I haven't been good at maintaining this thing lately. Part of it has been the whole routine of getting resettled in a new home.

For Tim the transition was easy. Nothing really changed beyond broken things working again and he probably could have managed just fine without much effort. But some of us have to eat, manage money, and arrange transportation. It's taken a great deal of patience but finally life has settled into a routine.

The sushi is not as good as it was in Washington, but at least I'm on another coast and can get seafood easily. I made lobster for Timothy one evening after the market offered a batch for a fairly cheap price. The look of horror on his face was almost satisfying, but the old goat ate it anyway.

No priest yet. Nigel can't leave his parish and so he and my church friends have been slowly feeling the waters. I'm grateful to have people looking out for me but I fear that I won't get the same luck I had with father Nigel.

Doctor Williams is in the process of relocating at least. I was shocked that he was willing to pack up and come along with me, but he made a good living for himself in his profession and retired in relative comfort. I'm sort of a side project that he doesn't want to give up so quickly on.

We have new customers, but also some familiar faces who come in as if nothing is different. I forget how Tim's door works sometimes, and it takes everything I have not to tackle Horace whenever he visits and ask for news about the old city or get him to deliver messages. I make him twitchy enough by my presence, no need to make him more twitchy.

One adapts and moves on.

For the record, the whole bit about the 'miracle cure' in the recent storyline of Fox's was not something recently created and has in fact been a part of Three's character for about fifteen years. When you design an immortal character, it's fun to come up with unique ways of what makes them immortal. In Three's case, I decided that her endocrine system and a little of her bone marrow produce an enzyme that forces her body to remain in a 'default' state. In her case, unfortunately, that state was AFTER she was sterilized.

Three only knows what she was told about it. That her state was a recessive gene and she happened to luck out. The truth is she was just a side effect of the gene priest's centuries long experiments on the population. The enzyme was purposely meant to be extracted and used on other carbon-based organics easily as the intent of it was to use it as incentive or reward. Immortals who offer bits of their immortality to loyal people, and anyone who thinks to rise up and kill them would end up killing that source.

Had she not escaped, she no doubt would have ended up hooked to machines to keep her alive and constantly filter her blood. The only reason why that was not done to her outright was that she was being field tested. They wanted to see how she handled a 'normal' lifespan under various conditions to see if the enzyme actually worked as it was designed to. The act of mercy that supposedly damned her actually saved her in more ways than one.

As for the chemical itself, yes it makes the body reject nanites and cybernetics. It was created by a race who believed in physical purity and perfection, and cybernetics were only for people who had been maimed and injured. The strength of the effect is also determined by the dose, which is why the effects vary from dose to dose. (Also, it makes for a good plot device, and the more you restrict it the less useful it is as one)

Saying all of this though, I am no biologist and I'm sure that someone determined enough could dismiss the whole thing. To them I remind them of the fact that we were talking about a dimensional hopping kittycat. If the lack of 'realism' bothers you, there are larger points to nitpick, really.

Anywho, I just wanted to explain. We now return you to your regularly scheduled kittycat.

If, by the grace of God, I remain with Tim until things in the building break down again, I will not complain about the cold or the broken down boilers or anything else again.

Two weeks ago I woke up, started my morning ritual and walked straight into a wall that wasn't there the night before. My window, which usually looked out to other rooftops and gave me a lovely view of the sunrise, now was on a completely different wall and looked out at the back of a red-brick building. All my things were there, but it was as if we had just had everything picked up in the middle of the night and dropped into a new building.

We've moved. Specifically, we've moved about three-thousand miles east. The building is clean and although not new, it also isn't about to fall over or break down either.

Oddly, the phones and electric and gas were all turned on and ready when we arrived. I've made calls to the bank and to clients to let them know what's going on. I'll need to arrange for grocery deliveries and hopefully I can find a source of certain items before they become really necessary, but... three thousand miles.

I called my doctor in Washington and he's considering moving here. He'd been considering moving anyway as he was getting tired of the city, but if he does it won't be for months. I guess I'll have to try not to get hurt between then and now. We discussed people in the area that might make trustworthy replacements, but these sorts of things take time.

And I need to find a priest. I got lucky before, but this time it won't be so easy. But perhaps I'm being too cynical, the lord provided before, perhaps He'll provide again.

I wish Tim had warned me. I would have liked to have had a face to face goodbye with Father Nigel before we left. He'd obviously planned this for awhile and I don't know how I feel about being left out of those plans. He told me when I first took this job that there would be things he couldn't tell me, and unexpected things happening from time to time. But being uprooted like this? I can't say I'm happy about it.

