Pilfer

the fox who stole the spice

Nobody locked their cellars in the village, because nobody had met Pilfer yet. He came on the first cold night of the year and walked past the hens, past the bread, straight to the good shelf: the rum steeped in clove, the old leather satchel, the amber resin the grandmother burned on Sundays. He rolled in all of it. They found his pawprints in the spilled spice the next morning, already going cold, already smelling like a gentleman of poor character. Some say he did it for warmth. Some say he simply wished to be the most interesting smell in the forest. Pilfer is that theft, bottled: spiced rum and dark leather over warm amber woods and tonka.