The wedding is three months away. Yesterday, Fred put an offer on the house of his dreams. Gabby looks around her apartment at the clutter of objects and the piles of moving boxes waiting to be filled and tries to skip over all the spaces where the men from narrow houses are tucked away. They dangle their feet over the top of her refrigerator, peek out from behind the futon and under the bed. They fold themselves into corners and behind her potted Amaryllis and curl around the blades of the now-still ceiling fan.

Gabby moves around the apartment, lifting things and putting them down. They're all familiar, but did they ever really belong to her?

Where were you before you were here?

Gabby breathes condensation on the window and writes the words with the tip of her finger. Then she crosses off the last 'e'.

She must have a good reason for marrying Fred. But no matter how she tries to jam them together in her mind, the pieces don't fit; she is jagged where Fred is smooth, she is hollow where he is full. He is safe, which is something she thought she wanted to be, but now she isn't so sure.

In the kitchen, Gabby opens the junk drawer and upends it on the table. The men from narrow houses peer over her shoulder, watching her with hungry, precious-metal eyes.

Gabby sorts elastic bands and thumbtacks, boxes of matches and spools of tape. It's the least important part of her life to deal with as she prepares to pack up and leave, and thus the only one that interests her now. She imagines Fred tsking at her when he arrives to cook her dinner, after she spent all day filling boxes and hauling things around.

Gabby finds a skein of ribbon the color of rust, and a scatter of buttons that aren't just the color of old bone.

Count your fingers, count your toes. Count your buttons, count your bows.

She winds the ribbon around her hands. Over and under, finger to finger, finger to thumb, binding them tight. No longer a hand, more like a paw. Gabby has the urge to knot the ribbon around her toes, wrapping them in silk, changing their shape and coloring them dark as old blood. She wants to press the buttons into her skin, a line of them like teeth, waiting to be undone. A magic trick; what will step out of the girl's skin when the doors of her ribs are opened, the secret revealed?

Once upon a time she was a fox inside the skin of a girl, or the other way around. Both. Neither. She knew how to change, flicker quick, no need for a magician and his star-spangled cabinet. She buttoned herself into her lovely fox skin and strutted around town with a ribboned top hat and a wicked grin. Fox and girl, one and the same. Until she met the men from narrow houses on the road.

Except they were only one man then. They hadn't learned to split themselves infinitely yet. Their eyes weren't old coins, and their smiles weren't sharp slices of fruit.

They were hurt. They were broken. She would have passed by, tipping her hat, swishing her tail, but they cried. Oh, how they cried, a piteous, yipping thing. They smelled like kin. An uncle with flame-colored fur.

"Help me. Oh help me, please," they said with only one mouth, reddened with blood. They looked like a man, but she could see the fox inside them.

"What do you need, uncle?" She doffed her hat, holding it in one hand and sweeping a low bow.

"My skin, oh my skin," he cried.

He smelled like her, but wrong—blood instead of flame, stillness instead of flicker quick change. He stretched out a hand, pointing. Dirt under his nails, earth streaking his arms.

"My skin, my skin," went his yipping cry, fox and human, sobbing both.

Where he pointed she saw something snagged in a tree. Skin in the shape of a fox, but burning, like a leaf clinging to the branch, colored with autumn flame. Already turning from bright to ash, charcoaled bits streaming in the wind.

"Who did this to you, uncle?" She crouched low.

"They were frightened of me," he said, his voice smoke-hoarse. He wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand. "They called me devil, but they killed me all wrong. They buried me upside down, and burned my skin. They should have buried my skin and burned my bones. I dug myself back out of the earth. Oh, it was a long crawl, and I lost so many things along the way."

He held his hand up again, pleading, showing her again the crescent-moon smiles of dirt under his nails. She placed her hat on his head, and took his hand.

"Lean on me, uncle," she said and helped him stand.

"You could do it," he said, his eyes fever bright as his skin-burning-into-flame. "You could help me find the things I lost underground. You could help me remember how to change."

She let him lean on her, kind when she could have been cruel. Even tricksters weary of tricks sometimes.

"Memory is a house," he whispered. "If I could only walk though its rooms once again, I would know who I am. I would know what went wrong."

With the ribbons wrapped around her hands, with the buttons like bone pressed against her skin, Gabby remembers. She was a fox and a flame and a girl. She traveled with her uncle, playing at magician and assistant, conning coins, making money disappear. But the thought of what he'd been before gnawed at him, leaving him hollow and hungry. The more he forgot, the more he need to know. Plucking and plucking at her with desperate fingers.

Tell me, love. Tell me everything you remember. I've forgotten so much. I've been gone for so long.

He fed her doves. He brought her buttons for her boots and ribbons tied in bows. They were kind to each other for a while. That was before he buried her underground. Before he split himself again and again, trying to find his way back to what he'd been. Before he dug her up with long-fingered hands, leaning over her with his ripe-melon smile, whispering, Tell us, love, tell us everything.

She'd gone underground and come up, coughing dirt, shivering cold, and always the men from narrow houses were there, waiting. Until the day she buried him instead.

Gabby's fingers ache, tingling with the flow of blood cut off by the sharpness of the ribbon. She lets go, lets out a breath as blood flows back again. Keys jangle in the lock. There are sharp teeth behind her smile, the crunch of hollow bones between them; she tucks them away just in time.

