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We stayed in the kitchen long enough to tend to the mugs and accoutrements that Lightwing had brought outside, then padded our way back through the dining hall, past the living room, and out the front doors. Back in the sunshine, I quickly reoriented myself to the property in general. Pointing down the road/driveway, I said, "Your shop is down that way?"

"We call it The Artisanry." Lightwing grinned at me. "I think you'll find it interesting. You haven't had much chance to see it."

"Just the passing glance." We continued toward the bend in the road, keeping an easy pace that seemed to suit us both well. "I did notice the name, over the entrance. Who does the signage? Is it one of the tribe?"

"In this case, yes. The metal sign outside is Oaknail's work; inside is another sign wrought in wood, which is Redlance's specialty. He is amazing at woodworking. I sometimes tease him by calling him 'the tree whisper.' He is quite literally a tree-hugger. I have found him with his arms wrapped around one of the pines here, eyes closed, seeming to want to melt into the trunk. He makes it look like a loving gesture between friends instead of something comical or political."

"It sounds almost paradoxical that he could use parts of a tree for his work."

"Pardon me sound mystical again, but I think it's because the wood trusts him. Yeah, I know, New Age bunkum, but..." She shook her head gently. "He seems to be able to coax designs and finished work from all manner of woods, and he has a special love for his work. He began his artistry long before he joined the tribe, selling his work at craft fairs and ren faires. He jokes that he only joined so that he could have his work in a proper store."

"Is that true? Would he not be able to have his work there without joining?"

The Husky cast me a sideways glance and laughed briefly. "What part of 'democratic socialism' did you miss?"

"Oops," I grinned at her. "Do I lose points for being an unenlightened member of the bourgeoisie?"

"I don't imagine that..." She paused, rethinking her comment, and patted my shoulder. "In the land of 'Let's Pretend,' let me say that I suspect that Detective Luton probably has a salary that makes him firmly part of the proletariat."

"Thank you," I said, nodding. "Yes, I can safely say that he does."

Picking up her original thread, Lightwing explained, "The Artisanry will accept good work from anyone, if they agree to the same terms that we all accept. Whether part of the tribe or not, an artist tithes ten percent of the sale to Timewind. We take care of the sales tax receipts and payments, and we make sure the inventory is correct; that's easier for us than for most of our artists, because we're already set up for it. It seems to be a good arrangement for everyone."

"Only ten percent? That seems..."

"Too low for common capitalism?" She grinned at me. "Welcome to the tribe, Max."

I had more questions, dredging themselves up from somewhere, but I elected to suspend my disbelief while I took a closer look at the shop building and its surroundings.

The Artisanry was set a perhaps a hundred meters from the main house, around a bend in the drive, with the beauty of trees and the nearby creek to make a setting almost incongruous to the presence of a building for trade or commerce. The secret, I discovered, was that the building looked more like a house than a store. I'm not all that good at estimating the relative sizes of houses, so I let myself stop at the notion that the building looked like a "large" house, one level, with a very homey front door, which stood open, a screen door in good repair keeping out any bugs and small critters that might be about. Three cars parked properly in front of the place, despite there being no formally marked spaces. I could only think that the tribe attracted far nicer customers than, say, WalWorld.

Enough of my cynicism returned to remind me that that wasn't too high a bar.

"I take it this building wasn't waiting for you, either?"

Another laugh from the Husky. "It's been here for about six years. Before that, Timewind rented some space in the town nearby, with a limited stock on display, for a some years prior to that."

"Owning is better than renting, but how did you afford to create this place?"

"You'll have to ask Sunrider how he does it. I got about as far as the ideas of increasing the value of the land, cutting costs of fuel and time getting to and from the shop in town, and something about business advantages of improvements and attracting new customers. After that, it was some mystical intangibles concerning taxes, write-offs, and mini-max solutions that took into account our tribal values. Those last two words, I understand, the same way that I understand what I can see of the benefits we bestow and reap." She grinned at me. "I told you that I believe in magic."

