Night proved short, far shorter than the season suggested. For Leif, it was an exercise in comfort and its antonym. Comfort in that the crisp, cool night soothed every worry like a balm, promising all the labor performed that year would not be in vain. Warmth emanated from the livestock below, pushing back the chill while ensuring the warm scent remained, reassuring to a man such as he.

The neko had been on edge for hours, until Leif had broken down and outright demanded he relax on another easily filled straw tick mattress. Then, he'd fallen asleep in minutes, leaving Leif to drowse under the rafters. The awkward feeling of having boots on in bed was negligible, but ever-present. By morning he'd gotten enough sleep, but his leg had gone stiff. That was his second indication something was wrong, after the inability to remove his boots the prior night.

The third hint appeared when the leg refused to bend as he tried to get up. Confused, he reached down, feeling the affected limb. Muscles swelled tight under his touch, refusing to flex. Reciprocating bunches of muscle groups twanged agreement in the upper right portion of his back, the result of compensating for the damage. But the wound felt hot, painful, and swollen.

Of course, the neko caught his stiffness. "Sir, are you well?"

"Peachy." He tried a grin, but the cat-like man ignored the effort. "Just a little stiff."

Somehow the felinoid was right next to him, despite having been standing beside the ladder to Leif's very distinct memory. Liminal speed was another factor he'd been trying to incorporate in his thinking. "Right, let's take a look. Pants down."

Leif gave him a stare.

"I'm not one of the ladies of your harem, Mister Larsen. I'm a professional medic, trained to cut you open and put you back together again. Pants. Down. Sir."

There was stubbornness, and there was practicality. This was no time to stand on foolishness.

A quiet growl rumbled in the neko's chest. "You tore your stitches. Were you going to talk about it?"

There seemed little point in pointing out the obvious – he'd no more idea when the problem started than anyone else. But the little person's teeth were showing, and he'd had enough pointless competing attitudes.

"I can't carry you down." His ad hoc physician finished. "Stay here, and I'll get help."

Not waiting for argument, the feline figure performed a backflip over the railing some five feet away, dropping another twenty feet to the floor below. Leif failed to hear a single displaced pebble.

'Something else for the weirdness list.' He listened, and managed to catch the main door roll back on oiled wheels, if not the footsteps. 'Think of it like Ma's around; she could come out of nowhere and scare the living daylights out of ya.'

Considering the unoccupied area, he considered making a run for it, after readjusting his clothing. Common sense managed to send a firecall down his spinal cord, reminding him of the potential damage – not just to his leg, but to fragile trust. Easing back down, a re-clothed Leif resigned himself to the next few minutes of probable excited-over-nothingness.

He was not disappointed.

Far and away, the ranch door banged open, then made the characteristic creak as its spring complained. A single hollow clomp resounded off the wooden porch, followed by clattering crunches of gravel. A second confused grouping of wooden sounds followed seconds after, accompanied by a female cry of surprise, then one of – not fear. Gratitude? Just noise so far as he could tell.

Seconds later galloping hooves skidded to a halt outside the barn door, which slid back faster than it had in years, rebounding off the metal stop plate with a metallic clang. A new pair of feet hit the ground – lacking the heavy, metallic sounding ring of hooves, and in a heartbeat, Aredhel's face appeared by the ladder.

Her eyes darted around the loft, taking in the bed, his form, and whatever else elvish sight could perceive. But the orbs focused on his own, the faint hint of panic fading. "Milord, you are injured?"

"No." He deliberated standing, then filed the idea back under Inadvisable. "Just not healin' as fast as I could be."

"Do not fear," she ascended the rest of the way, "We have you." The elf stopped at the top, and looked down. "He is well, Roanette. I see no signs of bleeding. Stay there, I'll bring him down."

"Where else would I go?" An irritated snort came from below. "Hecate, Loki and Prometheus damn whoever invented ladders!"

It was time, Leif decided, to make his status known. He raised his voice a touch, pitching it towards the ladder's far side. "I'm fine. Just went a bit hard, that's all."

Aredhel snorted, an unladylike gesture, but akin to the centauride down below. Perhaps they'd grown to see beyond their differences? Or perhaps the sky was planning to fall and was sending a gracious warning.

"Let's get you down to the house," she said. "Can you walk?"

He almost grimaced. "Yah."

A look of fond exasperation twisted across her face. "I shall rephrase. Can you walk without further injuring yourself, or incurring more pain?"

Leif considered. "Might sting a little," he allowed. "Nothin' major."

