Every year at Candlemas, great drifts of snow-drops bloomed across Old Fox's village – miraculous, unadorned, pilt into the pale February sunlight from the dark, moleish earth below. In the churchyard around the graves and by the yew trees, across the green, in cottage gardens and under wayside oaks, they bowed their delicate heads and quickened hope in every heart and every weary soul. Lady Mary's Fair Maids, Grey Brock called them, here to herald the spring and fare ye well to Christmas for another season in this old and stormy world.

Old Fox had found a snow goose in the frozen fields which led down to the sea. She was dying. Her beautiful long neck was twisted and her dark eyes were swollen. He stayed with her until the end, trying to soothe her. She was very confused, but managed to tell him a little about her family, a little about her life, how far she had travelled, from the wild freedoms of Greenland, come south on a whim with some other geese, to visit the great sights at Abbotsbury. Afterwards, he stood guard for a long while, desperately upset, the goose's little white feathered form so heavy in the snow. He watched her delicate soul breaks its silvered bounds, soaring up through the ice-cold air, and then away, far, far away beyond the rough green winter waves. Then and only then, Old Fox wiped his eyes, pulled himself together and went home to call the doctor.

When Wolf and Old Fox arrived home, there was an enormous parcel waiting for Wolf. It had only just been delivered, carried by the London train, and Babcia and Pine Marten rushed to tell them as soon as they came in, cold-nosed and bright eyed from their walk. Wolf was so excited he had a funny turn and started racing around and panicking and had to be calmed with some cocoa. When he'd recovered, they opened the box. Inside was an equally enormous wicker hamper, filled with straw and marvellous things hidden inside like monk's gold hidden in hay stacks. Wolf took each treasure out very carefully, with trembling paws and laid them on the rug in the parlour, so eventually there was a long serpentine row of wonders. And what wonders they were! A Christmas cake, jewelled with marzipan holly and a chocolate cake, decorated with a march of miniature polar bears and a scatter of gold like the Arctic sky. A fancy silk box of chocolate oak leaves. A whole Leicestershire stilton. A great dark plum pudding, rich with French brandy. Jars of thyme honey from Mount Hymettus, the colour of Levantine copper. A warm scarf knitted in the softest silvery wool. Crystallised figs and apricots and medlars. Walnut crackers - three boxes deftly decorated with festively-dressed rabbits playing trumpets and harpsichords and violas. King's Blend tea made for Edward VII and Consort Coffee made for Prince Albert. And Wolf's favourite treat of all, a gold-rimmed cup painted with a handsome wolf holding a fluttering banner which read "Happiest of Birthdays to You!". But who is it from? asked everyone. There was no accompanying card, no indication of origin of any kind. "A best person," said Wolf, "that's who. A best person of all." And with that, he put on his scarf and opened the chocolate leaves, making sure Pine Marten had first choice.

The Fox of Greenwich Village walked down to the coffee shop. He hadn't slept. The worst had happened. The owner usually sung opera as he worked. Today, he wasn't even there, just one of his children, who looked tired. The Fox sat at his favourite seat and thought about what had happened, but he couldn't frame the pieces in his mind, they mismatched and refused to cohere. The door opened and shut, orders were made, first cigarettes lit. He thought about the smallness of his life, his music, his writing, his apartment, and wondered what anyone could do. He sighed and put his head in his paws. "No, no, no. Don't despair, don't give up," said a voice suddenly behind him, an old badger who'd been sitting at the counter, a professor he'd seen around from time to time, at poetry readings and parties. "We become the light, now, Fox, we become the light, the fire, the unquenchable flame, the kindling hope. There is no-one else. Remember that, we are all that will hold the line, there is no-one else." And with that, the badger paid his bill, picked up his stick and was gone, into the heavy autumn light, into the push and bustle of the street, without even waiting for a reply.

The Fox of Greenwich Village had cast his vote late that afternoon and now he couldn't settle. He sat on the low window-sill, drank whisky from a gold-rimmed tea cup, and watched the street in all its confusion and worldliness. Above, a cold arched moon tipped in the November sky and he simply couldn't remember if it was waxing or waning, darkening or brightening, but somehow that comforted him. If everything went wrong, it would right itself eventually, a vast full moon, as bright as honey, would soar one night above it all, and even the darkest, knife-soured alleys would glitter with silvered, gathered dust.

It was end of July, Lammas-tide had come, and the hay and the corn harvests were being gathered in all around the little hamlet. Despite her nerves and delicate constitution, Mouse wanted desperately to be part of it all, part of the great collective dance of scythe and fork, so Bear's Sisters laid blankets at the edge of the field, under the shade of an apple tree. As the hamlet folk worked, she sat and watched, looking after the precious vittles – the pasties and seed-cakes and bread and cheese, and the cool flasks of buttermilk and stone bottles and jars of ginger beer and cider. After the laughter and chatter of luncheon, she fell asleep, curled up by the yellow fleabane and the silver mugwort. Above, a stately buzzard circled in the cloudless sky, an old friend of Old Fox and no harm to Mouse. The Bears and hamlet folk waved to him and his wings dipped gold and rust in the heavy, still air.