There is one good side, I'm closer to Matthew's grave and can visit him more often. I'll have to resist the urge to peek in on his daughter. She doesn't know about me and it's better that way.

It's been wet and cold here lately. Not below freezing, but just hovering close enough that you expect everything to have flash frozen overnight. The shop's furnace has broken down twice now and it's only been through stubbornness fueled by desperation that I've been able to repair it. The older machines are usually easier to fix at least, fewer parts, simpler design. But this thing won't last much longer and I have no idea what Timothy intends to do about it.

In the meantime we have tried to take the strain off of it with space heaters and electric blankets. Timothy grumbles about not being able to have a fire in the hearth but the city has air quality laws that could get us into trouble if someone decides to investigate the plume of smoke. I'd love a roaring fire myself, to be honest, but I also don't feel like dealing with the local constabulary for several reasons.

Timothy doesn't react well to the cold, nor to winter in general. Maybe he just prefers the warmer seasons, or it's another magical annoyance he has. He's instructed me to just keep the building running as best as I can until Springtime, and then he'll 'handle it'. I don't sense any sort of finality to those words, but I'm also not too sure what he means by them.

The cold weather has also hampered deliveries and three times now our groceries never arrived. I keep the freezer and cupboards stocked in case of emergencies but I've dipped into emergency reserves far too often lately.

It makes me think back to the wilderness days, hunting was more scarce and the rivers were often frozen. I took to tracking deer trails and bringing one down. One deer could feed me for almost a month if I could make sure none of the meat spoiled. Once I stretched it to two months, but those were miserable times.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, there are no deer in the city. And if there are, they probably taste of the garbage they live off of. So, I'll have to make do with canned food and store bought meats instead of battling nature and tracking my meals for days, woe is me.

For now, a missed grocery delivery means we have condensed soup or canned pasta for dinner. It's tolerable, and life goes on.

There is a restaurant in a nearby city called The Crab Pot. A shady fellow that has started visiting a lot came by and idly chatted about visiting there. He explained that it was a restaurant where they dumped a literal bucket of seafood on your table for you to pick through and eat. His story made me ravenous enough it was all I could do not to bite my teacup. I haven't had properly steamed crab legs or mussels in years and would give my tail to visit that place.

Timothy later explained that our visitor was a type of emotional parasite, or in more crude terms he was an incubus. So he was probably purposely trying to provoke me.

If he does it again I think I'm going to claw his nose. Humans and humanoids may not have sensitive noses, but I bet it still stings a bit to get swatted there.

Speaking of noses, Tim had to rub mine in it. He reminded me that he could 'protect' me from influence like that if I was willing to let him cast spells on me. But what good is protecting myself from one type of evil creature by drawing on the influence of another?

If he provokes me again over it, I may give Tim's nose a swat too.

Sometimes Timothy says or does things that remind me that our relationship is mostly professional and not one of friends. Not because he doesn't want to be friends, he just can't. Tim doesn't have friends. He has associates, he has clients, he has dealers and sellers and contacts.

For example, I noticed Eaia had not been around for a few weeks, which was strange because he was usually very punctual; so I asked Tim if he had been by while I was away. Timothy casually told me that Eaia had been killed in an attempted mugging and thus would not be by anymore. The casual tone of it chilled me. Eaia was filthy and haggard and smelled horrible, but he was still a person and deserves at least a moment of mourning in his name.

When I asked how he knew, he told me he just did and started telling me details about it, how two men grabbed him and beat him and how Eaia was ill and frail and it was the middle of winter... but I stopped him. I didn't need to know more.

Immortality means you are forced to watch a parade of death play out in front of you. Every child becomes old and frail and withers away right before your eyes. Some cope by building walls around their hearts and never letting anyone close. It's why I can't hold Timothy's coldness against him.

Poor Eaia. I'll remember you in my prayers.

I tried to catch an online broadcast of the church's Christmas service but our bandwidth just couldn't handle it. Father Nigel will probably be around sometime soon with a copy for me to listen to. I need to do something nice for him soon. He always goes out of his way to spend time with me despite his busy schedule.

He noticed the crosses I wear and carve for myself and asked if he could buy one. I promised to make him one and have been spending my spare time carefully working on a crucifix for him made of twisted wire. It's taken many hours with some really small pliers, but I've finished it for him. It's my Christmas present to him.