"Then I will help you to the ladder." Aredhel pulled herself onto the loft's floor in a single, smooth motion. She reached a hand down, and let it hang there, waiting.

Grabbing it, Leif hauled himself up. Her skin was warm, far warmer than his own. For her size, she was surprisingly strong, bearing his weight with ease. Leaning his bulk on her shoulder, the two worked their way to the ladder – a simple feat of a half-dozen steps.

"He's coming down," Aredhel called over the edge.

The ladder's rungs were as steady as the day they'd been installed. They had to be; heavy loads were guided up its length many times throughout its existence.

Below, Roanette stood firm, flannel-covered shoulders back, broad muscles rippling. "I am here, milord. Do you need a –"

"I'm good, thanks." Leif gripped the ladder with both hands, resting his full weight on them. Using just his right foot to carry weight seemed to work, letting his left dangle for the descent of an approximate three body lengths. By the time he was ten feet above the floor, he could feel a guiding hand on his good side, helping support his weight.

"I have you," Roanette caught his weight before the last few steps were taken, and lowered him to the floor as if he weighed no more than a child. "We must get you to the house."

She looked as if she wanted to say something further, but subsided. Leif could guess at her intent; it had been a matter of contention the past day or two.

"Might need a bit of help," he hesitated. Then he shook his head, feeling as if the world's decisions were rushing past. It took great effort to push past the reluctance; the sensation in his heart like lifting a bull by the horns, redirecting its energy away from harm. Practice, instinct and a natural reluctance welded together in a tractor-sized load. But he forced himself to do it, what he'd never wanted to do in his entire life. What he feared more than death itself.

"Sorry. Mind giving me a hand?"

Roanette's smile could've illuminated the back Forty, the oxbow pond bordering its northern reaches, and made a good stab at lighting up the nearest slopes of Grandfather's Shoulder. Even a small mountain was still large enough to defy normal efforts. Her hands were gentle as they supported Leif from one side. "It would be my greatest pleasure, mi – I mean, Leif."

He was surprised at having to fight back a blush himself. Asking for help had caused such a strong reaction? He'd have to be careful. A fool might lose his heart if one did not tread lightly. Thank heavens he was no fool.

Aredhel smiled back at him from the ground, near silent footfalls giving no warning. "If I may suggest, Lord Larsen? It would be easier for both of you to consider this a medical emergency."

A switch seemed to flip behind Roanette's eyes. "Of course. I promise to be gentle. This is your first time, is it not?"

Some sort of joke appeared to be in the offing. Leif could tell by the sudden coughing spurt Aredhel suffered, and how the neko had a sudden need to cover the lower half of his face. Whatever it was had no bearing on the current situation. Instead he gave the elf a long look. After a few seconds of his regard, she started squirming.

He turned his focus to the centauride. The woman gave him a shy smile, and rotated sideways, offering the breadth of her back. "Well, Lo – Leif?"

Eyebrows went up. This was the second time she'd used his proper name that day, twice as often as the past few weeks combined. 'If she's willing to learn .…'

Beyond that, he made a hesitant motion, feeling her strong supporting arm tense a minute amount. He gave in, feeling nerves jangle a warning along his own spine. "You sure it's all right?"

The brilliant smile shimmered into view once more. "Would I have offered were it not?"

Obvious counter-arguments chuntered through his mind. He did the manful thing and ignored them. "Um. Might work."

Roanette's smile broadened, changing from dazzling scintillation to a quieter, warmer portmanteau of contented happiness. "Then, by your leave?"

Not understanding at first, Leif could only give a befuddled look. That was, until the centauride's other hand came around, taking hold of him beneath both arm pits. "Uh … sure."

The woman hefted his weight up and around, rotating at the hips to rest him upon her back. Out of consideration for the injury she refrained from setting him legs spread, instead letting him sit side-saddle. After he settled, she paused again, all four legs shifting a touch. "Please, hold on to me if you need. I will go as soft as I may but I would not wish you to fall."

Grudging, Leif slid an arm around her waist, clenching out of habit when the centauride began to move. It was … unfamiliar. Yet it was a sensation as familiar as far back as he could recall, the steady gait of four hooves beneath his legs and a warm, comfortable back to lean against. It was a bit relaxing, in fact. Leif caught himself closing his eyes for a moment, resting the side of his head against her back, when the sound of a shutter clicked from further away.

His eyes shot open and caught Wesson standing less than ten paces off, Sophette prancing behind him with a gleeful look on her face. One of the rectangular cell phone things that city folk seemed to worship sat in Wesson's hands, backside aimed at Leif and Roanette.

