That night a true blizzard struck. Wind howled down from the mountains, chill, arctic blasts refreshed by their alpine perambulation. Clouds reaching invisible heights seemed to have no end to the snow falling from their whirling interiors, casting out more water in ten seconds than the entire county's plumbing system could handle in a year. It came in torrents, whipped from delicate snowflakes drifting across the landscape into shards of sand-like abrasive force, catapulted through the sky.

One shred of turbulent air found its way through the sheltering tree-belt, blasting over the open terrain into the one object standing in its path. The fury of the remnant, diminished as it was, shook the house to its framework. Windows rattled, lights flickered, and the lone hanging light in the kitchen cast wavering shadows across its solitary occupant.

Leif's hands remained steady, wrapped around a mug of mint tea. It was eight in the morning – or possibly eight at night. The storm outside blocked any hint of the sun, and his slumber had been so deep it could've been twelve or twenty four hours since his head had first struck the pillow.

The storm's mood suited him. Coiling strands of diamond-sharp snow blurred outside the kitchen window, creating nonsense figures in the air. The entire world was being turned on its head that day; did the wendigo actually feed on human flesh? Were the odd, twisting shapes in the swirling cacophony patterns being discerned by an overactive mind, or actual beings that lived as wind sprites?

Another shred of the storm's anger struck the house, driving a deep groaning from its timbers. Leif raised his mug to the storm, acknowledging its rage while the cool breeze flitted across his skin.

'Hope they're all right,' his concerned glance flicked to the window, beyond which nothing but the obscuring snow could be seen. 'It's a solid place. But still.'

From the living room, the grandfather clock began its hourly warning. The storm drowned out the chiming bells, yet was unable to halt the clock's unhurried actions.

He had to approve such dedication. The world still spun, clocks still told time, and farmers grew crops no matter what.

The small statuette he'd carved caught his eye. Without meaning to he'd captured Roanette's high cheekbones and energetic bearing. Had she been on his mind months ago, when everything just seemed annoying? Or was the whole concept just bundled confusion in his mind?

'They're interested,' thoughts of the prior night – if it was only that – rose to the surface without permission; three very attractive young women in close proximity, one of which going so far as to claim his first kiss. 'Can't blame her. She didn't know. You want to blame her for it … but ….'

He found himself slowly shaking his head. Blaming Roanette fordoing what was on her heart was like scolding a cat for hunting the family hamster. 'Yeah I could've stopped it. Should've. But it's just her nature. My fault, not hers.'

Outside the storm howled, prying at the eaves. The noise spurred action, driving Leif to his feet and towards the closet.

Minutes of digging later, he returned to the table, carrying an old, cardboard chess board. It had cost less than ten dollars at some store forty-odd years ago, and its pieces were misshapen bits of plastic by now. Its intrinsic value, however, was inestimable.

Pondering the individual pieces, Leif selected a few and began building the opposition. Winter was a time for planning the next season beyond a few types of seed, looking months into the future. A good farmer knew his land, where what seed could flourish, and planned accordingly. What he couldn't know – what no man did – was how the weather would play out.

Enemy positions chosen and recorded in a new notebook, he arranged his own side of the board, of comparable strength, but different positioning. On the board they resembled nothing more than broken stele, ancient plinths marking significant events. But here and now, they represented Leif's aspirations for the next year.

"General Winter," he lifted his mug once more as the blizzard's rage crescendoed to new heights. "Game on."


Eight o'clock rolled around again, the third iteration in conscious memory. A check on the old mechanical clock sitting in the den showed a mere day had passed. 'Well, day and a half. Twelve hours. Time goes funny in a blizzard.'

During the intervening time Leif had played out dozens of matches, filling his notebook with notations. Half of each page was devoted to the game's moves, the other half contained ideas for the next season.

By the time so many possible concepts were compiled, Leif had worked up an appetite. Leaving the board where it sat, he wandered into the kitchen.

Cooking helped pass the time, and there were enough fresh vegetables to satisfy even the most voracious of centaurides. For the moment though, Leif found himself craving cookies. Not the dry, crunchy things stores vamped as 'home-made fresh', but actual cookies, baked in an oven with enough butter to grant an elephant cardiac arrest.