Timothy's gift will come in the afternoon on Christmas day. I managed to get a large pheasant and some goat's milk, along with bread that was made from hand-milled flour with hand grown ingredients, and quite a few fruits hand grown and hand picked. It's not a traditional Christmas meal, but it's a meal Timothy has not enjoyed for awhile and I think he'll appreciate it. One of the nice things about living in a city with so many health conscious and adventurous eaters is that I can sometimes find properly exotic foodstuffs if I put my mind to it. I have to get help picking it all up, but I have friends willing to oblige as long as I don't pester them constantly.

I end this with the same hymn I ended with last year, but with different singers this time. This version is a bit more modern and not entirely my preference, but it's still a beautiful song.

He brings recordings of the church's weekly sermons and this one was on envy and jealousy. The habit some people have of looking at the fortune of others and hating it and them for it, that sort of thing.

At one point in the recording Father Nigel referred to jealousy as the "green eyed monster", and then he promptly sputtered and stuttered over his words.

I told him later that it was okay, I'm a very good monster.

Although he would never openly admit it, I think one of the reasons why Timothy keeps me around is that I add a certain measure of schedule and order to his life. Immortality can easily drive you to losing sight of the day to day as it all blurs into one big march. It's harder for Tim because he can't leave the shoppe, and doesn't even have the luxury of seeing the days and seasons pass from the environment.

So, I do little things to mark the passage of time. I mark most holidays and will often do things to remind him of our friends' birthdays or season changes.

Right now I'm preparing for Thanksgiving. Tim is not from America originally, but he migrated here somehow and has integrated enough that he doesn't even have an accent when he talks. So while he is not technically an American, I try to celebrate American holidays in some manner. On the Fourth of July I bring him to the top floor, open up the window and we watch the fireworks in the park by the dock. We have an excellent view.

And Thanksgiving I prepare a meal for the both of us. Nothing fancy but Tim enjoys his decadent feasts. His only quirk is that he does not like having turkey prepared. He prefers duck, pheasant, or in a pinch I will make several game hens. He once asked me if it would be possible to serve a peacock and was rather put out when I told him I didn't think they were readily available for public consumption.

It is amazing how quickly his sulk vanishes when I offer him pumpkin pie as a consolation. Timothy is only a bit over three feet tall, but I have seen him consume whole pies, pots of tea and coffee, and would not be surprised if he would devour the peacock by himself if I ever had the means of serving one.

And yet, let us not forget the meaning behind the holiday. I am thankful that the Lord has seen fit to give me a safe place to live and stay as well as a myriad of friends. Had circumstances been only slightly different I would probably still be in Germany trying to hide from hikers and eating roots and rabbits and garbage. Instead I have a soft bed, warm tea, and six cornish game hens thawing in the sink, waiting for me to spice them up and bake them.


Oh yes! And my Cornish game hen recipe:

2 (1 1/2-lb) Cornish game hens, halved lengthwise and backs removed (Yes, I'm thawing six, adjust your recipe accordingly to the number you're making)
1/4 cup fresh orange juice
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon white-wine vinegar
1 teaspoon honey
1/8 teaspoon minced peeled fresh ginger
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon paprika

Put oven rack in upper third of oven and preheat oven to 400°F.
Pat hens dry and whisk together ingredients EXCEPT the paprika in a small bowl.
Marinate hens in orange juice mixture in a sealed bag, chilled, 15 minutes.
Transfer hens, skin sides up, with marinade to a 13- by 9- by 3-inch roasting pan and roast, basting with juices every 10 minutes, for 30 minutes. After third basting, sprinkle with paprika and roast hens until skin is golden and juices run clear when a thigh is pierced, about 15 minutes more. Transfer hens to a platter and drizzle liberally with pan juices. You may also consider pouring rum on the hens and then lighting them to burn the alcohol off. It adds a deliciously sweet taste that overlays the spices nicely.

October 31st is special for people in the magic business, but not for the reasons one would think.

Belief has a slight sway over how magic functions, but not in the manner of not believing in magic makes it weaker. Moreso people believing in it wrongly twists it up and confuses it. People think Halloween is a powerful night for magicians, but in fact it is just the opposite. People wearing green latex paint stirring plastic bones in plastic cauldrons full of dry ice, badly reciting lines from movies and plays that sound like spells, people dressed as mockeries of magic and wizards and magical creatures... it's like being the one good singer in a room full of off-tune squawking children. Too much bad noise and nobody can hear you. There's too much plastic and fake magic and so the real stuff is muffled.