Leif's subconscious mind leaped to the logical conclusion before the rest of his brain could react, and fired a death glare at the government man.

'If pics are going to be in the offin', I'd rather walk.'

Wesson smirked. Behind the Asian agent's back, Sophette raised both arms in a silent cheer.

Leif turned up his disapproval to the most threatening level he could manage, sitting side-saddle on a half-woman's back, being carried across his own backyard because of his own stupidity. Part of his frustration must've carried through, as Wesson's smirk faded.

Before he could do anything else though, Roanette was at the back door. She paused there, reluctant it seemed about something.

He took the decision himself, sliding free and stumbling on one leg until Aredhel lent her shoulder. Steady once more, Leif gave an absent-minded slap against the horse-like withers. "Thanks. Appreciated."

A sudden sense of foreboding hijacked his brain. 'What have I done?'

"You … you are welcome. Leif." Roanette didn't face him, possible humiliation preventing the action. Or shyness, he couldn't discount that. Liminals were strange, first flaunting everything their mother gave them, then dancing around simple actions – or he was just ignorant. He tried to never discount that factor.

Aredhel pulled him forwards out of his contemplation. "Come inside, please. We need to get you off that leg."

That made sense. Too little of this adventure had done so. Leif allowed himself to be lead through the back door, catching only a quick glimpse of Roanette's fiery blush out of the corner of one eye.

Inside, the ranch house remained calm. The old grandfather clock ticked its ancient rhythm, a carriage clock over the mantelpiece made its counterpoint, smaller gears making higher-pitched sounds. Somewhere the furnace kicked in, cooler air triggering its sensors. Deeper, the refrigerator's basso thrum made a constant background noise, comfortable in its droning unchanging nature.

"Sit, please." Aredhel helped him towards a chair, held in place by Fanchon. The neko was dressed in a more conservative fashion, slacks and a button-front blouse.

Leif grunted approval, of which he didn't know. But it was a positive sound and people didn't question when approving noises were made. He lowered himself into the chair, and took a deep breath. "Obliged."

"It is nothing," Aredhel flashed a grin his way. "The medic that put in the stitches the first time is in Havre right now, but Fanchon gave him a call, and he should be here soon."

Leif hesitated. Then he thought – there had been a great deal of cogitation progressing the past few weeks. "Should call Doc Nilsson. Over in town. Number's on the phone. Ask him over."

Fanchon vanished while Aredhel cocked her head to one side. "What do you want to happen when the doctor comes? Should we … leave?"

Leif snorted. "Half the county knows you're here by now. No point."

"But," Aredhel pursed her lips. "No, you are right. I have seen your neighbors in their fields – if they can be seen, than so can we."

"Yah." Leif stretched his leg a little, feeling a welcome burst of complaint. Too much damage removed that sense of discomfort, he wasn't too far gone. "Besides, Doc's a good guy. Bring him in early; can help ride herd when folks start going loco."

"Establishing a fourth column, yes." Aredhel looked thoughtful. "We looked into it, but the smaller towns possess too close ties with each other to infiltrate with any level of success."

He gave her a look. "So don't try."

Roanette smugly folded her arms across her abdomen, adding pressure to the already straining flannel. "It is as I said: Deception is not the way forward."

"It is necessary sometimes," Aredhel waved away the comment. "Greater good, yes?"

Another sigh seemed to pick its cue from the conversation, percolating from Leif's toes and travelling its way up. He manfully struggled to keep it in, but failed at the last moment. "Really."

Elegant eyebrows cocked his way. "You disagree?"

"National security, maybe. But keeping too many secrets just gets you burned." Leif nodded at the construction site visible from the back window. "You think so too, else you wouldn't be poppin' up right now."

"It is troublesome as it is," Roanette agreed, frowning. Her arms hugged herself tighter. "Our contacts in the Middle East have informed us that a Fatwa has been placed on any nonhumans found in the company of," Her hands abandoned their hold in order to make small apostrophes. "Good practitioners of the faith. It is an undesirable outcome, but not unexpected."

Aredhel's head leaned forward, long braid pulled forward by the motion and slithering over her shoulder. "Malaysia is … disorganized. The best we could hope for under the circumstances."

"France went nuts," Leif massaged his leg with one hand out of habit. "Expected that too?"

Roanette narrowed her eyes in thought. "France? I'd heard very positive reactions from France."