Humming to himself, Leif set to work mixing the dough. The oven's heat was set to over three hundred degrees Fahrenheit, yet the external chill was still palpable. Tiny lines of pure white leaked around unsealed cracks that even the most vigilant homeowner missed here and there. But inside, the warmth fought back with equal ferocity, thick rime etching crystalline patterns on the windows near sources of water. The ice-covered battle line between inside and outside only served to remind Leif of the guests staying in the cellar. Cellars technically.

"Huh," he considered risking the descent, then looked back at the stove. "Better make enough for everyone."

Keeping his hands busy gave a focus for something other than his thoughts, even better than the chess games. Thinking through his moves held reminders of Aredhel, her keen eyes watching like a bird-of-prey. There were moments when her clever fingers would twitch, perceiving an opportunity, eager to seize advantage.

Leif punched into the dough, tiny puffs of flour rising from his fist. 'Not helping. Not helping at all. Quit thinkin' about 'em. They're interested, but they have a lot better prospects out there, not here with some backwoods hick.'

The thought caused pain – seeing them leave. 'Sophie said Ro' would stay though. Red … maybe not. You marry what their mother looks like, yeah? An' I don't want the same deal Gramps got.'

Thoughts of the old man sent his gaze to the window. 'Wonder how he's doing? Probably happier than you, that's for blame sure.'

Wait. There was something he could anticipate. The elvish queen wanted to talk with him. 'Told her I'd give her a fair hearing. And that big public contract thing is going on live tonight. Tomorrow. Whatever the time zone is.'

With a ding, the stove's first batch of cookies was complete. Three dozen sugar cookies, baked to perfection were transferred to the cooling rack – not that they'd need much time in this weather. But they were warm, soft, and just the right amount of crumbly. A judicious amount of sampling was needed, for quality control of course; waiting just long enough for it to become firm, he could even taste the hint of cinnamon someone had added to the recipe.

'Not bad,' the next batch entered the stove's voracious maw, uncooked lumps beginning their trial by fire. 'Need what, two, three dozen per? They can pack it away faster than the boys at the church's bake sale.'

The next collective began its preparation, mixing in a bowl big enough for a small child's bath. 'Got the proportions down. Time to get serious.'

'Sugar cookies are a good start. What about peanut butter? Maybe some gingerbread and oatmeal raisin? Maybe just let the cook book flop open and take it from there.' A smile worked its way onto his face in the process of acquiring the gallon jar container from the pantry; he'd just obtained its delicious goodness the prior day, but this was a worthy cause. 'Maybe make some blondies too. Got enough pie stashed away for a fortnight of binge-eating … or maybe a day for Sophie and Ro'… No. Bad thought. Make cookies.'

Fifteen minutes later he cycled the trays again, flipping cooled confections onto a plate, and transferring them to the kitchen table. He couldn't resist sampling another; it was perfect. Moist and sweet, with richer undertones made possible through brown sugar, rather than the more-processed white sugar variants.

"Good." He tore himself away, pulling the next set of bowls into place. A sudden thought struck, and he sent a suspicious glare at the front door. "Someone gonna be kickin' in my front door? Maybe some kinda 'Timmy's Fallen in the Well setup?"

Leaving the bowls where they stood, he walked over to the window, frowning at the storm guard protecting its external surface. Darkness billowed without, shards of brilliant points darting in and out of focus to fast to see. Nothing could be seen through that wall of snow, even the yard light poised across the gravel circle.

Out of habit, Leif checked the thermometer, a clever bit of workmanship set up by one of his brothers just a year prior. "Minus forty. Chilly."

His feet turned to the fireplace, where a low fire was burning. Seasoned wood, dried over time and stockpiled, made an excellent warmth boost. A propane furnace sent heat through baseboard radiators throughout the house, but there was nothing like a good fire to enhance the mood. Good construction prevented most of the heat from escaping up the chimney, but a fresh breeze still made its presence felt if one stood in the right place.

As he added another cottonwood cord, the timer dinged once again. The scent of gingerbread filled the air, a steadily building aroma filling the upper floors. It brought back memories, of Thanksgiving and Christmas, holidays when the entire family would relax during winter storms, perhaps repairing something in the basement or reading a book.

