Morning came once more, dawn breaking in silence. The suddenness woke Leif from a deep sleep on the couch.

He poked out his head once more, feeling similar to one of the turtles deep in muck. Thick blankets had protected him from another night's chill, a little cool, but nothing more than he'd experienced. He still preferred his bed, back at the ranch. At least he had a cane to help with the hard part of rising – he could see the carved handle leaning on a nearby chair.

The broad windows facing south were tinged with frost, shimmering a bright, translucent glow. Likewise there was no overwhelming sound of blizzard emanating through their panes, just the faint stillness of the usual early morning.

Leif swung his feet out from beneath the covers, wincing at the frigid sensation meeting his sock covered feet. Forward-thinking had placed a rug nearby, although slippers would've been better. Those little comforts were still at the ranch, along with his carving set, a year's supply of fresh beef, and an unfathomable number of reasons to stay away one of the biggest nerds he'd ever encountered.

A glimpse of chess board triggered a groan. 'How many matches did we play?'

This time he took a shower in record time, verifying the location of his discarded pajama pants and towel first. Somehow, his flannel shirt had gone missing since the previous evening. Given the number of guests, the guilty culprit was obvious – although why an elf would want a worn-out sleeping shirt was beyond him. 'Not a thief, I'd have thought. But rags or not, it was still a theft. Unless I lost it.'

That uncertainty prevented Leif from confronting the elf. Provided she was the thief indeed, she'd probably turn it into a discussion over Plato's Republic or some such thing. Fun for a while, but the woman was insatiable when it came to the classics.

Tapping the cane across the floor, he slipped the radio over to classical music, and settled on the kitchen chair, waiting for the first bubbles to percolate. It was shaping up to be a glorious day; driving back to the ranch would be slow, but not overly much; the truck was filled with gas, and –

Unexpected radio static almost blew out his eardrums. A booming nasal tone jerked from the speakers.

"… interrupt your standard program to bring this important announcement …."

Lightning-fast reflexes caught the dial, twisting the volume off a setting perfect for one of Mozart's Largo's and to a volume more appropriate for loud radio hosts. He cast an anxious look at the bedroom where Aredhel resided. There was more than one bedroom, of course, but getting out sheets for another bed seemed a waste; not to mention the peace of mind that came from being able to honestly state he'd slept on the couch.

" … A special service announcement from the President of the United States. We go to our reporter live at the White House."

Leif frowned at the needless blather following, a competition of sorts between multiple voices explaining how much ignorance existed, and why this state that had survived for so long now held such importance. 'Only so many ways to tell the world you know nothing.'

By his knees, Dunyazade whined, ears lowered in anxiety. He nudged her with one leg, comforting the animal as best as he could.

"Again, with these other species in existence, international policies are changing to include regulation reflecting this new reality. The Interspecies Exchange Act, set to become law in two weeks, has passed debate in almost every national government. Multiple nations are refusing to comply, and state they will not be participating. These nations are …"

Leif frowned as the list continued. 'Larger than I'd like, but not as bad as it could be.'

Long past the time breakfast should've been ready Leif still sat, staring into the cloudless day, listening. News continued to blare out of the radio as coffee swirled in his mug, sending whorls of steam into the air. Like the vapor visible from the cattle sheds across the way, his mug sent wisps drifting straight upwards, a windless day both inside and out. Still weather bode for peaceful times in his experience. A rule which could prove false this day, he feared.

"Guh-guh-morning Larsen," Aredhel's yawning arrival made no impression on the rancher. "Sorry," she finished, jaws clicking shut a few times. "What are – sir?"

Leif flipped to another station, this one devoted to reporting on a riot occurring in Rome. "It's begun."

The elf stood stock still, listening. Then her eyes widened. "News about the Exchange?"

"Yeah." Leif flopped the device off. "Almost too late."

Her head tilted, a long ear becoming exposed as silky hair parted. "Explain?"

"Well," he hesitated. "Ain't simple. Guessin' they're trying to do it like a Band-Aid. All in one go."

Aredhel winced.