Lightwing and I padded to the screen door, which she opened and held out for me. Entering, I found myself in the front room of the house, which featured mostly jewelry, with the gold and silver in cases and ceramic medallions and semi-precious crystals hanging from leather-looking cords on posts on the wall. I noticed a pair of young females interested in those, a Shiba and a poodle, high school age; they were chatting softly about which might look best for some event that they were looking forward to. I thought of my high school days in one of those fleeting moments that is like sneaking the fastest possible peek at the scary monster on the movie screen before closing your eyes again.

"Max!"

I turned to see Darkstar behind a cashier's station, perched on a stool, his smile warm and welcoming, not at all enigmatic. I wondered if he were violating some species-trait contract by being so open. I also resolved that I'd never report him for it.

"Getting the nickel tour?" he asked.

"I left my change at the house," I smiled back at him. "Think I'm good for it?"

"I'm willing to take a chance."

I glanced at the laptop on the desk, thinking it almost out of place, but necessary; I could see that it was hooked into the peculiar device that could accept plastic in one form or another, including from a phone, which still confused me a bit. I'm enough luddite that I still preferred cash whenever possible. What surprised me was that I might not have been alone in the idea. When the yowens went to pay for their purchases, purses opened to reveal small pouches which contained bills and coins, the trousers being a bit too tight to allow easy access to the pockets. From below the desk, Darkstar pulled up a small chest made from beautifully polished California buckeye. Inside, wooden troughs separated bills and coins, no doubt with checks (if those are still used) placed underneath the money tray. It was like any other cash box, save for the sheer beauty of it.

After the two young females had left, Lightwing motioned for the lynx to keep the box out a little longer. "Redlance has made five of these, including this one, and there's a clamoring for him to build more, in spite of the cashless society."

"A bit much for a yard sale, but yeah, I can see a small business wanting one. Would they be expensive to make?"

"Depends on the wood, naturally." The feline stroked the box with an appreciative forepaw. "This buckeye makes it pretty pricey, but that fox can make even plain woods glow from deep within."

"I'd like to meet him."

"He travels a lot, between specialized craft shows and teaching his skills in woodworking." Darkstar's smile was larger than regulations would permit. "You'll have to come back sometime."

"Sneaky."

"C'mon." Lightwing turned me further toward the back of the shop. "Let me give you the rest of the tour. We've got six rooms to go through."

On the wall that served as a bridge for the two open doorways leading to the rest of the rooms, I saw the sign that the Husky had mentioned: a large, beautifully shaped carving of wood spelling out Artisanry, the rich darkness of mahogany offsetting the lighter color of the walls. The fox who called himself Redlance (I would have to ask him the origin of his name, if I had the chance) was indeed quite the woodworker.

The next room was filled with a wide variety of mugs and steins ranging from the sublime to the silly; some of the hand-painting depicted outstanding reproductions of German biergarten designs, while others asked such probing questions as "Is there life before coffee?" Also here were the knives, forks, and accessories from metalworkers, and platters, plates, bowls, Lazy Susan's, and other eating-related items from ceramic and woodworkers.

"The Dining Room," my guide told me without undue pride. "Look here."

She gestured toward a shelf of steins, and I saw a 10x15cm placard with a familiar face on it, along with the Borzhvolk's name and some background about his work in ceramics. As I looked, I noticed that other shelves, with the work of other artisans, also carried similar credits and information. "Some of these contain contact information," I noticed. "Do folks come through and pinch your artisans away from you?"

Chuckling, the Husky observed, "More capitalism. Abandon it!" She teasingly punched my shoulder. "Placing work with us is entirely voluntary, and we hope that they get some good exposure as well as a few shekels. If they get commissions on their own, it means that they're getting recognition for their work which, I think, is what we all want. They might continue to place works with us, or they might not. A few have tithed ten percent of their independent commissions, as thanks for helping to get them started. We don't require it of anyone."

"Do you ever get any of the really ungrateful types?"

"Who's asking?"

I looked at her sharply. Her gaze was soft, but it held the message just fine. After a few seconds, the penny dropped. A moment of breath, in through the nose, out through the maw, then I nodded. "Never mind that last question."