'Good times,' he thought, then frowned at the source of the new odor. One side of the tray had lain too close to the edge, resulting in crispy gingerbread men instead of the intended soft texture. 'Yeah. Burned 'em back then too.'

The extra-crunchy tidbits found a new home off to one side. Leif stepped back, checking the clock, then the supplies sitting along one cupboard. At least fifty pounds of sugar lay in state, awaiting his discretion. Flour lurked in the pantry, alongside spice racks started by his great-grandparents, metal containers that hadn't been produced in forty years filled and refilled by subsequent generations.

Leif made one last stop, at the bookshelf in the den. Safe from grease and stains resided the family cook books, one created by the local church, another by an extended family member whom solicited recipes from everyone in the bloodline. More were available in the wooden construct's regular openings, but he selected the church cookbook. Worn pages almost fell open to the most-used recipes, the smell of flour and spices wafting from their parchment-like surfaces.

Selection made, he made an about-face and headed back into the kitchen. 'Let's give that stove a real workout. See how much I can make before the storm finishes up. Can't last that long now, been over twenty-four hours already. A little snack for the big day.'

A massive grin spread across his face, safe where no one could see it. 'This is gonna be fun.'


The sound of scrabbling hooves in the cellar was the first sign of life to reach his ears, audible through the one radiator vent he'd never gotten around to fixing. Confused, Leif allowed the bundt cake to rest, and wandered towards the pipe. As he approached, he could hear voices, echoing up the narrow stairway.

"He must be well, Leif has lived in this region for years. Just because he has not answered your calls does not mean there is a problem," One calm voice was saying. It was tinny, but recognizable "Perhaps he is simply resting?"

Leif glanced at the wall-mounted phone. Its voice-recorder remained a reassuring, unlit presence. He raised an inquiring eyebrow at the open grate.

"I know, I know ..." the first voice went on to mutter something indecipherable. Leif almost allowed the pangs of conscience overpower his curiosity. "But … it's today. The day everything goes public. I'm worried."

Now Leif's conscience turned from attacking his sense of propriety to a crushing attack on his sense of responsibility. Time alone in the house had been pleasing, but there had been a great deal of soul-searching as well. Much as he wanted to deny it, having the new people around had done him good. Despite his best efforts, he seemed like having them around.

There had been a point where he'd almost contacted a psychologist. What had gotten into him? Then the previous day happened – two days, depending how one interpreted the mechanical clock – and the world had shifted once more.

His feet came to a stop. 'They won't back off; ain't how people work. Hurt feelings now and heal later, try something now and feel like death later, or try something now and it works out.'

A glance at the table showed off the results of working without restraint, losing one's mind in labor. The table almost groaned under its burden; he'd run out of plates and resorted to clean towels, spread across wire racks stacking upwards like a ziggurat. One man with a reason to stay busy could do a great deal of damage.

'Oops ….'

Footsteps began to work their way up the stairs, accompanied by grumbling sounds. Male grumbling, unless the liminals had somehow acquired vocal-shifting characteristics in the short time he'd not seen them. That left a few possible representatives, but only one that made sense.

By the time Wesson entered the kitchen, Leif had adjusted the coffee setting to weaker than his custom. Without looking, he tossed one of the aluminum mugs, hearing a surprised noise followed by the distinct sound of reverberating metal on someone's skull, followed by a sharper ring of metal hitting the floor.

Leif faced the other direction; hiding a smile. "S'pposed to catch it."

"Do you often assault guests?" Wesson grumbled. "Who would've expected you throwing things at me?"

Leif gave a laconic shrug. "Guests usually call ahead. How you get in anyway?"

"Oh. Sorry about that," Wesson's voice sounded apologetic. "We used the connection tunnel from the root cellar."

This time Leif couldn't hold back the surprise. "Tunnel? That old thing?"

Wesson had the grace to look embarrassed. "It seems Roanette used her position as your partner to 'refurbish' certain parts of the property. I hope she did not overstep?"

Leif was aware of the sudden silence coming from the radiator opening, and noted how Wesson was standing at the exact position where sound from upstairs could be heard downstairs. It was a unique feature, part of why it had been left unrepaired so long; someone could call into the basement from the kitchen without raising their voice or having to walk all the way over to the stairs.

