Crossing the Ohio River, they drove in silence to downtown Louisville, Kentucky. One of the first exits off interstate 64, and a right turn, placed them in a rundown section of the city with an odd amalgamation of abandoned, derelict, and gentrified buildings. Brice shifted uncomfortably. A nice city for humans to live in, Louisville always gave him an uneasy feeling. While technically under the authority of the Arch Alpha, Louisville wasn’t run by wolfbloods. Instead, the city was ruled by a court of old blood European fey. A collage of pixies, gnomes, nymphs, selkies, and pookas each controlled sections of the city and held seats in the court. There wasn’t a hereditary ruler. An elected High Chancellor mediated over the court for a term of 20 years, then consulted for the next chancellor for an equal amount of time. The more volatile fey, like red caps and rusalkas, did not hold seats on the council even though they controlled substantial sections of the city. Brice tried, and failed, to recall who the current chancellor was.

Winter pulled the Volvo into a chain-link fenced lot behind an early 1900’s stone warehouse. Pouring rain made it difficult to decern details. Brice caught glimpses of art deco carvings. A set of old railroad tracks in the parking lot jostled them as the vehicle rumbled over. Heavy cargo doors rolled open under a high arch revealing a ramp leading into a lower level. A flicker of light illuminated a sigil on the keystone of the arch. Looking again, the sigil vanished, Brice wondered if his eyes and the thunderstorm were playing tricks. The musty smell of mud, driftwood, and wet clothing hung heavily in the vehicle’s interior. As the door closed behind them, red tinted LEDs came on in a garage area markedly smaller than Brice thought a building of this size should have. A large box truck and an Acura NXS parked on either side of the entrance. A long workbench, neatly organized with various pneumatic tools, electric chargers, and assorted utensil cases stood further back against a red brick back wall. There was something jarring about brick against the stone walls and concrete floor. The bricks looked aged, appropriate for the building’s era. Perhaps it was the recent clean crisp tuck point work causing the brick to look out of place. An ancient industrial elevator with wooden grate door and exposed cables sat in the corner right of the long workbench. A dimly lit alcove containing a narrow stairwell opened to the far left on the back wall.

An audible sigh of relief escaped Winter as the Volvo’s engine cut off, “Let’s get dry and fed.”.

Wet, muddy, and exhausted, Brice followed Winter to the alcove. Coats hung on hooks and work boots sat in a tray. Winter peeled and hung an outer layer. Slipping out of muddy shoes, Winter placed them in the tray while standing on a thick coir welcome mat in stocking feet. Turning away, Winter reached toward a shelf. Brice toed his own boots off. When his eyes lifted, Brice caught a flit of pale tattooed wrist as Winter lay the thick leather gloves and goggles into a cubby. Pulling on a pair of clean, thin black cotton replacements, Winter started scaling the steep stairwell. A tall narrow forest green steel door appeared at the top. Winter rifled through a key ring, metallic jangling echoing against bricked walls. The door unlocked with a click and opened with squeaking complaint.

Stepping onto the first floor, Winter activated a few low lights revealing a long corridor. Their sock covered feet fell silent on a gleaming marble floor. At the end of the hall another door opened to a massive flea market, replete with rows of booths. The upper floors of the warehouse had been removed opening the area up, resulting in a ceiling over 30 foot high. The rain danced a steady tap on tinted skylights. Snagging a large woven basket from a nearby rack, Winter handed it to Brice. It became quickly apparent to Brice, this was not a rummage style junk market. The booths were filled with artisan items. Hand knitted socks and blankets. Silk scarfs batiked in swirls, block patterns, and organic shapes fluttered slightly as the ventilation in the high rafters expelled air. Carefully crafted pottery with glistening jewel tone glazes. Plush hand-woven rag rugs made from reclaimed fabrics. Wooden toys, oiled to a shine and sculpted from rich grained wood. One stall held bespoke wigs, another handcrafted leather boots. Aisle after aisle held a diversity of treasures. Even the basket Brice held was a piece of art, reeds dyed and twisted expertly.

Winter halted before a stall that at first glance held rows of colorful bed sheets. As Winter flipped through the hangers Brice realized they were kaftans. He quirked a brow at his strange companion, “Do you really think I am the type to wear a moomoo?” Winter’s hands stilled, their head turned slowly keeping the tilt at an angle where Brice couldn’t see their eyes. “No.”, Came the low sibilant reply. “I think, this is the only item here that might fit you.”

