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TO: Harrison Burkholder-Barrows 84 Christchurch St Radcliffe-on-Pontisbright, Suffolk ENGLAND

April 27, 2015

Dear Mr. Burkholder-Barrows:

I am a bibliophile and collector, interested in the occasional rare volume. Your name and address were passed along to me by another collector, William Basehart, who tells me that you have an ability to find books of exceptional quality, and at perfectly reasonable and respectable prices-for-value. Trusting that I have now buttered you up sufficiently (if I may jest)...! I actually am quite glad to be writing a "real" letter for a change, rather than email or (still worse) using "chat" accounts. I understand that the modern age has increased the ease and perhaps even efficiency of conducting business, but I still prefer doing business regarding classical books in a classical way. My only "cheat" is that I'm using a computer to print out this letter, but that's because my paw-writing is atrocious, and I'm quite convinced that you'd think I was trying to order sturgeon or some newfangled "app" for a device that I don't even own.

I would be interested in exchanging views with a fellow collector, particularly one whose reputation so astounded our mutual friend. To hear him tell it, you find books with an expertise unmatched by any other bibliophile, to the degree that, had you been in Salem during the dark ages of this still-benighted country, they'd have tried you as a witch. I'm quite comfortable with that, I assure you - the witchery, not the treatment thereof. (On that note: I have an original Samuel French playbook of Arthur Miller's_The Crucible,_ autographed by the opening-night cast, including E. G. Marshall and Beatrice Straight. I am not an autograph hound, but I was glad to find the book, as the play is a favorite of mine.)

My tastes are many and varied. In terms of taste, I have only one rule: I have to love the book. In the same way that I am not an autograph hound (I am, in fact, equine!), I am most concerned with the book more than its mere condition. I appreciate an older volume in good condition, as would any bibliophile, but it's the material itself that must interest me. Hence the book of a favorite play. (I saw Anthony Hopkins, Peter Firth, and Frances Sternhagen in the opening night of Peter Shaffer's_Equus_ [no surprise, I take it?], and I have a hardbound copy of the play that I got them to autograph on a later night. The singular experience of their performances that night is something unique, irreproducible in any exact way, and as such greatly appreciated. I got to tell them so when I got their autographs, which redoubles the joy of the memory. Sometimes, the memory is more valuable than the book.)

That said, I must make myself sound paradoxical by saying that when the volume has been found and the bargain is ready to be struck, I must be concerned quite specifically about the condition. As much as I must love the content, the particular example of that content (book, folio, etc.) must be as perfect as possible, within reason of course. Time will have its way with us all (with few exceptions and, as playwright Robert Patrick said, "two unconfirmed reports from Bethlehem and Transylvania").

I shall pause so that you may enter the conversation, mentioning only that, in particular, I would like to find an original translation of Alexandre Dumas'Count of Monte Cristo, should you happen to find one. Beyond that, I'm hoping only to strike up a conversation with a fellow collector.

Yours sincerely,

Joseph Solvay 847 Carson Downs Rd Tucson AZ 85718 USA * * * * * * * * * * May 4, 2015

Dear Mr. Solvay:

I hope you won't think that I'm betraying my vaunted British-based stand-offish attitude if I gush a bit at having found not only a literate letter-writer, but one who prefers paper and stamps to pixels on a screen! I shall forgive you using the computer to print out said paper. Speaking for myself, my graphological prowess is superb, honed over many years; alas, my thoughts outpace my paws these days, so I taught myself how to use a keyboard. There, however, technology must stop politely upon my doorstep and let the rest of my world be as ancient as I can make it. A friend of mine gave to me a tin-opening device known to the Yanks' army as a P-51, the larger model than one given to the troops (called a P-38, I believe). When my fingers are not irritated by changing weather or merely out-of-sorts on their own hook, I still use it. There's comfort in old-fashioned things.

I would indeed be interested in learning more about your collection. You would seem to have excellent taste and exacting standards - a devastating combination, to be sure! I'm sure that our mutual friend, Mr. Basehart, will vouch for (or "vet," as modern phrasing has it... shudder...) my word regarding the condition of my goods - they are "as described." I will bow to the camera's value, but you may find that I print them onto my paper missives rather than make whatever-they're-called attachments. The abbreviations and acronyms fly so quickly these days, and they all seem to have sharp edges, IMNSHO. (My apologies; I couldn't resist.)

The search for your Dumas has begun. It may take some time, and I can't be sure of what I may find, but your use of the mails tells me that you've no significant concern regarding the time it takes to find what you really seek. Quality is not something created or discovered instantaneously, no matter what our microwaved, twittered, and Skyped youth may think. The best things in the world must be cultivated over time, sampled with appreciation, and cherished for whatever time we may have with it. To quote a friend, "The unique is an acquired taste." One worth acquiring, I often hope, and I am sometimes pleasantly surprised.

