        “Where I used to live, everyone was alone,” he explains. “But here...” His pale eyes fall toward Natraj, seeing less of the kitune’s truth and more the idea of it, the bond it represents. He only half understands such a thing. “You always have him, don’t you? A Time Mender in the Aurora Basin told me that.” He thinks of Lena and Imogen, and unhappily of Roland’s gentle voice. The thief had been alone, as well; had he been lonely? Caneo wishes suddenly to burn them all out of his mind. He recoils, outwardly calm, though he steps back from Tandavi’s circle of light – a single pace.

        “Were you looking for something?” he wonders. His voice rings a little colder now, a little quieter. He is not angry but he does not wish to burden her with the black things weighing down his guts. He does not wish to frighten her again; she is a daughter of the sun while he knows only moonlight and running away.