"Too early and folks get worked up, get a good head of steam going; too late, it's a big nasty surprise – smart. The world's full of that kinda thing. People are dumb. Don't like surprises. Market's jumping like a frog on a hot iron stove. Half of John Q. Public is convinced it's a lie. Other half wants to lynch everybody, and themselves. Lots of publicity photos I guess? Talkin' heads keep mentionin' them. Good strategy."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the elf's motions, pulling out the blocky construct used to communicate with her superiors – he assumed. Ignoring her hushed tones took no effort either. Gabbling into midair had once been indicative for a cell, usually of the padded variety. Given modern habits, Leif wasn't quite sure if the practice should've been discontinued.

He'd just bent over to refill Dunyazade's water dish, when the satellite phone was deactivated with a final-sounding click. It was followed by an expectant silence.

Rolling his eyes, Leif finished what he was doing before turning around. "Yah?"

"Agent Wesson is offering the use of a helicopter, in order to bring you back more quickly." Aredhel glanced at her wristwatch. "Should you agree, it will arrive in fifteen minutes."

Leif took a look outside, at how the snowdrifts mounded man height against solid obstacles, and left the ground bare in other areas. He nodded. "A'right."

"Really?"

He twisted to see an aghast expression on her face. A raised eyebrow conveyed his confusion.

"I mean, no offense, but you haven't … I mean, when you've been offered help before … it's just that." Aredhel shook herself, exhaling a forceful breath. "You are a very independent man, Milord Larsen. I mean Larsen."

Leif gave her a blank look. 'Not sure if that's liminal angle thing or just the female gender that's crazy.'

The comment almost escaped, but experience in female relatives managed to intercede in time. 'Yeah. That'd be rude.'

Domestic tranquility preserved his new focus rested on locking down the house. There were a hundred things to do, from opening the lines to prevent burst pipes to powering down the generator and loading up his clothes. Which brought another thought to mind. 'Where the heck did my shirt go? And my pants? I was sure they were in that laundry bag ….'

The helicopter came in what felt like moments, a chunky model, ungainly like a bumblebee's incompetent relation. Its pilot possessed superior skill to his ignorant eye, guiding the tubby craft to a solid three point landing a hundred yards from The Place. Snow flew upwards in chaotic bursts, a second snowfall, but without the biting wind. Trees whose branches still retained last vestiges of Fall twisted in a mad hatter's dance, whipping shredded bits of dry leaf across the sky.

Wesson beckoned from the flying monstrosity's side door. Professional concern shifted to a wry expression as his Asian eyes caught sight of Leif, rucksack in one hand, a Border collie's collar in the other.

"Please, Larsen!" Aredhel beckoned him onward, clutching a duffel bag of her own. "Hurry!"

Steeling himself, Leif took off at a jog, head low. An uncle had warned him of the dangers, to run low and not straighten up. Dunyazade's keening fear was lost in the grinding whop-whop sound from the circling blades. The volume overwhelmed his hearing worse than a stampede.

'Don't think of it now. Run.' Short steps, firm on slick patches of ice. His boots were well-suited for such travel, not the slick-soled cowboy boots he preferred, but good Wellington's, brought over from England. Old they might've been, but they were well-oiled, and repaired with quality material. 'Keep moving. Almost there.'

Wesson didn't bother reaching for Leif, choosing instead to heft the Border collie aboard. On his part, Leif made an awkward hoisting move, pulling himself into the vehicle like a too-small tractor cab. Behind Aredhel leapt inside, graceful and practiced.

Shouting something inaudible, Wesson banged twice on the forward pilot door. At the same time, a pair of serious-looking men hauled the side door shut, lending helping hands to stow the minimal loose gear. In response to either the shouted command or the banging sound, the helicopter's rotor accelerated, straining faster to lift the wallowing craft skywards. The floor jerked like a bronco under Leif's feet, toppling him over into a web-seat, where he clung to straps until Aredhel and Wesson managed to push him upright.

Somewhat embarrassed, Leif focused out the window. An involuntary gasp drew eyes his direction, which he shook off. Seeing The Place swivel past over a hundred feet below was an unexpected sight – but what else had he expected to see? From this altitude he could discern bare ground alternating with deep drifts, piled around his pickup. He could even see the bathroom window, frost still on its surface from the steam of the last shower completed that morning.

A bulky object pressed itself into his lap.

Looking down, he found a helmet, Aredhel's slim fingers holding it in place. Donning it took contortions he'd not imagined possible under the circumstances, but the end result diminished the spinning rumble into a dull throb.

"Mister Larsen, can you hear me?"