"Yeah," the rancher agreed. Hi hand balled up, thumping his thigh before returning to the slow rubbing motion. "Cat ear headbands, scale gloves, those little pom-pom things for your butt – they're real excited. Reminds me about their history. Élan, they called it. Helped Napoleon, at first. Then he lost too many officers. Same thing in their Revolution. Happy at first, then heads started to roll."

Aredhel's eyes were narrowed as well, but pointed at Leif. "I … see. An interesting analysis."

"Wasn't there." He realized what his hand was doing and pulled it up to clench into a fist on his lap. "Read about it somewhere."

"You do have an extensive library," the elf agreed, still looking at him.

Soft footfalls announced the neko's presence. "Doctor Nilsson is coming. He said it would be fifteen minutes."

"Good." Leif nodded. "Good man. Always crackerjack."

A confused look passed between the three, no four women, Leif noticed. Sophette had somehow entered the room without a sound – unless she'd already been in the room? – and was couched on one of the specialized seating benches that had appeared over the past few days. None seemed willing to voice their confusion.

He rubbed a hand over his face, more to keep the doggone thing away from his leg than anything else. "Real good at what he does. Professional."

This time smiles of comprehension passed through the group.

Following this with silence felt uncomfortable. Leif could sense it, and if he could feel it, everyone could feel it. He turned to the sable-haired centauride. "Ro. What can you tell me about the apple harvest this year."

The woman brightened. "An excellent harvest milord—ah – Leif. There are, or were I should say, a number of Carroll still left to be harvested. However the blizzard appears to have scattered them across the orchard. I will have a team ready to pick up the produce by tonight."

Leif shook his head. "Leave 'em."

"Sir?" Roanette looked confused. "It would be no trouble."

"Yah, nah." He felt a note of humor at the raven-haired woman's confusion, even through the pain forcing its presence to be acknowledged. But he relented, seeing her increasing distress. "Deer have been eatin' there for years. Food source. Good harvest is good, but don't pick everything."

"Oh." A strange look he didn't recognize was growing in her eyes, admiration and … hunger? He hoped it was just hunger. "I see. That is most generous of you, my lord."

"Leif," he reminded her. ""It's a bit o' a custom out here. Most farmers been doin' it for a while."

Aredhel had a notebook out, jotting down something. "Local habits, good to know. Thank you Larsen."

"Pleasure."

The neko came back into the room, carrying a tray of steaming mugs. He hadn't even seen her leave, something he was beginning to associate with all liminals at this point, and something he'd have to work on if he wanted to remain sane. "Cider?"

"Thank you," he accepted the mug, feeling its welcome warmth on cold hands.

"Are there other practices we should know?" Aredhel's pen remained poised over the notepad. "We are aware of the road maintenance protocols, and your practice of raising a hand when driving past a neighbor, ja. How do you determine the best way to approach a neighbor?"

He stared at her. "Takes time. If'n they need help, you give it if you can. But if they're being goldang stupid, ain't much you can do but stay away."

Her pen wiggled on paper. "I have noticed some divisions in the community. The Shwenkes are opposed to academic changes, while the Knudtsens have championed the centralization of local highschools into Midburg. Why is this?"

Leif paused. "Hm. Well, lots 'o reasons. But … not too complicated."

"Please," Roanette entreated. "Perhaps a brief overview?"

He sighed. "Well, see, the Knudtsen's have been here for two, three generations; old Finnish stock. The Shwenke's got here 'bout the same time, old Russian family. Used to be a lot of bad blood between Fins and Ruskies. Gotten better since then, but old grudges die hard. Still pretty competitive."

Succinct as it was, he felt bad. Explanations were hard. Obvious things needed to be gone over in detail work – which meant he had to extrapolate. How old Robert Shwenke had totaled a new car, so new that it hadn't been paid for, and then allowed the seller to repossess – clever resource management, but dishonorable. That lead to the Knudtsen's habit of pushing the borders of neighborly acceptance, letting fences decay into such disrepair so cattle could wander onto the road. Small events that happened decades prior that were remembered by everyone in the area, even after the perpetrator had died or left.

"Wait," Roanette's raised hand cut him off. "You call it Grandfather's Shoulder. But I have checked the survey maps, and they call it Salish Peak."

Leif blinked. "So?"

"Is that not considered disrespectful?" Roanette flipped long hair behind her back. "The naming was done in honor of a local tribe, was it not?"

