"England?" Echoed Whitney as her nose twitched.
"England. London. The British Isles. Where we're from, ma'am," said Asher soothingly. He could see the woman's ears begin to taper and migrate further upwards. Becoming triangular, fully-fledged fox ears covered in soft orange fur in no time at all. "Say, that's a marvelous-looking teapot. Where did you find it, ma'am?"
Whitney's nose darkened and started to taper into a vulpine muzzle. "Why my dear..."
"Asher," said the badger as he patted Whitney's hand reassuringly. Fur forming on them. Turning into dark "gloves" that went up her forearms. Her nails turned into black claws, but the color was quickly washed away by a coating of ivory claw polish that served as contrast. The same shadowy colours hugged her legs and paws up to her knees, almost serving as a replacement for the stockings that had been slashed to pieces by the growth of her paws.
Whitney's snout finished its transformation as she lifted her muzzle snootily into the air. A wave of proper English pride washed over her.
“Why my dear Asher, that is a family heirloom! It’s over 170 years old,” she said with a hint of haughtiness. A Received Pronunciation accent like Benjamin’s crept into her voice. “That’s almost as old as the invention of proper teatime, you know.”
Asher nodded, impressed by the venerable relic before he gave Whitney a polite smile. “We should have a proper cuppa together tomorrow. Scones and the whole lot. I’d love to have one now, but it’s getting late, hmm? I know how long your nighttime routine is, ma’am. With a gorgeous, big bushy tail like yours, it must take loads of time to brush and take care of, right?”
An uncomfortable pressure built up above Whitney’s rear. It would be uncouth to for a proper lady to complain. So she gave a posh chuckle instead. “Asher you are such a treat! You know as well as I do that any proper fox considers their tail to be their pride and joy!”
The pressure was almost too much for Whitney to bear, but she grinned and bore it until she felt a sudden sense of relief. A massive vixen’s tail floomphed into existence behind her. Her tail. It was soft, fuzzy, and massive. Wider than her shoulders and half as long as she was. It gently swished behind her. Not an unorganized wagging, but deliberate swishes here and there. Like a conductor leading the London Orchestra.
Whitney blinked, memories flooding into her mind. She knew all about conductors and conducting, didn’t she? She recalled being the principal cellist for that orchestra. She remembered how after moving to the United States she wanted to spend more time with her family, but still found the time to tutor and offer all sorts of exclusive music lessons. Between keeping her house neat, tidy, and proper, of course.
Asher delighted at the sight of Whitney’s tail, but he wasn’t finished with her yet. "And I know something else that must keep you awfully busy at night, ma’am. Why, I know I’d be busy if I had hair like yours, hmm?”
The vixen’s scalp tingled. A long bang tickled her cheek. And then another. And another. A cascade of hair flowed down, stopping just past her waist. Her fringe fell over her face. Covering her eyes, split by her vulpine snout.
Whitney’s hair was thick and lustrous. Properly groomed and exquisitely taken care of. The colour started at the roots as a soft red that went paler as it terminated towards the tips of her hair in an ombre gradient. Each shaft of hair went from red, to orange, to strawberry blonde at the very end.
“My hair…” started Whitney, until she was cut off by Asher.
“Is styled magnificently, ma’am. It must be your pride and joy. I know that some people might call it old-fashioned, but there’s no accounting for proper taste, is there?”
Whitney felt positively flattered as her curtain of hair lifted itself into the air and silently styled itself into an extravagant hairstyle that would demand a heavy amount of time investment to properly manage. As her fringe lifted itself up from her face, her vulpine eyes were revealed. Gorgeous, and framed by heavy lashes. Her sclerae were amber, her iris' were hazel, and her pupils were black vertical slits.
Her hair continued to style itself. Strands were laying against each other, piling up. Forming a carefully sculpted mass. Making her hairdo bigger and taller. Set in place with copious amounts of scented hairspray. Yes, there was no doubt denying it, Whitney’s hair had been given salon-level work in just a few moments of flattery and focus from Asher.
Whitney’s hand reached up. Touching her thick, heavy, bouffant of hair. It was so majestic and imposing. Posh and glamorous to the extreme. Stiffened just enough so her hairdo wouldn’t collapse under its own weight. The heavy coiffure was reassuringly familiar to her. She loved her hair. She fussed over it, and always made sure it was perfect. She even slept with a special cap and on a satin pillow so she wouldn’t flatten or frizz up her proper bouffant.
As her transformation into a proper vixen started to wrap up, the changes to her home went into overdrive.
A copper kettle sat proudly on the counter, and antique teacups manifested around that teapot that Whitney was so proud of. Shelves emptied themselves, and then refilled with proper English literature and periodicals. A family tree displaying an impressive genealogy framed itself against the foyer's wall so it would be one of the first things a visitor saw upon entry.
Rooms became larger. The home increased in size. In splendor. Unknown to everyone, even Asher, a wrought-iron fence surrounded the suburb, transforming it into a gated community.
Whitney cleared her throat for a moment, and her posh voice settled into a more delicate, feminine register. “Now, Asher, I do believe that you wanted to spend the night here? Let me show you the way to Benjamin’s room.”
As the pair walked over to Benjamin’s opulent suite, they could hear the sink running as the badger freshened himself up.