Startled once again, Leif jerked, hitting his head against the restraints. "Easy there, you okay?"

He had to shake off the weirdness of it all. "Yeah. Wesson?"

"Hit the button – oh. Thank you Aredhel."

The elf gave a thumbs up.

"Right. Larsen. Summarized, we're headed back to your ah … base, ETA twenty minutes. The news has been dropped, and we have less than three weeks before the first volunteers head out."

"Yep." There wasn't much to say in response to that. The distant ground skidding by far below was of far more interest than the government man's explanation.

"Ambassadors will be meeting with you this afternoon; we're having to push up the timetable." Wesson continued. His rectangular cellular phone appeared like magic. "We have cell service now; I've arranged for a unit to be put at your disposal. Use it or do not, it is your decision. No changes have been made to your home, again at your request."

Leif noticed a flying object outside the window, far larger than any bird. A face turned, looking gleeful. "Wesson … is that …?"

"Harpy, yes. The Nekos are present already, and the lamia are in the basement. I couldn't stop their making some sort of distillery down there, the parts were already present according to their specialist."

Leif sighed. There went Great-Uncle Georg's still. "And Ro'?"

"She is overseeing preparations … although it seems the Neko volunteer is taking care of the immediate meal plan."

He caught the uncertainty, even through the static. "What?"

"It's just … you'll see when you get there. It's too crazy to explain, and I know crazy! I'm a professional!"

"Agent, what do you mean?" Aredhel's hand was clenched, relaxing a heartbeat later. "Milord's dwelling was agreed to be held sacrosanct until well after the Accords were made public. Years after, mind you."

Leif remembered that codicil. He'd inserted it himself – with the option for renegotiation. No contract was perfect, possessing an out made the difference between success and breaking faith.

"Try telling that to a bunch of moon-crazed naga!" Wesson retorted. "My best alternative was tranquing the lot of 'em, and reptiles are resistant to toxins. Resistant and rowdy, at least to what I have on hand."

"Agreed."

Aredhel's instant response surprised Leif for a moment. Then he shook it off. Events were moving too fast to waste time on surprise.

Ground skidded past at an alarming rate. It felt wrong, somehow. Horseback took several hours; a vehicle took less time, but a more circuitous route. Flying from one point to another felt like cheating. Pilots trained for hundreds of hours, but their passengers? 'Get in, zip over, get out. Don't have to work for a thing.'

He frowned. Was that … jealousy? That wasn't healthy … if it indeed was envy. Instant transportation didn't feel like something he'd want for himself, there was far too much to see on a long drive. But could one be jealous without being envious?

Before the thoughts could finish percolating through the slow processes of his mind, there was a hitch in the helicopter's progress. Looking down, Leif saw the ranch house swing into view, then rotate away as the vehicle began a slow descent. It wasn't a fast spin, but it was sufficient to make his stomach lurch.

'Better'n bustin' a bronco,' he tried convincing himself. 'Lots worse. No hooves. No bashin' heads.'

Such thoughts failed to quell an uneasy stomach, until the helicopter touched down. Feet back on solid ground, Leif felt his uneasiness flee. He didn't feel truly safe though until well-away from the helicopter and its whirling guillotines. 'Efficient. Fast. Terrifying.'

Dunyazade bounded next to him, stopping to sniff at tracks crisscrossing the yard. Gravel beneath the snow provided a rough surface beneath half-frozen ice and snow, an affection city-folk eschewed in favor of smooth concrete and asphalt. Silliness, in his opinion. The price for wanting easy driving conditions half the year.

His front door opened before he reached it, showing Roanette's tall figure. Her smile lit up her entire face, sending an uncomfortable twinge down Leif's spine. It was obvious she held deep-seated emotions for him … despite his best efforts.

"Milord! You are safe!" she seemed about to charge, but paused, then retreated. "Come in, come in! Lunch is being prepared, you two must be exhausted. Come in!"

Leif met Aredhel's eyes, and broke contact. Both women meant well. So with a sigh he stepped inside, stamping the snow off his boots before stepping inside, and stomping once more on the mat. Packed snow melted fast, creating a mess – best to remove it with a broom while solid.