"I don't mind answering, as long as I know who's asking. The truth is, Max, most furs in the world are pretty decent about things. They have to learn how to become ungrateful types. Unfortunately, a lot of schooling and experience in this world today is rife with ingratitude." She smiled wanly. "Even those who believe in magic can be led astray."

"And sometimes, they can be led back."

The wan smile regained its warmth. Less than a day, and knew that I wanted to see that smile more often. I was about to tell myself all the reasons why that was a bad idea when I felt her forepaw on my shoulder, gently tuning me to the next room. Clearly, she wasn't done showing me things.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The third room contained paintings and, to make vertical space to contain them, two movable partitions stood parallel in the middle space. The subject matter seemed to run the gamut from reproductions of real life to depictions of greatest fantasy. One showed a pair of dancers, clearly Darkstar and Heartsinger, stripped to the waist and engaging in a display of great physical prowess, whether of ballet, acrobatics, jigs, or just plain enthusiasm. It was a night scene; they were lit by torches around them, perhaps part of one of the ren faires, and the swirling of color and feeling of motion made me think of Van Gogh's later works.

"Stellamara's?" I asked.

"Many of them, yes. We're still getting other artists involved. Frank is also a very good photographer. We'll be displaying some of his work before long, and he has also suggested that we photograph the finest examples of the artwork, to send them to galleries across the country for their consideration."

"And Stellamara is hesitating."

Lightwing paused only a moment. "Yes. She's worried about the demands of the publicity. She doesn't want her work to become popularized, production-line material."

"I have to imagine that she must be getting some recognition through her local exposure, here and from those starving artist shows. Is it possible that she's going to have to face the problem sooner than she thinks?"

"None of us is sure. We don't have the answers yet."

I put a forepaw to her arm gently. "If I find any, I'll let you know right away."

Another of those lovely smiles. "Already sounding better, Max. Good for you."

Lightwing let me linger for a while as I took in the full scope of Stellamara's work. Imagining her being consigned to "starving artists" shows made me wonder if she were, in some ways, even more similar to Van Gogh than anyone had thought. The Dutch artist sold almost none of his many works during his lifetime, and his own physical and psychological issues led ultimately to his suicide. I came to realize that Timewind might well have saved the young doe's life. She was protected here, nurtured, given a safe place to grow.

Telling all this to Lightwing surprised her only a little. "Do you give credit to psychic phenomena, Max? Telepathy, precognition, that sort of thing?"

I paused, looking at a painting depicting Heartsinger tending to, grooming, a non-sapient horse; I remembered the name "Clipper" from this morning, and let the picture complete itself in my mind. "I'm not sure," I said truthfully. "I've had my share of intuition, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

The Husky shrugged gently, her eyes flickering with mischief. "Some of us have the feeling that, when we really connect with someone, we are actually sharing something beyond words. The sensation is like knowing something beyond the words you've shared, reaching some subconscious level that makes a mutual joining. Tough to describe, but the emotion is there. It's particularly strong with Stellamara. Her intuition about you was very strong, and it seems now that you are have some insight into her as well."

"Are you suggesting that our souls have touched?"

"No, but I think you just did."

My smile was soft. "Have I already drunk the Kool-Aid?"

"Just the tea," she assured me. "But it seems to be working. C'mon," she said, cocking her head toward the back of the store, "there's a surprise in the next room."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was definitely a surprise. The fourth room ran the width of the building, a bit larger than the front room, and was decked out like a small, comfortable café from the days when such places had poetry readings and acoustic music. This room was too small to accommodate such crowds, but the feeling was similar. Much of the light came through the skylights a respectable distance above, room enough there for a few more ceiling fans to turn lazily in the warm air of the cozy space. The chairs were a happy mish-mash of styles and designs, with a half-dozen tables nearby them. At one of these sat a pair of older males who were engaged in an animated conversation about something I couldn't quite catch.

"Hello again, Max."

I returned Moonsong's hail with a smile and a wave. The big brown bear wore a long apron over her usual garb, and she rose from her chair, indicating the small but well-equipped coffee bar near her, with plastic-wrapped samples of her baked goods.