Another long sigh emanated from Leif's chest. "Lot of tribes here once. Sioux. Cree. Arapaho. All of 'em had disagreements; each other, and the settlers. Great-great grandma was Sioux, handed down a lotta stories. But they were people like anybody else. Some good, some bad. They lost a lot, but they stayed alive. Can't say the same for Argentina. Or what Caesar did to those Gallic tribes. Grandfather's Shoulder was the name before my family got here, and most folks around here don't care what some pencil-pusher in Washington thinks."

"Interesting," Aredhel's tone contained neither support nor condemnation, as if she were actually thinking about his words. He'd take what he could get. "How about –"

Hard raps at the door interrupted their talk. Aredhel seized her notebook, pulling a headband about her ear tips, while Roanette made an undignified scramble for the back hall just behind her sister, rubber-clad hooves making dull thumping noises.

Prepared this time, Leif's listening caught the feather-light footfalls of the neko's disappearance, and glimpsed a dark tail slip out of sight. The kitchen was a good place to hide, especially the pantry if one were small and athletic.

A second series of knocks barraged the front door, followed by a hoarse bass bellowing. "Larsen? You dead yet?"

Leif sighed, and raised his own voice. "Get in here, Nilsson."

The front door opened, opening wide to admit a massive man, bending to fit under the seven foot lintel. A thick coat wrapped itself around his frame, torn and repaired many times over. One hand clutched a black leather bag while the other grasped the door, heaving it shut after coming inside.

Straightening, the doctor stomped his feet, shaking moist particulates into the rug. "What's this I hear about torn stitches?"

Leif waved from the living room. "Hey."

The doctor frowned at the floor, then reached down, undoing clasps on the sides of his boots. His bag thumped against the floor like a pile of bricks, seconds before Aredhel could reach it. "Don't bother missy, just need to get me boots off."

"May I take your coat?" the elf recovered quickly. "Your hat?"

"You may indeed, indeed you may." The oversized stocking cap popped free, revealing a mass of red hair thicker than the lawn turf some folk harvested nearby. "Thank you ma'am. Sorry, Doctor Nilsson. You are …?"

"That's Red," Leif called out from his position. "Works with the Feds."

"Ah. With the trucks and all out back then?" the big man shucked off his second boot, letting it stand in the corner's rubber mat. "That's better. Had them things on all morning, last night too. Pleasure to meet you Miss Red."

"Aredhel Lithlinde," the elf corrected. "Mister Larsen gives nicknames, it seems."

A surprised look entered the doctor's eyes. "Did he now? Must trust you an awful lot. But what's the problem?"

Leif overrode whatever it was that the elf had been about to say, tapping his leg for emphasis. "Got a few stitches here. Popped 'em today."

Nilsson became all business rising to his seven foot plus height, squinting at Leif. "Didn't see your name on the roster this week. Who did 'em?"

"That would be Lieutenant Kissasen, combat medic." Aredhel came around the man's far side. Her height, tall for a woman, approached the doctor's elbow. "There was an altercation on Mister Larsen's property, and a gunshot wound."

Eyebrows shot up, lost in a bushy head of head. "Gunshot? Larsen, you know I gotta report those."

"Didn't exactly have a choice," Leif rolled his eyes. "Got patched up, got home, got snowed in. 'sides, you report 'em if you fix 'em. Not your problem."

Three steps saw the doctor across the room, long strides taken at an easy pace making the poor elf sprint to keep up. "Right then. Trousers down."

Leif paused, waiting.

Blushing, Aredhel hurried out of the room. A slight movement form the door and the two men were left alone.

"Need to take a look, can you sit here?" Nilsson patted the footstool. He waited until Leif was settled, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. "No carth out-thide. Loth of rumorth. Blink twithe if you need me to get you out of here."

Leif sighed.

The big doctor's voice assumed normal volumes while his sharp eyes watched. "Saw your Da a few days ago. Healthy as a horse." His voice dropped again, mispronouncing the highly audible components. "Hothtage?"

This time Leif arched an eyebrow at him, then gave a pointed look at the gun safe in one corner of the room.

In return Nilsson gave a slow blink at the barn, visible from the back window, and the unseen yet valuable, well-trained, horses within.

Leif sighed. "Bit o' explaining. But you're first on the list. Finish patching me up and let's get to it."

"Fair." Nilsson nodded, but tapped his own upper arm with meaning. A bulge almost invisible through the sheer mass of clothing, could be discerned through the fabric, a common place for a concealed sidearm. "I'll take care of you. Didn't break a stitch, looks like, just messed up a bit."