While taking off his boots, he couldn't help from sneaking a few looks around the room's interior. Certain things were … displaced. Not quite wrong, but changed. The photographs hanging on the wall were the same, but two pictures on an end table were swapped. A throw rug had been moved forwards, closer to the door rather than resting before the bathroom further up the hall. It was as if someone had been performing a deep cleaning – was that ammonia he smelled? Just what was –

"Welcome home, Master," an unfamiliar voice interrupted his musings.

Leif focused. The speaker was one of the cat folk, pointed ears, long tail and – strange clothing. Black and white with lace and … things he had no name to describe. The cat person curtsied, looking down at the floor. "I am Fanchon Francesca Kissasen, your maid. Will you be having lunch?"

Stunned, Leif could only gape at the newcomer. Her ears twitched, growing increasingly nervous as he stared. 'Another one. Another intruder. At least she's wearing more than the last batch. Still not gonna keep her warm … but another one?'

He stood his boots in a corner to dry on a rubber mat. Walking past the cat person, he managed a friendly nod, turning into the living room and seeking out his own room. Something told him the upcoming discussion was going to take time. Better get comfortable first.

"Sir, the Blankett de Veau is ready," a quiet, mewling voice murmured. "Would you prefer your repast here, or in the dining room? Lady Yidderman, Miss Lithlinede and Master Wesson await your pleasure."

What comfort zone had been present abandoned Leif's mind in a rush when the very carefully dressed neko first became visible, standing at a deferential distance, head lowered in a way that made him uncomfortable. He got the feeling that she'd enjoy a physical conflict, if her brother was any indication. But the servant-like attitude – no. Not like, it was a servant attitude, but closer to servile than servant. There was a difference.

Unlike Aredhel or Roanette, this woman seemed to have a very quiet personality, one that had not lent itself to questioning, in the few short hours he'd been home. It had been somewhat discombobulating to discover the cat-eared woman straightening curtains when he'd decided to treat the mystery as a hunter's dilemma, sitting in a chair like a deer stand.

This woman just happened to speak with a French accent, and possess a seeming adherence to the concept of there being some great need of French maids in America. Where she – and her fleeting coterie, Leif hadn't forgotten them – gotten that addle-pated concept he had no clue.

"I'll go to the kitchen, thanks." Leif shoved himself upwards, ignoring how the cat-eared woman scrambled to assist his progress. The cane he'd whittled for Grandpa Larsen thumped on the floor, its handle more comfortable to his hand than anticipated. Putting weight on his leg hurt. About what one would expect should metal penetrate the meat of a muscle; meds were helping deal with the pain, but yet it seared like fire when he angled his foot wrong; he'd had worse, of course. Downplaying it was second-nature, but it still hurt worse than it'd been in days.

He shook his head. 'It's just pain. Thanks for telling me something's wrong. Go away.'

The wound stabbed at the thought, as if refusing. Pain did that, sticking around when least desired. He hated that – it made him feel weak, not that admitting it to anyone would help. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pain and walked toward the kitchen.

In the Larsen household, the kitchen held an open floorplan that connected to what others might call a dining room. All Leif cared was that it had a long table, big enough for most of the family if they showed up. At the moment, the only non-human people present were Roanette and Aredhel, who sat on the right and left sides, respectively. Both had insisted he sit at the head of the table – something about tradition and position. Wesson sat at the opposite end, frowning into a rectangular object of plastic and glass.

"You know," Leif paused after washing his hands. Both of the women had risen to their feet, looking at him with anticipation. "I could just hunker down on the stool. Less fuss."

Roanette gestured, sending Aredhel forward, long ears sweeping in the resigned fashion he'd come to recognize. "Milo – Larsen –, you are the Master of the House. Historically, the Lord of the Manor, until the rules changed in England. Here, you are still of significant importance. Please do not argue with us upon this, it is most necessary."

Giving his own sigh of resignation, Leif allowed himself to be guided by the blonde elf to the table. She took his cane, leaning it against the nearby wall, and resumed her own seat. "Thank you sire. Fanchon, please bring in the consommé?"

The woman curtsied, darting back into the kitchen. In a heartbeat she returned was a tray, carrying three steaming bowls of a clear, fragrant liquid. Small bits of parsley floated on their surface, dark green contrasting the pale orangish-yellow coloration. Its scent reminded Leif of chicken soup for some reason, but on a far more delicate level.

She finished placing the bowls down, arranging silverware in a deliberate setup. With a bow, the neko retreated to stand by the kitchen.

