The True Confessions of a Nine-Tailed Fox

Bureau of Reincarnation

Hall of Vermilion Clouds, Heaven

“These are the true confessions of a nine-tailed fox.”

“No, they’re not,” Flicker said without thinking.

At the words, Piri’s eyes narrowed. She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and gave him the sort of look that could freeze an emperor.

That had frozen an emperor.

Late at night, in Flicker’s cubbyhole office in the Bureau of Reincarnation, she’d reverted to her favorite form: a graceful human female with ivory skin, teak-brown eyes, camellia-red lips, and ink-black hair. Plus nine bushy, auburn tails.

“And why are they not?” she asked. Draped over the back and sides of her chair, her tails swished with displeasure. Or curiosity. Or amusement. With her, it was hard to tell.

Dropping his eyes, Flicker got back to grinding his inkstick. Goodness knew he was going to need a lot of ink if she wanted him to write down her confessions. True or otherwise. “Well…you’re a fox spirit. You…edit. And embellish. And I’m fairly certain you intend to leave out all the important details.”

She let her shoulders slump a little: enough to convey pathos, not enough to spoil her silhouette. “Well, of course,” she said, pushing her lips out in a pout. “And I never said these were going to be my complete confessions, just my true ones.”

“Uh….” Flicker was about to point out the holes in her logic when she dimpled at him. Gold sparks flitted across her irises, and he blinked, unsure what they were arguing about or why anyone would ever argue with her in the first place.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re just a clerk,” she soothed, and somehow, coming from her, it sounded like high praise. “Focus on your paperwork. Leave the rest to me.”

The gold sparks flared, and he blinked again, trying to clear away an impression of fireflies and tranquil summer nights and sitting by the Jade Pool while the star children played….

“Have I mentioned how much I hate it when you charm me?” he asked. But there was no real heat in the complaint.

“Maybe once every century?” She twisted her lips into a wry smile, then noticed what his hands had been doing. “Don’t add too much water to your ink,” she reminded him. “You know you hate it when it’s too light. And then I’ll have to listen to you grumble about poetry and art and poets who take art too far.”

It was true, though, thought Flicker as he set down his pitcher. Certain of his colleagues favored faint, running calligraphy that faded even as you viewed it – something about capturing the experience of mortal ephemerality – which he found frankly absurd. If they really wanted to experience the ephemeral nature of mortal existence, they could enter the cycle of reincarnation themselves. Or, as a starting point, not write down their tired, hackneyed poems. But no one ever listened to him.

Except Piri. Sometimes.

With a sigh, he picked up his brush. “Let’s get started, shall we? Before the Bureau opens?”

She straightened, imperious again. “I already told you how to start. Write it down this time.” Staring past his shoulder, she recited, “These are the true confessions of a nine-tailed fox. At least, as true as I know how to make them. So take them as you will….”