"What can I fix for you?"

"I'm still enjoying the mellowness of Lightwing's tea. I didn't know that you had a café on site."

"We sort of don't." The sow grinned and pointed to a sign next to a wide-mouthed ceramic mug. The sign read, Complimentary Beverages (your generosity is much appreciated). "We avoid some of the health code requirements, although we use their guidelines to keep things up to snuff. This just takes the red tape out of it."

"Nice sidestepping," I grinned. "Does it work?"

"It's amazing how generosity supersedes mere greed, in both directions. This wouldn't work almost anywhere else, but here, it works out very well indeed."

Nodding, I observed, "Considering you have a captive audience -- this being the only place to offer food or drink for miles around -- the usual tendency would be to charge as much as you could milk out of your visitors."

"This bit of indulgence isn't meant to be our main business, so it's not make-or-break for us. Besides, offering some free coffee and cookies might get folks to linger a bit and loosen them up for more purchases on their way out." She grinned at me. "We're not entirely innocent."

Lightwing chuckled. "Besides, it made a great excuse for us to get this wonderful bit of machinery for our own caffeine indulgences." She flashed that beautiful smile at me again. "Another term you'll find in the Manifesto: 'Enlightened Self-Interest'."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The opening to the fifth room lay at the other side of the café, making a clockwise loop the best course to visit all of the spaces in turn. This particular space was almost frightening to me. "I'm not sure I should be in here," I told Lightwing. "I have eleven brown thumbs."

From her stool at the side of what I could only describe as a slightly-restrained jungle, Starshine made a sweet giggle. "No such thing," she declared. "A little instruction and a good hardy ivy can make believers out of anyone."

I'm not sure if the various potted plants I saw here would actually produce enough oxygen to make a difference to the air in the room. Greenhouses always strike me that way. Maybe it's just the sensation of so much life, and the smells from some of the potted herb plants, and the headiness of the scent of moist soil. It's not something I get regularly in the city, and I found myself pushing that "city" part of me away again, just for now, there you go, take a seat in the next compartment in my mind for a while, and if you're very good, I'll bring you some fresh coffee later. I'm busy enjoying the local flora.

"Are you the gardener, then?" I asked the young raccoon.

Another giggle. "More like an apprentice. Unicorn is the real gardener."

"A lawyer who is also a gardener?" I couldn't suppress a grin. "It seems an unlikely combination."

Lightwing explained, "He will counter with Nero Wolfe, the fictional detective who cultivated orchids."

"Point taken. He certainly has done well, if this room is anything to go by. What's his secret? Talking to them? Special lights? Soil from a secret forest somewhere?"

"Getting warmer." The 'coon waved a forepaw at three stacks of flat bags (plastic?) in the corner of the room. "We compost manure to use as fertilizer. It's easiest for us to get the horse dung, when we muck out the stables. Our cows are also indoors at night, so we can get flops from those stalls." She wrinkled her nose. "Pigs are the worst, as far as I'm concerned. But it's a great cost-to-profit ratio, huh?"

I had to laugh. "Okay... manure, in connection with the practice of law... that part I can believe."

Lightwing fetched me a playful slap to my arm. She did not, however, disagree with me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sixth area was clearly Dreamweaver's domain. Although the black panther wasn't here at the moment, everything in the room was about fabric -- bolts of cloth, shirts, skirts, pants, caftans, vests, coats, pouches, bags, serapes, capes, and anything else that you could think of. The selection was modest, with small cards describing each offering, perhaps because it might not be in stock, or perhaps to offer the shopper an opportunity to special-order something. I hoped that the feline wasn't swamped with orders from around the world. The downside of what used to be called a "cottage industry" was that careful, individualized offerings took a lot of time to make.

I looked at some of the shirts and pants that were like the ones that Darkstar had loaned to me, that the tribe wore almost as a uniform (begone, suspicious shade). I wasn't naïve enough to think that they were paw-cut and paw-stitched, not in these quantities and with this much continuity in the seams. There still felt to be something personal about them, as if any machine-processing had somehow managed to retain the original intent of the designer, like the clothing equivalent of heredity, bringing the panther's heart down through the lineage of the cloth itself.