"Um …" Leif glanced at her position, then down at the table at the four bowls. "You gonna eat?"

"Later, sir." the cat-person – Fanchon, have to remember that – curtsied again. "Thank you for asking."

There was a pause for the independent forms of meditative gratitude. Aredhel was the first to finish, and lifted the soup to her lips, drinking it in with an appreciative sound.

Leif felt uncomfortable, with the attentive neko watching him, but forced the discomfort from his mind. He lifted the spoon, and tasted it. Rich flavor spilled over his tongue, the aroma of chicken obvious but enhanced with multiple herbs. He couldn't see anything in the bowl itself, other than the floating parsley, but somehow the essence managed to come through. Despite the intent to remain stoic, he found himself grunting in approval.

The neko's ears twitched, he was certain. 'Damn that hearing.'

Wesson stirred, but shook his head. "We need to speak, Larsen. But it can wait until after we eat. Nothing's changed overly much since you arrived."

He nodded back, returning his focus to the meal. It was an interesting change from normal cuisine. The consommé was followed by a soupe à l'oignon, which looked like some kind of liquid solidified into a bread-like concoction. That, in turn, was followed by what the blonde elf called a Blanqette de Veau, and Leif considered a hearty stew. It was a strange stew to be certain, with odd spices and a gravy thickness that could've floated buckshot, but it was a stew nonetheless.

Logic clicked through Leif's mind as the final course was served, something the knowledgeable-sounding Aredhel called a crème brulee. He winced at the bite of some kind of alcohol spread over the top, but the seared sugar melted on his tongue. Nevertheless he couldn't stop thinking.

Acceptance rose to the surface of his mind as the neko collected dishes, laying out an after-dinner beverage. He raised it to his lips before catching the heady aroma, a rich scent bringing to mind some of the old bottles laid down by more liquor-minded relatives. Deciding in favor of retaining a keen mind, he handed the glass down the table where Aredhel and Roanette engaged in a ritualistic duel of glares over its contents.

He hoped he never got that passionate about alcohol.

"If we might begin?" Wesson wafted his own wineglass, taking a sip after inhaling the air over its surface for some reason. "To summarize, riots have broken out in three major cities, nothing major but notable. I've heard from Agent Seneca, out in Washington State, and there are no problems apparent with the Centers there. Overall I'd say the reaction is ranging from medium to mild."

"The public reports seem to say otherwise," Aredhel countered. Distracted, she did not recover in time to prevent Roanette from acquiring the abandoned wine glass. An angry glare, sharp enough to flense a medium-sized boar failed to make an impression on the victorious centauride.

Wesson waved a hand. "Media are in the business to make money. Have you not heard the phrase, 'If it bleeds, it leads'?"

Roanette snorted. The half-full wine glass was held at a smug angle in one hand, surprising elegance in its posture. "My people have long learned to mistrust common rumors; what else is a story told to many but a rumor given credence by name? There were those who cast centaurs as villains and pillagers – that we have been. But our entire race is not populated by such brigands!"

"Possible." Leif folded his hands, watching. "Free press. Old right, First Amendment, I think."

"Granted," Wesson shrugged. A good half of his wine disappeared in a single, long swallow. "Doesn't mean I can't wish ill on their profit-minded heads."

"Free country." Leif was about to rise for some of the coffee he could smell, when a mug was placed before him. Unlike his own roast, this smelled of vanilla, sugar and a half-dozen other ingredients diluting its dark heart. At one side the neko's yellow-green eyes watched. Changing his mind he accepted the mug, and nodded. "Thanks."

Wesson picked up the conversation again. "The centaurs in Havre prepared a counter-blitz, recordings and products to release. Coordination with the other liminal species has been surprisingly easy. Would you be willing to participate as well?"

Blinking, Leif paused before drinking. "Me? How?"

"By establishing that humans can interact with liminals, of course!" Wesson spread his arms wide, as if encompassing the entire room. "Look at you! Two months ago you had no clue liminals existed, but now you are close friends with at least two, not counting those whom hid their true nature."

Leif thought about it while sampling the coffee. It was weak, dairy product muffling the bitter flavor. It also tasted decadent, like what someone would order off the most expensive menu at a boutique specialist. He felt uncertain about that. The sugar content would've been enough for a plate of cookies, putting one in the mindset that they'd just consumed a milkshake with identity issues.