"Eh," he walked a pace over to where his own voice could be heard. "Job needed doin'. Hired gophers or somethin'?"

"Or something," Wesson agreed. "The kobold are professional earth movers, famous for their mining work in Germany."

Leif thought he'd read about that somewhere, the information packets provided had been long and detailed. There were entire branches of the non-human biology needing study, but study required time, and time was something lacking on his hands. At least, until recently.

"If she thought it was a good idea, then I'll go with it." He nodded at the table, overflowing with baked goods. "Want a bite?"

"I'd love one," the agent selected an oversized cookie, sinking his teeth into it with gusto. "Good stuff. The woman you marry is going to be the luckiest lady in the world."

A sudden twist of almost evil mischievousness intent summoned Leif's attention. He made sure his position was in-range of the sound network. "Don't worry. I remember. Ridin'?"

Dead silence emanated from the radiator. Leif could almost see it straining to listen.

"Oh?" Wesson swallowed. "Ah. That. Sorry, it's been a while."

"Mhm," Leif pulled a glass jar of whole milk from the fridge, purchased off the dairy a few miles down the road. "'Bout two months, yah. I remember. No ridin' a centaur. Watch the dairy with neko. Don't try flirtin' with elves."

"Feels like longer. Oh, thanks. Cheers." Wesson raised a glass and took a long gulp. "Um, yeah. You know that I only said that as a preparatory measure? As things get rolling along you can relax a little. Kiss a girl. Hug a pretty woman."

The radiator vent almost vibrated with excitement.

"Huh." Leif delivered his best sardonic look. "Rules change or somethin'?"

Wesson's shoulders lifted and fell. "Not change, per se. Just have to know when to treat them as guidelines. People are people – say, did you lose your cell phone?"

"No?" Leif looked over at where it sat. "Over there."

Rolling his eyes, Wesson walked over and picked it up. "You know you have to turn it on in order to get messages?"

Wordless, Leif gestured at the landline sitting on the wall.

"Yes, but here," Wesson's agile fingers punched open the device. It made a little chiming noise, booting up in seconds. "Fast. Nice. Now look, see this? It means you have text messages."

"Texting …." Leif felt lost. "If you got somethin' to say, why don't you call?"

"Because," this time it seemed the Asian man's eyes might leave their skull for the strength of their roll, "Most people can just send a little chat. It's like saying hello to someone as you walk past; seven seconds of interaction. Social capital, you recognize them, they recognize you, both feel good. It makes the world go 'round, and costs very little effort."

Taking the device, Leif checked its icons. A red number hovered beside the small misshapen square. "A lotta interaction."

"Eh, popular people interact more," Wesson popped another cookie into his mouth. "You know, you should bring these to the carry-in over in Havre."

Leif's eyebrows furrowed. "Carry-in?"

"Party. Everyone brings something to share?" Wesson perused the piled sweets. "Sort of like a buffet?"

"Oh. Potluck. Or smörgåsbord."

"Really? Cultural term then. A few days of celebration when the Exchange is signed. All the bigwigs will be there; I know you don't like the attention, but you won't be the center of attention there. They'll have representatives from all over, the cameras will be focused on the liminals and humans going out and being ambassadors, not the people running the embassy stations."

"Huh." Leif had to consider the thought. "Big deal, eh?"

"It is," the government agent agreed. "I'm surprised no one mentioned it to you before. Preparing for the storm might've been part of the problem."

"Eh," Leif looked out the window. Then he looked again; he could see out the window. Snow scudded past in drifting waves, but it was the leftover material blowing across his fields, rather than new flakes from the sky. "Huh. Wind died down."

"Well yes," Wesson gave a wry smile, ruined somewhat by the cookie crumbs clinging to one side. "How did you think we could talk?"

He snorted.

"So," Wesson's expression changed to a smirk. "What do you think of the young ladies?"

The hair on the back of Leif's neck rose. The other man's mien was too knowing, as if he'd known exactly where he stood and how sound carried. Belated knowledge filtered into Leif's mind, how there had been electronic surveillance devices in his home, the agent's intimate knowledge of the building's structure, and the way he'd navigated the cellar stairs without making the third-topmost step creak.

Avoiding the creaking step was the hallmark of someone experienced in stealth, resorting to it as a habit. An operative doing his best to know everything about a target would learn everything possible, including little acoustic tricks.

