Snow was lounging under a tree in a rare moment of contentment as she teased a tiny fox with the end of one of her long braids. The little animal tried to pounce on her hair, on her hand, tried to follow the thing that tickled, and she actually laughed. Soft and warm, not harsh and jangling and mocking as most of her laughter was. She laughed when she was wounded more than when she was pleased.

She gathered him up on her belly and he chewed on her finger, not hard enough to break skin. Snow remembered her own dear fox Thompson back home who had chewed on everything and followed her faithfully. She knew that had meant I love you.