He felt like dancing, he was so relieved to be rid of the skin and its unpredictable magic. He skipped along the streets of Prague, singing in Estonian, oblivious to the stares he received. He was free. In his study, Timotej stood before the wolf skin. It seemed so ordinary. Ordinary, except for its size. It was so large. Huge, even. Old. Almost ratty. It hardly seemed the talisman of such potent power that Alexei had described. Timotej’s fingers itched to touch it, to handle it, to wrap himself in it. But Alexei’s tale had frightened as well as exhilarated him. Timotej knew this was a thing beyond his control and he could only hope that the declaration he had instructed Alexei to make would prove effective. As difficult as it was for him, Timotej set the skin—at last—back on the paper that Alexei had brought it in. Timotej wrapped it again, tying it with the same string. He picked it up carefully and set it on a shelf in the back of his study. Just to be careful, he decided to take a frond of the dill that he grew in one of several large pots near the windows.