Part of Leif wanted to feel violated. The level of knowledge acquired would need an in-depth analysis, someone going over everything with a fine-toothed comb, multiple teams of people analyzing data collected from recordings and blueprints. But another part was just impressed with Wesson's cleverness.

'Hoisted on my own petard,' Leif recalled a saying Gramps had often repeated. 'Walked into that one.'

"Yeah. Nice folks. Very polite." He could almost see the opening strain to hear. "A little nosey sometimes. Can't blame 'em. Fun to have around."

Wesson's eyebrows lifted, gaze flickering from the vent to Leif's face. "Impressive recovery."

This time Leif showed his teeth. "Yah?"

"From someone who hated company into such a sociable individual," Wesson continued smoothly. "It is quite impressive."

"Yeah." Leif grunted. "Easier when nobody's tryin' to take over everything, tell you what to do, plant snooper tech everywhere." He winced. That had come out harsher than intended.

The other man seemed to take it in stride, however. "I added that to the Exchange's First Contact protocols. It's already borne fruit in Kentucky," he gave a mock shudder. "Believe me, you were quite civilized, compared."

"Never been," Leif conceded defeat to the keen-minded agent, and moved away from the vent. "Good horses."

"Another centaur clan is founding a stronghold there," the agent smiled wider for a moment, but refrained from gloating. "They want to talk to your people out here, by the way. The centaur contingent is very pleased with how things have worked out, which has made my job easier. Thank you for that."

Dull sounds from below suggested movement on an upward nature. On instinct Leif shifted to put the table between himself and the probable direction of approaching newcomers. It was a wise move.

Multiple figures emerged. Aredhel first, native athleticism putting her ahead of Fanchon. The neko's approach seemed almost frantic, unexplained until Roanette's towering form appeared, lunging up and out of the staircase made for bipeds, her sister close behind.

'Maybe I should rebuild the stairway?' Leif frowned. Expanding the steps would increase the staircase's length, occupying more basement space. 'Maybe an elevator?'

"Good morn," Aredhel cut into his thoughts. "Are we interrupting?"

Wesson's expression broadened into a welcoming smile. "Not at all, you are just in time! Leif, do you mind if I bring in a television set?"

"Got one," Leif pointed at the living room. One of the bookshelves had a space large enough for a fat-bodied device to squat. The device was older, three dials on the upper right side bearing only traces of the original chrome finish. A big remote sat on the lower side, dust covering the spaces between its buttons. "Was working fine."

Fanchon colored. "I had not yet reached there in cleaning, L-Leif."

"S'alright," Leif waved away the apology. "Worked just fine during the Olympics. Little dust won't hurt."

He continued getting another set of glasses from the cupboard before growing conscious of multiple sets of eyes. Turning around, four glasses in hand, he came to an abrupt halt. "What?"

The liminals exchanged looks, but Wesson spoke up. "You haven't watched television since the Olympics?"

"Yah?" The glasses landed on a countertop in a satisfying clunk. While not delicate, they were solid, designed for long-term service. "So?"

Wesson shook his head. "Never mind. Um, I have a bigger set, with cable if you want to see the ceremony from here? Then we can head over to Havre for the celebration."

He hesitated. It felt wrong, but there was no basis for it. 'Ain't lettin' emotion rule me now. Not then, not now.'

"Sounds good," he splayed his hands at the fresh milk and cookies. "Snack?"

It took very little time until a small group of men arrived, bringing the promised television set. They performed their operations with a smoothness not often seen outside professional competition, clearing a space without damaging the floor while making the entire operation look to be rehearsed.

By popular demand, Leif sat on the sofa between Aredhel and Fanchon. Roanette had elected to stand behind him, arms propped on the sofa's back just behind his head, close enough so the skin brushed against his hair. Her lack of reaction when he leaned back in a stretch seemed to suggest it was an unconscious posture.

Had he eyes on the back of his head, the wide smile she bore would've given him thoughts in more worried directions.

Before him rose the sloped screen of a television set large enough to serve a family of six, were it in another position. From a distance, he would've mistaken its crystal-clear imagery for another window, albeit one set in the middle of a black frame. On its surface he could see a stage somewhere in Japan, the first nation to sign the Accords. Sober looking government officials stood on one side of the stage, while a mixture of representatives for the liminal population were gathered on the other.