Timothy spends the day in bed, it's the only time I've ever seen him remotely appearing sick or ill. It is also the one day out of the year he does not drink tea or coffee. Instead I bring him bowl after bowl of milk that I've mixed honey into. He drinks it down with trembling hands as if it were as precious as oxygen. And it needs to be as pure as I can get it. The milk is raw and unpasteurized, the honey is direct from a farm and has only been strained a bit. I'm grateful there are so many health nuts in this town that I can obtain such things easily enough.

One year we couldn't get the milk and he vomited up the store-bought stuff. He drank wine from the cellar instead, but it only seemed to make him more miserable. Ever since I've always made sure we can get raw milk.

Music seems to soothe him somewhat. He's very fond of Wagner and I carefully play records at his bedside.

Technically this is the one year I could be seen outside, but I look 'too real', and all I can afford are fleeting glances. Plus, I need to stay in and take care of Tim. Considering how often he's taken care of me when I've been bedridden, it's the least I can do.

I am stuck in bed again. Not because of some horrible magical artifact gone awry, or from fighting off a bestial demonic attack, or heroically saving the shop from a rival magician.

Nope, I fell down the stairs. The upstairs phone was ringing and I was rushing to get it and stepped wrong.

Nothing is broken, but my ankle is twisted rather badly. If you are familiar with digitigrade legs this is a little more severe than it is with humans because my balance and weight is distributed differently. I guess it's like having a bad knee injury for a human.

My doctor came by and wrapped it in a pressure bandage and advised me to ice it a few times a day. He also told me to keep it elevated. So I'm stuck in bed staring at my big stupid foot and will be on light duty for the week.

I'm going to ask Tim if we can move to a single level warehouse sometime. Who wants to bet he'll say no?

Well, a week in Campeche was plenty. It isn't a horrible place, but it's humid and swampy. They have nice seafood and fish, but I couldn't get anything in the city so was relegated to smelling it as I slunk around. My local guide left a great deal to be desired as well.

After dropping off some packages, I was given a talking bird who seemed nonplussed to find himself the companion of, for all intents and purposes, a predator of birds. He tells me he's descended from a line of parrots who were created to be guides and sources of information. As far as I know he's the only member of his kin on active duty though. The parrot's name was Gayo, and he called me Perro. I know what Perro means in spanish and yet I somehow had the self restraint not to bite him. Goodness knows he bit me more than once. This adds more evidence to my theory that all parrots, even intelligently sentient ones, are bastards.

Gayo guided me to the temple grounds Tim wanted me to examine. It was actually just a patch of dirt overgrown and partially flooded, but it had been consecrated and a few stone blocks had been placed there. Of course the Mayan method of 'consecrating' a new temple is to kill a few people. Something happened and the actual temple was never built, but the ritual and the blood spilled still made it a bad place.

For good or for bad, I didn't find anything out of the ordinary. The site wasn't being used and had not been visited in a long while. Tim had given me a stake to hammer into the ground, which I did, and then I made my exit. I believe the purpose of the stake was to disrupt the 'flow' of the magic in the area. A dark location can potentially be used for dark purposes, and the stake messes with this somehow and eventually turns it into a normal patch of land.

On the way there and back Gayo would fly off and come back with big messy fruits and things that he would then eat while perched on my back. I think I'm still picking seeds out of my fur as well as the by-products of a parrot with a healthy appetite. Like I said, all parrots are bastards.

After that it was just a matter of going back to town, finding my boat, and heading home. The captain, bless his dear heart, had caught some Pompano fish and shrimp and we had a merry feast for half the journey. I hadn't had fresh ocean fish in forever! In thanks I sewed up several of his tattered shirts, scrubbed the deck better than it's probably been scrubbed in ages, and took over steering so he could go below and wash his fish down with something a bit more potent than water.

Home now, and there is a hot shower waiting for me. Once I wash off Gayo's gifts that I couldn't scrub away on the boat it's back to shelving books.

The shop has gotten a few new customers as of late. This happens sometimes and often in waves. Timothy says it's due to patterns of fluctuating magic energies or some rot. I'm all but convinced that Tim just spouts things like that to explain the random chaos that happens in life that really doesn't have an explanation. Still, I leave him to his eccentricities.

Most of the faces are mundane looking. Folks you would probably encounter on the street, although one woman carries that strange smell I've noticed from shapeshifters. Most shifters don't consider scent when they change, and so their scent doesn't match their form. The ones who do consider it or who do change into entirely different creatures including the scent by default still carry the spoor of all the shapes they wear, so they still don't smell 'right'. I think she's a werewolf. If Horace finds out he may buy a haz-mat suit, or try to get her phone number... maybe both.