...and where in hell did that idea come from?

"You know, those do look well on you."

Lightwing's soft observation floated gently into my thoughts. I felt my ears twitch with a sense of embarrassment. "Thank you, I think."

"You think? What's wrong?"

Those amazing eyes helped me see myself through them. "I'm still trying to be Max instead of all that other stuff. Telling me that you like me in this rather simple costuming is a different thing for me to think about."

"Costuming?"

I smiled at her. "What I wore yesterday, when I came here, was costuming, too. I'm expected to dress a certain way as 'Detective Luton.' Now, I'm 'Max,' in a different costume, in different clothing. And you said it looks well on me. Perhaps it suits Max after all."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"For my bank account, yes, if I buy everything I want from here." The laugh wasn't forced, but it didn't last long. "Maybe I don't know where Max would wear it."

The Husky moved close to me and hugged me warmly. "Right now, Max is wearing some borrowed clothes and rediscovering himself. Let that take a little time. It'll be okay."

Returning the hug was easy; controlling my tail wasn't. Happily, the room wasn't cramped, or she and I might have knocked over a great deal of merchandise. The most interesting thing was that I don't think either of us would have cared all that much.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When we had finished stirring up as much air as we cared to, we returned to the front room of the store, on the side away from the cashier's station. I hardly noticed Darkstar coming toward us, as my eyes were fixed on the various pewter and silver tankards which lined three shelves. Several of the handles were in the shapes of dragons, lions, unicorns, and other creatures of fact and fantasy, and the sides of the flagons were beautifully polished and delicately etched. Also of interest was the collection of blades: Swords, rapiers, and daggers, each polished to a brilliant sheen and, I had no doubt, quite able to hold an edge.

"I have the feeling," I said softly, "that this is Oaknail's domain."

"Full marks," the lynx observed with the slightest bit of snark.

"These are items made singly and with dedication," I continued. "I have to imagine that the clothing is made more in batches."

"The way of progress, perhaps," Darkstar agreed.

"And yet they too still have the sense of being unique. The heart that created the first of them is still in all of them."

In the somewhat surprised silence, I turned to the feline, holding out my arms. "Permission to hug?"

Darkstar moved close and held me, and I returned the embrace warmly. Detective Luton, while no prude nor rampant homophobe, probably still couldn't open himself to this much vulnerability. Max could do this. Max could let himself feel things that he... I... hadn't felt in years.

Gently, the lynx pulled away from me, looking me in the eyes. "Less than twenty-four hours, and you're starting to get free with your hugs."

I plucked at my shirt. "Yeah, I borrowed these duds from a guy who seemed like a huggy sort of feller. I must have picked up the vibe or something."

"At least you didn't say 'cooties'," the feline laughed, then sobered softly. "I still don't think you're ready for a kiss."

I managed a chuckle, feeling my ears and tail do an uncertain dance.

"I'm not asking for one, Max. I hope I'm not that much of a jerk. I'm trying to thank you for letting your guard down."

"Does Max have guards?" Lightwing wondered.

Ruefully, I nodded. "Probably. But maybe, just maybe, he's not as haunted as the homicide detective."

"I could see why a homicide detective would have reason to be haunted," Darkstar noted. "I have a question for you, Max. Do you think that healing one could heal the other?"

"Okay, maybe I'm not a split personality, or whatever it's called these days."

"I didn't mean it like that. You're one being, one collie who has had to put on different faces for different situations, like all of us. This Max, standing before me, is a face that hasn't been allowed to come out to play for a while. I like him."

"Me, too," Lightwing admitted.

"So my question might be better phrased as, can this face, this Max, help Detective Luton to get rid of the ghosts that are haunting him?"

For what felt like a long moment, I simply looked at the two of them. Then I reached a forepaw to each, and they took mine in theirs. "If I can learn to ask for help, then yes, maybe I can."

They both squeezed my forepaws warmly, both smiled, both said the same thing without saying a word: Welcome, Max. Welcome to Timewind.