"This is so exciting!" Fanchon clutched at his left hand, an arrangement of whose timing Leif was uncertain. "It's really happening. It's really happening!"

Something warm seized his other hand. Aredhel on his right flank, who somehow found it necessary to ignore the wide space to her own right in order to lean against his shoulder, refusing to look at him.

He opted to do nothing. There was no harm involved, although there was a definite lack of personal space. Claustrophobia hadn't been a familial trait, but he was beginning to see the benefits.

"Why are they using so many pens?" Fanchon suddenly asked. "Wouldn't they check before the … how do you say … ceremony?"

"Political capital," Aredhel answered from his other side, eyes glued to the screen. "Afterwards, the pens are mounted on a plaque."

Leif felt pressure from behind as Roanette leaned over his head. "Ah. Yes, my father has several of those. When the agreements were signed, we were given a few; he intends to keep one for his office, and give the rest to allies. It is a newer way of earning favor, compared."

"Wait for it." Wesson cautioned from the corner. Several male feline figures were arranged around him, an odd combination of fur and body armor. "We're almost there."

Leif wondered what the government agent meant, but dismissed it from mind as the final pen was applied. Cheers and applause broke out around the room while the same thing occurred onscreen. There were three points of impact, one on either side of his head and one on the top – which almost jarred him into leaping from the sofa.

'Just celebrating. That's all,' he knew himself to be delusional, yet chose to continue in its comforting embrace. '… screw it.'

He adjusted himself upwards, and drew the surprised duo into a hug. It wasn't long or one of particular intimacy, but it still seemed to surprise both elf and neko. Then Fanchon clutched into his side giggling; a heartbeat later Aredhel returned the embrace, with less enthusiasm but no less sincerity.

There was a brief moment of contemplation, all the changes in the past three months flitting through Leif's mind. He could recall meeting Wesson for the first time, witnessing the irksome lack of understanding. His memories transitioned to watching a good friend fall, losing his legs while in a stampede, then of a certain centauride charging into his life.

'This might not be so bad,' he had to admit. But then a thread of concern began to worm its way through the warm feelings. 'Wait. Where's Ro' …?'

There was just enough time to recall her prior position before strong arms snaked down around him, pulling his weight upwards just enough to ensure he knew who was behind the embrace. He tensed, but the expected soft, consciousness-removing darkness never appeared. It was just a steady companionship, promising a continued presence in ways words could not say.

After a heartbeat, he relaxed into the embrace, shifting one hand to pat the tanned forearms crossing his chest. 'Yeah. Could be something good.'

"Is this a group hug? Without me?" An unexpected voice jolted him out of mild euphoria. Sophette stood next to the sofa, a look of mock outrage on her face. "It's not fair you know. All of you get a hug!"

"Sophie, wai-" Leif couldn't get the words out fast enough. The blonde centauride moved too quickly, seizing Fanchon and Aredhel in two long arms, and pressing herself forwards into the huddle, lifting all three of them into the air.

There was a confused babble, but the now-familiar soft darkness became present once more. Leif relaxed, letting it happen. 'Liminals. Don't know their own strength. We'll work on that.'

Strangely, the thought didn't bother him. Working with others on the ranch seemed like a good idea, one he'd have to review in depth later, once the softness shutting down his outer perceptions let up. If not, there was always was one thing the ranch had in abundance, time. Before it was an almost melancholy duty; now … not so much. The best years lay ahead.


A/N: You didn't think Leif's story would be ending without a bit of fluffiness, did you? Hopefully none of you have diabetes – before or after that ending. There will be an epilogue coming up soon, but this story better stop while it's ahead. I've learned a great deal writing this sequel, and hope you have enjoyed reading it. Special thanks to the encouragement and reviews from ThatDrocker56, 54godamora, doomqwer, breakaway-republic, Kauris Azurai and silverbug28 (without whom the tale would be a lot flatter). Also thanks for the thoughtful observations by turtwigcorsola; all authors should have checks on writing quality.

Special shout out to breakaway-republic and silverbug28; they've written some fun stories!

Keep reading, keep writing, and let the sky be your limit!