There are also some kids, but they move like a single unit. I've encountered hive-mind creatures before but that disguise is unsettling even if it works. Tim says they're transients and won't be around long, for which I am glad. It's difficult to explain how a hive-mind can be unsettling. Have you ever watched a show with animatronic characters or special effects for a large group? In some of the older or cheaper ones the group moves in unison, all eyes tracking in the same direction at the same time, blinking at the same time, showing expression at the same time. You want to prod at one just so they'll do something different.

Then there's a new fellow named Song, who has no smell at all. Even people who don't have an innate scent will carry the smell of their actions and lives around with them, but not Song. I guess that for a person it would be like a disembodied voice, or a solid person who made no sound. Some senses report that something is there, but others do not. From his conversations with Tim I've gathered that the lack of a scent is a curse of some sort that he's trying to fix, but as I'm encouraged not to have direct contact with customers unless I'm needed for something, I haven't pried for more.

I'm traveling in a week to Mexico. Tim has a client that needs a few things and I get to play courier. He also tells me there's some caves I need to investigate. One day I'll travel for leisure, no really!

I've spent the past few weeks rebuilding some of the bookcases in the storage room. They don't have to be fancy, but they need to be able to hold books without damaging them. I can do basic carpentry and we have tools in the attic. The hardest part has been getting friends to provide the lumber and then carrying the pieces from the attic to the storage room without chipping the walls in the process.

We also found a box with a bunch of little empty film containers. You know those little plastic things that rolls of film come in? (Or came in, people still buy film sometimes, right?) Tim hates wasting things but these were of no use and sat for awhile.

Then we found the silverfish in the document drawers. Did you know silverfish eat paper? Poor Tim looked like he was about to pass out.

That was when I got inspired. You might find this useful too. Get an icepick and poke holes in the lid of the film containers, drop some mothballs in, and then put one or two in your drawer with your papers and books. No more silverfish!

I've also started sealing up all the cracks I can find in the baseboards and putting bug traps and pesticide paste around. I'd rather not have a house full of bugs if I can help it. All they ever do is make more work for me.

I mentioned in an earlier entry that one of our regulars is a fellow named Horace. Put simply, he's a hypochondriac that is allergic to everything he can pronounce. Unfortunately he also happens to be a werewolf. Usually he comes to Tim for help repressing it but for some reason neglected to come by this month. We think he lost track of time or just thought he'd taken care of it already.

Whatever the reason, I got the job of chasing him down through the alleys of the city last night. Thankfully he was very quiet, but in the end the best way I had of getting him to go where we needed him to go was by playing bait and getting him to chase me.

Once corralled, Horace was fairly docile until the sun came up. I think it was more that he was waiting for me to get close enough for him to grab or take a swipe at than him simply giving up and accepting that he was caught.

Once Horace changed back the first thing I did was hand over his inhaler, then we got him dressed and took him to the shop where he used up all our hot water in the longest shower in the history of the universe.

He called into work claiming he had taken ill and then we arranged for a taxi ride home.

Poor Horace.

I've been in Montana for the past two weeks. It was nice now that winter has faded, and there were lots of places I could just walk around and not worry about being seen.

There was a fellow out here who fancied himself a shaman and a magician. He lived on fifty acres of land that he used for a garden and for cattle. I spent a week at his hut helping get his things in order while the mundane aspects of his life were dealt with by mundane people.

He died a month ago. I don't know the circumstances, but all his cattle were sold off and his land and house will probably go next. I spent the time hiding from appraisers and would-be buyers, and also packing his belongings that should not go into the hands of normal people. It all was loaded into a small moving van which was driven back by Tim's friend Daniel. (You remember him? He's the one with the parasitic worm thing in his brain.) I rode in the back seat and was grateful the windows were tinted well enough that I didn't have to spent the three day drive lying on my back and hiding under a sheet.

Daniel is an intelligent fellow and is good to talk to, but you can tell that at least some of his brainspace is taken up by something that is not human and does not quite understand what being human is all about. The company made me decide that there is at least a large portion of Daniel still in there, but he's given a few essential pieces of himself up as well for the sake of making room for his passenger. And at random moments the passenger will decide to hop in the driver's seat and take control for a few moments.

For example, more than once he would dip his hands into the garbage bag of the truck, fish out a chunk of paper or bit of leftover food, and eat it. He once snatched a flower from a small batch of wildflowers I'd picked and ate that as well. He will sometimes become obsessed with the volume and station of the radio, and in the middle of a casual conversation he will sometimes ask very intrusive and somewhat jarring questions.

After each of these incidents he apologizes, or shrugs, or pretends it didn't happen depending on the severity.