Winter’s hand retreated from the garments and swept out in an invitation for Brice to find his own clothes. Chuckling, the massive man stepped up to the rack of kaftans and chose one with geometric designs in earth tones. The fabric was buttery soft and supple. The next stop was a booth with sandals made from hemp and cork. Some were simple house slippers, others ornately woven with beading and intricate knot work. Selecting one of the larger pairs with amber and terracotta coloured beading, Brice chuckled again. I am going to look like a yogi. Perhaps I should find a shell necklace. Clearing his throat, “I can pay for these items.”  Winter’s dismissive gesture indicated that was not needed.  They walked a few more aisles down and stopped.

Food. So much food. A stall filled to the brim with jerky of every type; bison, elk, deer just to start. Another with wheels of cheese set up in a refrigerated display. Nuts; candied, smoked, and plain. Jars of honeys and jams wrapped in colorful ribbon and marked with scrawling script; wildflower, lavender, strawberry, rhubarb. Vacuum packed bags of dried fruit. A stall filled with various herbs bundled and hung neatly; rosemary fronds, sage, braids of garlic.  “Take what you like, I don’t keep much food in my flat.”, Winter instructed. Brice plucked items off shelves tossing them in the hand basket. As they progressed down the aisle the smell of fresh yeast bread hit Brice. Looking around he saw a light in one of the far walls. Noticing where Brice stared Winter turned, leading the him to a bakery. “Soft and Sweet” the sign proclaimed, “Always Fresh.”.  Two short plump wizened women scuttled around behind an aged oaken counter, loading loaves onto racks and arranging cookies in a display case.

“Winter!” one of the grandmotherly figures explained.  “We made some of the oat cakes you like.” A warm smile graced her lips then her gaze lit on Brice. “My, you are a biggen!” Brice found it interesting that the women took no immediate notice of his disheveled appearance or Winter’s odd full coverage attire. The other lady came over; the underside of her white hair dyed a rainbow of colors that swept up in a prim net covered bun. “Don’t be rude Silvia. Introduce yourself.” Smiling at Brice, hand extended, “Hello, I’m Alvina and this is my partner, Silvia.”

Taking her hand, impressed by the elderly woman’s strong yet gentle grasp. “Nice to meet you. My Name is Brice.” A fleeting vision of rosey cheeked children in a kitchen mixing cookie batter, Alvina helping them set pans in the oven, hits Brice.

Releasing Brice’s hand with a raised brow, Alvina’s keen gaze locks on him, “Looks like you two got caught in the torrent. It hit about an hour after we got in to start baking this morning. We won’t keep you. Kirsten will be here to open the hall soon.” Turning to Winter. “How about we pack a variety box for your friend, dear?”  Winter nods. Alvina gets to work filling a box. In a separate bag Silvia places Winter’s oat cakes. To Brice they looked particularly unappetizing, a bit like chopped cardboard.  “There you go sweetie. Now go get some rest before you collapse.”  She pats Winter’s gloved hand and slips the bag over the counter. Alvina sets the box of goodies into Brice’s basket. “Thank you, ladies.” Brice replies, moving quickly to keep up with Winter’s silent form. As they return to the back of the building Brice looks up. The long hall where they came in emerges to one side of a giant façade. Even with the other distractions Brice wonders how he managed to miss the towering installation. Wrought iron and glass twist together to create an Art Nouveau inspired image that climbs and attaches to the roof trusses. Trees with colorful birds, a lady on a flowering vine swing suspended from an immense tree, a deer and its fawn. As they approach the art reacts to them. Soft glowing lights fade in and out highlighting different parts of the scene from within. In the center, a set of copper doors with black iron accents tower 12 foot high. Glass inlaid in the copper spells out “Winter Glass” in a sweeping script diagonally across the doors. A smaller sign on a pedestal holder indicates, “Viewing by appointment only.” Winter goes to the door, laying a gloved hand on it. The door makes an audible clunk. One side swings open; Winter steps through. As he follows, Brice searches for a lock or handle, there isn’t one he can discern. A 5x6 foot foyer lay behind the double doors containing a second simpler pair of dark wood doors. Winter pops open a hidden security panel and keys in a code. Another sigil similar to the one outside the building flares to life catching Brice’s attention. It pulses once and disappears. The heavy copper door closes with a solid thunk. The wooden doors before them click. Winter pushes through, holding one aside for Brice to enter.