Long minutes passed while the doctor worked. Fingers like sausages worked with surprising grace. Gauze kept the minimal bleeding at bay, far less than what had been there the first time.

The hooked needle made a final motion, and Nilsson cut the tied-off thread with a clip of his scissors. "That should do it. One moment, use a little alcohol to clean it up."

Leif hissed as isopropanol penetrated what the mild analgesic had blunted. "Thanks. Can you tell them I'm good?"

"Depends." Nilsson shuffled the used materials into a sealed baggie, doubling it over before stashing it back in his black bag. "You were going to show me somethin'?"

"Ya." Leif finished re-clothing himself. Despite the distraction, he did not miss the other man rise, positioning his back to a corner, arms folded so the dominant hand rested close to the concealed firearm.

Raising his voice, Leif directed himself towards the kitchen. "Red? Could you come out –"

Before his sentence could be finished the young woman was approaching, sashaying across the floor. "Yes, sir. What do you need?"

Leif blinked. The elf wore a pair of glasses he was certain she didn't need, dressed in new clothes resembling a corporate secretary – if that secretary happened to be a fashion model, and trained in how to strut by a runway coach. There were hints of darker lace beneath the thin pale coloration of her blouse, the entire ensemble covered in an abbreviated jacket, buttoned shut.

Nilsson snickered. "That it? You're dating her?"

A death glare reduced the giant's teasing to nothing. "Red, could you show Doc your ears?"

Aredhel hesitated. "Are you … certain?"

He nodded, once.

"Very well," she sighed. One hand reached back, freeing one long eartip. It rose to its usual position, accompanied by its companion across her head. "Doctor. You are versed in standard permutations amongst auricular tendencies, are you not?"

Leif was lost halfway through the sentence, but Nilsson nodded.

"Then you are aware that without surgery, a human ear is less than seven centimeters long on average. Then please observe that my own ears are more than fifteen centimeters long, and tapered."

One large hand reached out, then hesitated. "May I?"

Aredhel retreated a graceful step. "I would prefer not, they are sensitive and considered personal."

"Fair," Nilsson's eyes scrunched tight, studying the visible structures. "Hmm. The helix is extended, don't know what the hell to call the triangular fossa placement, but the auricular tubercle looks about normal."

"They're real." Leif leaned back into the chair. "She's an elf."

Nilsson's eyes widened. "The news was talking about that. Some kind of Exchange gearing up. Then that means …."

"Yep," Leif followed the other man's gaze towards the construction site. "They came to me a couple months ago now, asking to set up a place. Need a lot of leg room."

"I'd imagine." Nilsson's gaze returned to Aredhel's ears, which were turning slightly pink at the scrutiny. "Not to be rude, but … are you two together?"

"Not at the moment," Aredhel began. "Altho –"

"No." Leif interrupted. The elf turned a hurt look his direction, one he met without flinching. "The Exchange sent a few folks my way. She's the rep for her people. A professional."

Despite his skeptical look, Nilsson refrained from comment.

"Ro'?" Leif raised his voice. "Your turn."

Footsteps, too many for a single individual, clopped from the kitchen as well. After a moment the tall centauride emerged, hair brushed back, shoulders squared. Blue eyes, dark as the sunset's antithesis, studied the doctor. For once she needed to look up at the guest's tall frame, an unusual experience if Leif was any judge. She gave a shallow bow. "Doctor. Lord Larsen has spoken well of you. It is a pleasure; I am Roanette Yidderman, daughter of Chiron Yidderman, Representative for the Golden Hills clan."

It was with great effort that Leif kept his laughter under a fake calm. Nilsson's expression suggested that he'd discovered a long passed expiration date on a bag of recently consumed mushrooms, and now expected small fairies to grant wishes, should he lose concentration on the vision before him.

He stayed that way for a full minute, until Roanette sidled towards Leif's rocking chair, and leaned close to whisper. "Is he well? I heard him from the kitchen, he did not seem unwell then …?"

Leif couldn't help grunting a choked laugh. The sound broke the big doctor from whatever reverie he'd lost himself.

"Sorry," Nilsson blushed a deep red. "Didn't mean to zone out there. But … ah … Larsen?"

Leif raised a side of his mouth in a half smile, half knowing smirk. "Surprising. Ain't it."

"Did I eat locoweed or something?" Nilsson squeezed the palm of one hand across his face. "Me nephew works at some PMC out in the Middle East. Said the rumors were true, that the whole Exchange thing was true. Elves I can understand hiding in plain sight. But centaurs?"