I asked Daniel if the possession was willing and he told me it was. When I asked him why he did it, he simply said that his companion was near death and needed a host. What else was he to do?

I feel a pang of guilt that I do not think I could have made such a decision myself. And another one for instantly thinking of malicious intent on the part of the new resident. But so far, besides the strange impulsive moments, they seem to get along quite well. Who am I to be suspicious when the two of them seem happy enough.

After the drive Daniel helped me load everything into the Shoppe and into the storage room. Tim let me order pizza to thank Daniel for his help, we ate and talked, and then went our respective ways.

I start work again in two days. Tim probably wants time to himself to sort through everything, and I need to see about repairing my shoes.

Tim has become addicted to Sesame Street the way some people get addicted to soap operas. I asked him if he knew the characters were puppets and people in suits and he just snorted at me.

I'm probably better off not knowing why he likes it all of the sudden.

I was grilled recently by someone who found out about my age. I think Timothy let a word slip (or he did it on purpose. I was late with his tea this morning) and the questions came flooding. I must have all sorts of amazing bits of knowledge I picked up from my travels, right? I must have an understanding of technology far advanced than anything most people, know, right?

Unfortunately, no. I've seen wonders, yes. But they can't be copied. Many of them use energy and elements that don't exist anywhere else. Laws of physics and even biochemistry are different in different worlds. I've been to places where the wind never stops blowing and the whole of society had harnessed that wind to power everything. Or everyone lives underground and harnesses geothermal power. Or stone magic. Or giant bugs on treadmills.

What it all has taught me is to become an expert at the basics. Learn first aid, self defense, and wilderness survival. Learn how to hunt and grow and gather your own food, make your own clothing, and protect yourself with whatever is on hand. If you need to do work for others to survive, remember the basics there as well. Someone is always needed to cook, clean, mend, lift, carry, and other menial jobs like that.

It isn't glamorous, but survival usually isn't.

Matthew's been gone for five years now. He was in his seventies and had survived cancer twice in his life. The third time is what killed him. It was extremely hard sneaking into the hospital to see him one last time, but I did, and we spoke. A week later and he was gone. I visit his grave in Connecticut when I can, and I like to think he's watching over me.

He changed my life and showed me a rare kindness I haven't seen very often in my very long lifetime. I owe him a debt that I am still trying to repay.

I miss you, my friend, wherever you are. Thank you for everything.

This is a recipe I picked up one fall back in Najera, a land I spent about sixty years in. I had an adopted boy named Piotyr that I cared for and when fishing was good, harvests were good, and life was calm I would make this for dinner. I love harvest time because there's so many herbs and fruits and seeds and things one can find (or purchase easily) even in lands where the whole refrigeration and cross country shipping thing is an impossible dream.

I have altered the recipe considerably as there aren't any red-sour pods on earth, or milk-nuts, or kassa-herbs. They did have honey in Najera though, you just had to gather it from stickbirds instead of bees. Plus, there are electric ovens here instead of hearths and clay-bakes.

So, here it is...

Ingredients

1/4 cup butter, melted
3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
1 1/2 tablespoons honey
1/4 cup dry bread crumbs
1/4 cup finely chopped pecans
4 teaspoons chopped fresh parsley
4 (4 ounce) fillets salmon
salt and pepper to taste
1 lemon, for garnish


Preheat oven to 400 degrees F (200 degrees C).

In a small bowl, stir together butter, mustard, and honey. Set aside. In another bowl, mix together bread crumbs, pecans, and parsley.

Brush each salmon fillet lightly with honey mustard mixture, and sprinkle the tops of the fillets with the bread crumb mixture.

Bake salmon 12 to 15 minutes in the preheated oven, or until it flakes easily with a fork. Season with salt and pepper, and garnish with a wedge of lemon.

The pigeons have fledged! I whacked that nest of theirs onto the next roof. Goodbye pigeons!

I've asked James, a friend of mine who does shopping for us sometimes, to get me some of those plastic owls to put on the roof and the ledge. Hopefully that will save me future headaches.

I can never think of things to write, so when questions come my way they make for chances to come up with content for this thing. If left to my own devices you'd get bland little reports on inventory and supplies and preparations for travel. (We ran out of laundry detergent today and will need to get more bread before the week is out...)

So, someone asked if I react to things like laser pointers and items that dash across my line of sight quickly. I do, but the subject requires a bit more explanation, otherwise people are going to think they can get me to chase a little red dot up a wall.

(Spoiler: You won't)

A lot of the details from home are lost to me, but we had so much talk of evolution and genetics hammered into our skulls that details like this have remained with me.