Fred carries in grocery bags, glancing around in dismay at how little she's done—the still-empty boxes and the scatter of junk across the table. The men from narrow houses crowd behind Fred's shoulder. They wink copper, silver, and gold. They put their long fingers to their lips, sharing a secret, and they grin.

Something glints in Fred's eyes, a reflection slipping out of the frame.

"I know you," she says.

Fred's expression changes to one of concern.

"Of course you know me." He puts the groceries down, feeling her forehead. "What's wrong?"

Gabby remembers shaking clods of earth from her hair. Climbing out of the ground and gasping in the fresh air. She remembers wanting to run.

Fred starts to move away, but Gabby grabs his arm, holding him still.

Where were you before you were here? Before you were her? Tell us, love, tell us everything.

Once upon a time, she was a magician's assistant. Once upon a time, there was a man in the audience who looked very much like Fred. Safe and dull.

"I need an assistant from the audience," she'd said, even though that was the magician's line.

She held out her hand, and Fred climbed up on stage, ignoring the blood on her cuffs and the dirt in her hair. Dazzled by the lights and by her smile.

"I'll show you a trick," she whispered in his ear and led him to the cabinet spangled with stars. "It's a really good one."

She helped him climb inside. She sealed him up tight, rapped her knuckles against every seam.

"Abracadabra," she said, and at the last moment, she jumped into the cabinet with him and pulled the door closed.

When the magician opened the cabinet, they were both gone.

"I'll show you a trick," she said, and changed into a fox with sharp teeth and flame-colored fur. "It's a really good one," she said, turning back into a girl. "I'll teach you another trick, too. I'll teach you how it's done if you do a little favor for me."

She nipped at his skin with sharp-glittery teeth. She made a little hole, and buried a fragment of trickster inside. She unzipped her skin, winking as she put her coat the color of fire into his hands.

"Hide it," she said. She caught his hands and kissed him. "And kill the magician when he comes after me. Help me bury him deep underground, and I'll marry you. When we wake up, all of this will feel like a dream."

Fred blinks at Gabby, her hand still on his arm. When she lets go, the pale mark of her fingers remain on his flesh like a ghost. In the morning, he might have a bruise. Over Fred's shoulder, the men grin their apple-slice grins.

"Where is it? Where did you hide my skin? I need you to remember everything."

Fred stares at her, bewildered. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't even know who you are."

Gabby looks at Fred, really sees him for the first time. Sweet and dull. He did her a favor once upon a time, but that isn't a reason to stay.

"It's okay," she says with a grin, and drops a kiss on Fred's cheek. "I know enough for the both of us."

Then she's gone.

Memory is a house, Gabby thinks as she runs down the stairs. It should be a simple trick to find her way through to the room where Fred buried her skin. Past the second floor, past the street level, and down to the basement.

The men from narrow houses buried her again and again, and Gabby is oh so good at remembering, walking from room to room, trying to gather up everything they lost and left behind. She learned the trick of it, but they never did.

She finds her way by the blueprint inside her skin, like a negative image of Fred's perfect dream house, all twisted and strange, but wholly and utterly hers.

Beyond the furnace is a tiny door barely as high as her knee. When she moved into the building, the landlord told her they used to store firewood there. Or maybe there was never a door here until now, until Gabby needed there to be.

Inside, it smells like wood and earth, like moonlight and apples. It's a small space made for storage, nothing more. It's an endless space where the men from narrow houses emerge to creep up the stairs.

Gabby gets down on her belly, and crawls through the door. It's not big enough for a grown woman, but it's just right for a fox.

The walls narrow until they aren't walls. Until she's falling into the house built upside down. She tumbles into the parlor where her uncle sits shuffling brightly-colored tarot cards. In the fireplace, flames lick around a pile of bones.

As she crashes to the ground, he reaches for her, dirt beneath his nails like he's been digging at the walls, and blood inside his smile.

"Take me with you, love," he says. "Oh please, show me the way."

His legs tangle as he runs after her, but Gabby is faster, crawling through the rooms to the attic which is a basement in the house turned upside down. There, beneath the floorboards, is a star-spangled cabinet just the right size to hold everything she's been. She picks the lock with nails that were always too sharp for human hands. The lid falls back; inside her skin glows like flame.

A footstep creaks at the top of the stairs. Her uncle barks a high, piteous cry. A shadow paints the wall. A shadow divided again and again.

The men from narrow houses creep up the stairs, up from the attic, down from the basement. Their long fingers, like bone, are ready to catch at her hair, at her clothes. Ready to bury her and dig her up again and again. Ready to whisper their grave-cold voices in her ear, Tell us love, tell us everywhere you've been. Her uncles, her magician, the fox she saved once upon a time. Step, step, step, go the men from narrow houses, slinking up and slinking down, their hungry eyes like coins.

"Tell us, love," they croon as they slip and slither and creep toward her.

Gabby doesn't let them finish. She knows, and she remembers, and she's going to keep the secrets she found under the dirt all to herself this time. Up and out, she unburies herself. The men from narrow houses are coming for her. It's time to be fleet, to flicker-change. It's time to run.

©2016 by A.C. Wise