Roanette shook out her hair, placing a hand on Leif's shoulder. He could tell by the slight tension gripping the distal side of his clavicle that she was close to panic, and sought comfort. He let the hand rest.

"Our people," she spoke in a clear voice. "Have been in hiding for centuries. But it is not difficult for a few to stay out of sight when those of more familiar shapes may perform as intermediaries."

"Yes," Aredhel came around to Leif's other side, placing a possessive hand on his other shoulder, one that clenched insistence. He was starting to feel like a set of encyclopedia, stitched up and complete with bookends. "The Shwarzerwald Föderation has had the honor of interacting with the Golden Hills clan for the past five centuries, to a greater or lesser extent. But perhaps you should sit down?"

Nilsson glanced back, and chose a footstool to rest his bulk. "Think I better. Any more new people here, Larsen?"

He smirked again. "Fanchon, would you mind asking Jen'il or Sarah to come up here please?"

The neko appeared from nowhere, curtseying. "Oui, monsieur. They are eager to meet a doctor of this country. Zey are great lovers of ze masters of medicine."

Nilsson's expression flattened, eyes tracing the cat ears and active tail. "Cat people."

"Just wait." Leif leaned back a little further. "Have you heard of the lamia? Or maybe you'd know 'em as naga?"

It turned out that not only had the big man heard of them, they had heard of him. Doctors appeared to be on the snake people's list of Very Important People, although Leif was reasonably certain such treatment did not involve so many clothing malfunctions. Or necessity of caressing. If he'd thought the centauride and elf were bad, the naga seemed to outright require cuddling to survive. The duration took hours, over half the day to conclude, keeping Nilsson present until the sun had long gone below the horizon and the stars were in full display.

"He's just so big," Jen'il gushed after the good doctor had managed to tear himself away. It had been almost a literal thing, too, what with how Sarah's tail had been wrapped around a limb at all times. "Did you see how he lifted me with one arm? Just one arm!"

Leif shrugged. "He's a Nilsson."

All three lamia snapped their collective attention to him. Rica, the largest of the three, slid forwards. "Explain?"

"Nilsson's always run big," the carving in his hands was almost done, a centauride, galloping free on a wooden grassland imitation. It was his first effort in liminal carving; enough horses sat on shelves to make a herd. It was time for something new. "It's in their blood. Come from Minnesota, old Norwegian stock, I think. His sister's six five, Da' hit seven even last I knew?"

The information brought the trio's excited conversation to a feverish buzz as they descended once more into the cellar. He could make out admiring comments about subjects he'd rather not consider. There were things a man shouldn't know about the inner workings of the female mind.

Moving back towards the big bedroom that was his, Leif took stock. Enough of his extra shirts had vanished by now to cause irritation, especially as they were slipping away after a hard day's work. How could he be expected to get washing done if there wasn't anything to wash? After years of solitary existence there was no shortage, but if things kept going the way they were, there'd be problems. He should've put his foot down sooner.

Then he remembered Roanette, and reconsidered; it had made her so happy for such a simple object. Perhaps it was not all that bad. Immense guilt followed on its heels - giving false hope was worse than spiteful words. She had a Clydesdale-size crush, and giving her things wasn't going to help mitigate the situation.

Maybe inspiration would come to him after a good night's sleep. He put the finished carving on the end table, and admired it for a moment. The strong features were present in the rippling muscles, he could see that. But there were some imperfections; the point of attachment between horse and human looked a bit off, he'd been forced to cover it up with a carved belt. The torso looked acceptable, shoulders wide yet gentle, an arm bent at the elbow, fist clenched as if urging greater speed.

'Not bad.' He pushed it a little further towards the edge. There was a good piece of cherry wood waiting for inspiration next to the fireplace, maybe another attempt at an elk; the antlers never came out right for him.

Sighing, he stripped his shirt, then looked at the small hamper with suspicion. Eschewing it this time, he took the clothing with him into the bathroom. Showering didn't take long, and the door was shut as firm as it could be while steam rose and fell.

Toweling off, he made sure to be fully dressed. A deep breath was required, and a certain girding of the loins, before he felt prepared – and opened the door.

No one stood outside his bathroom door. Paranoia forced Leif to clear up and down the hall, only to see nothing.

Relief tempered with caution, Leif proceeded to the small laundry room, depositing his clothing directly into the machine. It would work part of the night, leaving it fresh for him to dry in the morning. Machinery was magical that way, far more than the appearance of multi-specied humans. Give it a task, and it would be completed, no emotional input, no unnecessary human interaction.