My homeworld is/was very predator heavy, to the point that many 'superpredators' came about. I don't remember many of the local creatures but I recall that if you went into undeveloped wilderness you'd better have a firearm and body armor. So when we evolved, we retained many of our predator instincts out of survival. I have instincts geared towards finding prey and stalking along with instincts geared towards staying alive in a hostile environment. In a world where you are in constant competition for food, you're wired to go after it at the first opportunity, because a missed opportunity could be the difference between survival and starvation.

What this translates to is that things that dart across my vision set me on edge. The psychological equivalent would be if someone stood behind you, close enough that you could feel their breath on your neck. It's instinctually jarring and although I might not jump and chase a dot of light, I'll get a little jolt of adrenaline and will on edge for a little bit. If I'm tired or distracted I might take a swing at whatever darts in front of me. Humans act on instinct more when they're tired, and I'm no exception.

In some cases this is a disadvantage. Having small animals or insects in the room with me will set me on edge and often times I need to catch and deal with the things before I'm able to relax. But in other cases it's an advantage; I'm wired to notice certain behaviors. Predators are wired to notice the sick or injured and that often translates to being able to notice the subtle little signs of someone that's hiding something or flat out lying to me. Like all gifts, sometimes there are blessings as well as curses.

Now, regarding tablets with swimming fish? I could probably handle it with a full stomach, but watching it for too long might make me hungry. Imagine watching a cooking show. Although it depends on the fish. Goldfish are small and I prefer larger fish to eat. Koi are very bony and really aren't eating fish. I guess it would be like the difference between steak and organ meat? Ironically the prettier a fish is, the worse it is to eat.

This does not change the fact that watching fish swim makes me hungry, but I'm comfortable enough to be picky. Now, put me in a river during salmon spawning season and I'll probably eat until I can't move.

(For the record, I also do not eat rats, mice, small lizards, bats, insects, or city pigeons. Animals tend to taste of the food they eat, so animals that eat filth and garbage aren't very appetizing to me.)

I come back from a trip to Montana to find that pigeons have nested on the ledge outside my window. There's four little chicks that the birds tend to.

Lord, why do you tempt me so. I almost preferred the mice.

In a magic shop run by a faun and someone.. well.. like me, you can imagine what kind of people come in and out of our doors.

Tim is very strict about the usage of his items. He doesn't play with demons or exceptionally aggressively lethal magic. The former are banished and the latter is dispelled and broken down into raw energy that Tim uses for his own purposes. I guess we're sort of like a magical recycling center in some respects. Tim also will not deal in souls, he's never specifically explained why other than implying that people that do add burdens to their own in payment.

But I digress, something I do a little too much. I wanted to write about the people who come and go here.

We have regulars. There's Eaia (he pronounces it like the 'yi' sound in 'yipe') who comes in once a week. He's a magical version of the guy who walks around and collects aluminum cans for pennies. Every week he brings in a pile of almost completely used up magical artifacts or broken bits of magical items, things with glimmers of power but completely useless. Every week Tim hands him a pouch in return. I have no idea what's in the pouch, but Eaia has the reek of an addict about him and the look of a haggard. I always sweep the floor after he leaves and sometimes find myself having to spray for fleas.

There's Daniel, who looks like a perfectly normal middle-aged man. He also has a dimensional parasite living in his brain in some kind of weird symbiotic relationship. Daniel mostly comes for consultations and advice, which Tim is happy to give for an hourly fee. When he visits my job is to keep the teapot filled and have sandwiches and fruit on hand. Tim likes to provide food and drink during consultations as they often end due to someone getting hungry. I think the longest session between the two of them was three days long. I want you to imagine keeping a teapot filled and warm for three solid days. We went through every drop of milk, sugar, and honey in the building. Near the end I was reusing the same tea leaves just to make the dwindling supply last just a little longer.

And then there's Horace the werewolf. Horace has asthma, arthritis, is lactose intolerant, and is also allergic to dust, mold, pollen, and animal dander. He is a librarian by trade and is good at finding rare books for Timothy. In return Tim helps him repress his transformations. Horace actually doesn't mind his changes, but when you work in the city there's little place for him to run free and wild when he does. And he's violently allergic to himself when it's all over and done with. He was terrified of me until Timothy convinced him he had cast a spell on me that kept me from setting his allergies off. It was a complete and utter lie, but it seems to have worked. (For the record, I don't set off allergies. First off I don't shed my coat seasonally and produce dander. Secondly, I wash on a daily basis when I'm able to.)

