"An appealing combination of animal magic and low-key hero fantasy." — Kirkus Reviews Shadow the fox does not trust humans. Well, except for Nan, who feeds her chunks of fish behind a lakeside motel every night. When Nan goes missing, a man from the mysterious Whistlenorth Island comes ashore to seek the aid of Nan’s granddaughter, Bee, whom he thinks is destined not only to help Nan, but also to save Whistlenorth from the greedy and destructive Night Islanders. The plans go topsy-turvy when it becomes obvious that Bee does not have the magic powers of a chosen one—but Shadow does! Can a fox really rescue an island of people? As Shadow grudgingly comes to trust her new human companions, she and Bee develop a mystical bond, a special connection between human and animal that might be the key to driving the Night Islanders from Whistlenorth for good. This enchanting adventure is narrated by Shadow herself, whose mind is unflinchingly “fox” and whose spirit is charming and bold. Sorosiak illustrates the threats that jeopardize the environment and the power of nature to heal all ills in this touching tale narrated by sharp and witty Shadow. —Publishers Weekly As Shadow navigates the dangerous territories of trust and power, the fox has a compelling voice that’s prickly, proud, and subtly funny. The book convincingly depicts a singular brand of northern, woodsy, wild magic. An appealing combination of animal magic and low-key hero fantasy. —Kirkus Reviews Carlie Sorosiak is the author of the acclaimed novels Always , Clementine ; I , Cosmo ; and Leonard (My Life as a Cat) , as well as the picture books Everywhere with You , illustrated by Devon Holzwarth, and Books Aren’t for Eating , illustrated by Manu Montoya. She lives in Georgia with her husband and their American dingo. Chapter 1: The Girl Without the Fish How many foxes have you met? Probably not many. That’s for the best. Most foxes don’t want to speak with you. Not you in particular. I’m sure you’re perfectly okay. But humans can be very hard to like. Unless they give you fish. Or trout. Which is a kind of fish. Now, you might be thinking that this story is about fish. Many good stories are. Generally speaking, though, foxes do not like stories unless they’re about foxes. Luckily, this one is. I am a fox, if you haven’t already guessed. My name is YAAARRRRAAAWWWAAAAAARRR. You say it with a screech, like when you’re about to pounce on a rabbit in the snow. I also have another name, which is much easier for humans to pronounce because it’s a human word. I can’t tell you that name up front. It would ruin the story. Which is about foxes. So it’s a good one. Listen closely. It starts with the night I met the girl. You can picture that night if you try hard enough. Part of the sky is black, like fox paws, and the rest is stuffed with stars. Pebbly blue stars, as round as eggs in a nest. This far north, they’re bright—the brightest. They can light the way through a storm. I need those stars. I mean, look at me! Look at how little fur I have left, how thin I am. I need all the help I can get. Flattening my eyes to slits, I try to block out the snowflakes. Wet chunks thwick against my lashes and thwack against my back, leaving damp patches on my skin. Icicles cling to the tiniest fur-tufts on my belly. I used to like this kind of weather, but now? Bleh! Pssh! Each gasp of wind through the birch trees is a sliver in my side. Here, in this part of the world, the weather changes so quickly, and the cold is colder than cold. When you breathe out, smoke hangs in the air. Still, I’m trotting along, light-footed. Each paw-step is like the forest itself: quiet, quiet, quiet. That’s how foxes are supposed to move. We’re not supposed to be seen, not supposed to be heard. We’re supposed to be in our own worlds. And fast . That’s another thing. We’re made to be swifter than swift, a streak of orange in the night. I try to pick up the pace, toward the extra light flickering through the trees. Oh, hah! Ga-hah! I squeal to myself, almost chuckling, because I know that flicker! It’s a good flicker! Warm yellow light pulses over cold blue snow. That means Nan has the porch light on. She’s waiting for me. Must be! Nan, the woman in the woolly sweater, always feeds me. With her soft humming and her gentle fingers that smell vaguely of birds, she is the only human I don’t hate. She brings out trays of sliced trout: little chunks that I can shove into my mouth and nom-nom. My hope rises along with my brush. Because I’m hungry. So very hungry. It’s been three days since I’ve had a big meal, and I feel every hour of it. A gnaw grows in the hollow of my belly. Nan will solve that! She’ll feed me, and I’ll eat the fish, and the gnaw will be no more. A pep in my step, I weave past the spruce and the fir trees before the forest spits me out directly in front of the motel. The white stack of lumber with the darkened windows and the bright-blue doors is a den for h