"Good night, sir."

This time he'd heard the faint patter of padded feet. 'Not this time, cat lady!'

Without turning he gave a nod. "Night."

Something caught his ears, now that he was listening so hard, the faint susurration of wind making the eaves moan. That meant the wind was coming from the southwest for a change, which preceded bad weather.

"Better hurry. Wind's pickin' up." he finished loading the washer, and adjusted its settings. "Going to hit tonight."

The neko shivered. "Another storm?"

"Eh," he turned around to face her, stretching one arm. "Little one."

A frustrated look crossed her face. "But how do you know? You knew when there was a blizzard, even when the forecasters were predicting rain. You knew when to harvest your crops, spending days out in the fields without returning. How do you know?"

Leif blinked, and stepped back. The cat-eared woman stood just at chest height, glaring at him with fur standing up all along her head like a mane. But while ridiculous as the concept should have been, her irritation felt similar to that one time a bobcat had gotten itself trapped in the corn bin.

Cautious, he reached out, and patted the fur between Fanchon's ears. It was soft, like the downy fuzz on a kitten. "You speak French?"

Her ears relaxed under the ministrations. "Oui?"

"How?"

Fanchon's eyes closed, then snapped open, focused on his caressing hand.

He pulled back, and leaned against the washing machine. The sound of water filling its innards began to trickle through the room. "Yah. It ain't something big. Just … watchin'. Wind from the south ain't common here, means a little wet. Wind from the East? Big storm, weird one. Worst weather comes from the Northwest, up Canada way. Polar wind, not much can stop it."

"I … see." Her slit-pupiled eyes closed again. "Then, with your permission, I will retire for the evening."

Leif listened to the wind again, the pitch had risen another octave as a gust creased itself on the metal eaves. "Better take tomorrow off too. Come back a couple days. Got a place?"

She nodded, quick movements assembling her long coat, a hat complete with ear slits, and what appeared to be a small array of combat hardware. "I am staying with Roanette and Aredhel in your cellar."

Something went poing in Leif's brain. He stopped to think over that sentence again. "The cellar."

"Oui," Fanchon checked her hat, adjusting its fit. "It was believed that a chaperone made our presence acceptable. Oh, not this cellar, non. We repaired – what is the word? Storm cellar, in your back garden. Very pleasant, full of delicious food and the gas stove is working quite well."

He had to go over the term again. "You are all staying in the storm cellar."

She paused, purse looped over one shoulder, looking at him in askance. "Yes, is that all right? Only Lady Yidderman believed you would not consent to stay in your home if we … ah … invited ourselves? She seems to think it very chivalrous. Très romantique, no? Au revoir, Larsen."

"Aw revwah …." he mangled the phrase, but it seemed to amuse the neko as she vanished through the back door into the night. A faint circle of light was visible, pooling around the bunker-like place his father had improved from a root cellar grandpa had dug. Twice it had been needed, and twice it had saved lives.

Shaking his head, he closed the door. It was time for bed. Not much progress had been made, but then again, not all progress could be measured by pounds moved. Maybe those lamia would go bother the doctor now, instead of –

Leif stopped in his tracks. 'They've been living in my cellar for a week. Never bothered me. Glory hallelujah, it's a Christmas miracle!'

Happier, he continued his bedtime preparations. 'Not quite comfortable with 'em sitting outside. Don't want them inside; this ain't some dude ranch. But they're guests. In the storm cellar. Ain't hospitable.'

Another hard decision was being made, he just knew it. But … after the way they'd interacted with Nilsson that afternoon, and volunteered to stay elsewhere … was there any real valid opposition? They'd proven themselves capable of holding themselves back, and it wasn't like all three of them were incapable of acting as chaperone.

'Like being alone … but when was the last time I actually was alone?' he thought. Memory played forwards through his mind, even as he tried to fall asleep.

Sleep was a long time coming.

A/N: As promised, here's another chapter. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! The next chapter will be in January, on schedule. I've reached the end to my cushion, although there's only four or so chapters left.

One thing to note: Doctor Nilsson's relative is the protagonist of another story I'm writing. That one's ... older than this one. It originally was about 12 chapters long, but needed a complete rewrite. At present it's about 18 chapters long, and still going strong. I'm also writing a sequel to Time Traveler's Life, Unwanted Discovery and a Marvel story (over on my alternate account).

For now, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and thank you 2020 for plenty of writing time, time honing my skills, and expanding my knowledge base. Excelsior!