And finally there's Sssssslsk. His name sounds exactly the way he looks. He's an oily man that reeks of disease and pain and death. Staying in the same room with him is difficult for me (I say 'him' but honestly I've no idea if Sssssslsk has a gender at all). When I'm in the same room with him every instinct I have gets set on edge. It's like standing in the middle of a pile of broken glass. You feel surrounded by danger and pain. He came too close to me and moved a little too fast and I took a swipe at him. My hand was numb for about an hour afterwards and now when Tim and Sssssslsk conduct their business I retire to my room. I don't know who or what he/it is, and to be fair he's never done anything in my presence that I would consider bad or evil -- but he's just /wrong/. Every sound, movement, smell, look... everything about him screams wrongness and it's all I can do not to grab the nearest bludgeon or sharp thing and try to put him down. I don't know what business Tim does with him, but I hope it ends soon.

There are others, of course, but these are the most memorable of our pack of regulars.

(OOC note: This is a "ten things about my character" meme that's been going around. But since this journal is from Three's perspective it's just a ten things meme instead.)

1. I remember people and places more by scent than sight. I do see visual distinctions in such things, but scent tells me a lot more. The best comparison I can think of would be to say that scent is like a color photograph and sight is a black and white one. (And yes, I do have full color vision.)

2. I sing to myself a great deal. Usually softly since I'm a little shy about my voice. I like music in just about any form and listen to it often. Regarding instruments though, I can strum a guitar a little and hold a tune on a recorder, nothing too complicated.

3. The fish thing? It's not an exaggeration. I love fish. I will sit on a rock and stare into a river for hours if it means I can nab a fat fish. I like the sweet taste of the white fleshed fish like cod and snapper, and the darker and meatier fish like salmon and tuna. If I camp or have to build a dwelling I try to have it near a big enough river so I have access to fresh fish. I'll eat catfish and the like but the bottom feeder fish always taste a little like gravel to me. I love shellfish and have gone diving for clams and oysters lots of times. Lobster is a delightful treat as well. And I'll eat all of it raw, (although I prefer the lobsters cooked, easier to eat that way).

4. My smoking is something I'm not apologetic about. I don't blow smoke in people's faces and don't flaunt it, but if I pick a quiet spot to light up and someone lectures me about it I'll probably swipe their nose. I have very few outlets to relax and forget, and my smoking is one of them. I have found that the vice exists in most cultures; from rolling up some leaf bundles to dry and lighting them, to chemically controlled miniature water pipes and vaporizers. I've gotten very good at improvising depending on where I happen to be when it comes to finding something to smoke. I can do without if circumstances fall that way, but it means I'll probably take to hunting and stalking a little more just for an outlet.

5. I love peppermint green tea. No honey or sugar, just brewed up and in a mug. Tea, music, a soft chair, and a good book is my heaven on earth.

6. Yes, I can purr. But I can't talk while I'm doing it. This has lead to situations where I've started to purr and people have asked me what the noise is, and I have to make my throat disengage to reply. I try and keep myself from doing it because of that. Imagine if you were particularly happy and someone ran up to you demanding to know why you were smiling. It jolts you out of the mood and spoils the whole thing. After awhile you train yourself not to smile very much. I've trained myself not to purr very much for that reason.

7. People have wondered if I can meow, bark, growl, or hiss like a dog or a cat can. I can, but so can you. I have roughly the same vocal range as a human, and humans can make animal sounds too if they want. But just because I can doesn't mean I do. A growl is usually an animal trying to warn you that it's angry. Well, I can just tell someone that I'm angry instead of making guttural noises at them.

8. I'll tolerate it, but I don't like it when people call me 'Three'. Three is a designation I give for people who just can't think of anything else to call me or who insist on having something. It isn't my name. If you need a name to call me, then make one up. But there are lots of people out there who have gone their entire lives without ever having a name and have gotten along perfectly fine that way.
(OOC: Yes, Gen calls her Three. That's because Gen knows what her original name used to be and doesn't want to accidentally let it slip.)

9. I consider the singlemost worst sin in the world to be deliberately hurting a child. If someone murders a child I will hunt them and put them down like a sick animal. I find the daily news difficult to watch and read because far too many stories are about the horrors people inflict on children.

10. My instincts work against me sometimes. A nervous person is distracting because I can sense they're concealing something and want to find out what. Having things dart around my vision tenses up the hunting instinct and makes me want to pounce something. I prefer to keep my back to fishtanks for this reason. The smell of blood will also set me off like a jolt of adrenaline. And when I hear movement and noise I have to go see what's causing it or it will drive me mad.