If the colorful sleeping market bizarre behind them was a cornucopia of artisan wonders, the vaulted ceiling gallery before him is home to a divinely inspired master. A menagerie of creatures and beings come to life in flowing glass perfection. The area spans over 100 feet wide and 60 foot in depth with a ceiling reaching up the full 3 stories of the building. There are no skylights in this area. As they progress into the dimly lit room Brice feels a slight ripple of magic, causing the hair on his arms to rise, as sculptures come to life.

A whale in rich blue, grey, and white glass pulses with streams of light mimicking the sun filtering through deep water. The animal, suspended above its base with curving swirls of lighted sculpture, undulates up and down in an illusion of swimming.

The whale’s movement stills as they pass. Next, a coral reef encrusted in glass replicants of sea life blooms to life, seeming to breathe and undulate as the lights under the reef’s base shift intensity and colour.

High above, spun glass clouds traverse a twinkling night sky. A dragon soars lazily, a belly that occasionally glows a rich orange, between the clouds. A cloud of dark glass bats sweep round, spiraling in the center of the massive mobile.

Brice's gaze locks on a pair of merfolk lovers entwined together, sharing a single glass heart where their chests meet. The heart pulses, radiating a soft glow through their bodies as they rotate slowly, suspended above a knee-high Greek style pillar.

The glowing eyes of a gryphon clutching a cobra flare to life. The scales of tiny schooling fish glimmer rainbows in a tabletop stream. A circle of hand holding lilliputian pixies gradually rotate inside a ring of glowing moonstone-white mushrooms. Thousands of tiny gold and green glass leaves attached to a driftwood constructed willow tree shift and tinkle melancholic melodies under a simulated breeze. Brice halts, completely enthralled. The magic that was at first a staticky prickle now feels like a soothing caress. A gentle gloved touch on his wrist breaks him free of the trance.

At the back of the gallery, a long black marble counter speckled with faint metallic grains serves as a makeshift barrier and desk. On approach to the desk, the thick forest of glass wonders thins revealing a velvet curtain covered door on the far right wall marked with a hanging sign, “Private Gallery. Employees Only”. A heavy wooden door sets directly behind the counter. Floor to ceiling windows to the far left behind which several cold forges and the tools of glass craft lay. A low bench sits before the windows. A perch to observe the artist at work.

“This is all your work.”, Brice states.  Winter nods. “It is beautiful.” The comment seems painfully inadequate as soon as it leaves Brice’s lips. The magic shimmering in the glasswork calls to Brice, the desire to touch the art near impossible to resist. Each piece feels moments from coming to life. As if all it would take was to look away and the gryphon would fly off its perch, the water in the stream would babble over glass rocks and little fish would leap up after bugs, the pixies would complete their revelry, and a portal would open between worlds. Looking at the back of Winter’s head, Brice asks again, “What are you?”

No answer, other than a quick flinch. Winter’s continued silence, the turmoil of the day, being in a potentially volatile city. All of it was beginning to unnerve Brice.  If being bonded to Krish wasn’t proof enough, the episode with Lulu proved without question there were things in this world that could hurt even a strong wolfblooded fey. Winter turned towards the forge area as Brice caught their arm turning them around. Deep garnet red eyes met Brice’s for an instant then darted away. “Please, later. I am exhausted. Showers are just past the furnace room.” Winter’s quiet voice faded with the last few words.

A section of the tall windows reveals an opening leading into the glass workshop. Directly to the right of the entry a wooden gate bars the opening to an elevator shaft.  A door further down leads to a small locker room with a shower stall. Fresh towels sit neatly folded in a heating cabinet.  The area is utilitarian, but retains the ambiance of the gallery. Warm neutral colors, soft lighting, make it easy on weary eyes.  A cubby shelf with soaps and washcloths sets opposite the shower. A sturdy chair to one side. At the far end of the locker room is another door.

“You may, clean up here.” Winter instructs, lifting the market basket from Brice’s hands. “Take that door to my apartment when you are finished.” Laying Brice’s change of clothes on the chair, Winter disappears through the indicated door with the food.

Creature of few words. Brice thinks as he strips to shower.