"Not you?" he lowered the mug to the table. In doing so he missed seeing frustrated looks firing back and forth behind his head. "Agent Wesson, human specialist. Expert. Professional. Look a lot prettier on camera too."

Wesson gave a dry chuckle. "Appreciated, but impossible. I have to be impartial; people involved in the advertisements get paid, and that would break regs." He leaned forward. "I do appreciate the vote of confidence, it says a lot to me that you'd be willing to make me the public face of liminal interaction here."

"Milord," Roanette straightened, absently handing the unfinished wine glass to a surprised elf. "It would raise your authority amongst multiple cultures if you were to be seen as a proponent of the Act."

"She has a point," Wesson agreed. "It would establish your place as a central authority in events, for North America in particular."

An unpleasant sensation prickled along the back of Leif's hands. He knew to pay attention to that sensation.

"So …" grappling with the thought took effort. "You want me to be a poster boy. In front. Publicity."

"Exactly!" Wesson grinned, then his face fell. "Now that you mention it, that's not really your Em-Oh, is it?"

The faint sense of irritation, rejoined with the lack of information came back full force. "Nope. We need to have a talk, by the way. Later."

The government man's expression gave the impression of desiring an intimate embrace with an irritated porcupine. To his credit, there was no protestation. He had a sense of duty after all, which raised him some in Leif's eyes.

"Larsen," Aredhel replaced the empty wineglass back on the table. She licked her lips. "Would you have an alternative? Pragmatically speaking, this place will not be unknown for long. Already your neighbors are aware of at least the centaurs. In a matter of weeks they will have access to databases with addresses too. When the minotaurs come, they'll be very difficult to hide anyway. What is the alternative?"

A half-grin twisted the side of Leif's mouth. He leaned back, raising his voice. "Earl!"

From the far side of the house there was a startled exclamation, followed by a feminine yelp of pain. A collection of thuds, creaking metal and the subsequent rolling sounds of wheelchair tires made Leif wonder what exactly his neighbor had been up too – but quelled the thought before it went anywhere dangerous. Knowing his luck the answer would be far too embarrassing for words.

He sent a questioning glance at Wesson, and shook his head at the knowing smirk on the latter's face. Seconds later Earl rolled into the room, hair mussed, pushed by Alynette, whom's blouse had somehow been fastened a touch offset.

'Some new fashion.' Leif knew he was fooling himself. But it was better to be willful in ignorance than accepting in this case.

"Hey Leif, um. Everyone." Earl coughed in one hand. "What can I do for you?"

Alynette murmured something that made both Aredhel and Roanette laugh, but elicited a scathing look from Fanchon.

Leif, however, turned to look at Wesson. "Yeah?"

The government man studied Earl thoughtfully. "Hmmm. Potential. Definite potential. High-profile, a story we could release in sequence … we have video of it too. Realism is hard to fake."

Earl began to look nervous. "Uh … what's going on?"

"News went live," Leif informed him, taking another sip of the too-sweet coffee. "G-man wants a good-looking face for ads."

"Oh, well Aly would be a shoe-in for that," his words drew a blush on the blonde centauride's face. "What kinda ads are you thinking?"

Leif waved the questions back over towards the Asian agent. "Your department."

He felt a wave of satisfaction as Wesson began his sales pitch. That was another bullet dodged. The public would eat up the story; a man besotted by someone he had seen in vague shadows, pushing himself into dangerous acts to show off, sent into pain by the performance, but impressing the woman with his bull-headed moronic behavior. 'Oldest story in the book. Boy meets girl, girl falls for acts of machismo. Boy gets hurt, girl nurses boy to health. Classic.'

His smirk wouldn't leave, so he covered it with another large swallow of coffee. 'Good plan. Great day –' the flavor touched his tongue, curling it back with the sweetness. 'Maybe if there were some better coffee ….'

A/N: Hope you had a great Thanksgiving! is having another temper tantrum, loading documents and moving between menus is a problem. Should I not be able to post here, check Archive of Our Own, under Chuck_Johannsen. The stories have the same titles.

Side note: November was good to me for writing, but not as good as I'd hoped. I'm almost done with this story, but not quite. I hope to be finished writing it by Christmas, but we'll see how that goes; the best laid plans of mice and men and all that. Hope you enjoyed!