As you have said that the contents of a work must have its particular attraction to you, may I ask what it is about_Monte Cristo_ that you enjoy? I read the work long ago (in its original, if you'll forgive my bragging), and I found it quite the story of intrigue and honor reclaimed. Is it so for you also? If yours is a tale rife with secrets, teeming with conspiracy, and fraught with labyrinthine political plots, I'll leave you to Robert Ludlum and ask no more of you; secrecy and subterfuge can be vital! (I will confess to having one particular section of my stock given over to first editions of popular authors' first books, with a view toward pure capitalism - someone will want an original printing of The Scarlotti Inheritance, Ludlum's first, which came out in 1971. It takes up little room on the shelf, but it might take up more than a little room in my wallet one day. I tell you this in strictest confidence, of course; we are bibliophiles first and tawdry merchants second. Times, however, do insist that I make some effort toward paying the VAT fur - a similar creature to your Uncle Sam's Auntie IRiS.)

Looking forward to hearing from you again, I remain,

Your Humble Servant,

Harrison Burkholder-Barrows * * * * * * * * * * May 11, 2015

Dear Mr. Burkholder-Barrows:

Thank you for replying, and for your splendid sense of humor! I feel safe enough to drop a bit of the professional book-muzzle attitude. Mind you, I'll still be tough when it comes to the condition of any books I may purchase through you (I did warn you about that, after all!), but your playful nature, if I may call it that, allows me to feel more comfortable being myself. That, good fur, is not an easy task. Perhaps I'm sharing too much (blame that on my being American), but I have been through a tough time lately, and my friends have been trying to get me to come out of my shell. I'm not certain what shells might be of the right size for an equine, even one of so comparatively a small-frame as myself, but perhaps the great pink sea snail of_Doctor Doolittle_ fame?

I will put your mind at ease about one thing, at least: I'm not a fugitive, current or former.Monte Cristo intrigued me as a foal, when I thought about what I would do if I were wronged that way. I had no idea of using such methods in my later life, as I had no intention of being framed for a crime and imprisoned, only for a presumed "friend" to take my would-be mate from me. I thought instead that I might be more like Dickens' Sidney Carlton, should such a situation arise - the nobler aspects. We seem to lose those as we grow older. A certain sense of being jaded steps in, I sometimes think.

But that is no topic for proper correspondence. I have to admit to being amused by your use of the word "labyrinthine," if only because I could only imagine one other person using it. I'm fond of what one book called "golden adjectives" (my favorite is still "Pecksniffian"), but one rarely gets the chance to use them. I used "quotidian" in a sentence the other day, and the furson I was speaking to had no idea what I meant. I went back to words of one and two syllables. Only one person ever challenged my vocabulary (as immodest as that sounds), and that was my now-ex-lover. It was he who first used the word "labyrinthine" in our conversation, and it took me a beat or two to catch up. He was nothing if not well-spoken. He was, in fact, a great deal more. Ah... forgive me, the circumstances are still fresh, so the topic creeps into my conversation from time to time.

I discovered a folio (!) copy of Edwin A. Abbott's_Flatland_ the other day; sadly, the paper cover was not in good repair, and some of the initial pages had been cut; however, I found it fascinating to find a folio in any condition of any book at an "antiques auction" here in the States. Yowens these days, they have no notion about how books are put together currently, even if they have any interest in physical books in the first place (or even eBooks, as they're called, for use in readers and phones). To explain a folio edition... What it must have been like, to have purchased a book, knowing it was new because you had to cut the pages apart! A university here in the States lost a huge value in part of their collection, because an eager kit, hired innocently as an assistant to the stacks, had noted that the pages were "stuck together," as he put it, and he dutifully began cutting the pages of several original folio editions.

It's a symptom of youth to be young, but does it have to be a flaw, I wonder? If you'll allow me the brief ramble, why is it that society cherishes youth so much that it fails to acknowledge the value, the history, of those who have actually lived a life? Even Oscar Wilde noted that "Youth is exquisite; what a pity to waste it on the young." Is it a waste, either to be young or to grow into a valued maturity? There must be some balance, I would sincerely hope, between that sweet blossom of youth and the sweet ripeness of maturity. To push this analogy to its limits, naturally one can't read a folio without cutting its pages, but there are other editions out there, and by perusing a_copy_ of the original, we can get the story and preserve the past. I guess I just don't understand what we're teaching the yowens these days. Good job I've none of my own, eh?

I'd be glad to take a few photos of the_Flatland_ copy, if you're interested. I acquired it for $1.00, as an oddity more than anything else. On the few occasions when I am invited to talk about books, it gives me a good, safe way to explain what a folio edition was, and what it looked like. I confess, I'm tempted to hot-glue the cover back onto the spine; it's similar enough to the way it was done originally that, as long as I disclose it to a potential buyer, it would suit the physical definition requirements. Not sure who'd want to buy it; someone made an animated film of the story, and you know how the visual market outsells mere words these days.

Here I go, rattling on! Let me know about M. Dumas, should he choose to make an appearance. One last reference to my ex - since his departure, I've had rare occasion to vent my wordiness elsewhere, so you seem to be bearing the brunt. My thanks.

Sincerely,

Joseph Solvay * * * * * * * * * * May 22, 2015

Apologize not, dear Mr. Solvay...

I love words, in whatever form, and it takes a great deal indeed to get me to cry "uncle" upon their use! Have at me, good sir, and I shall parry and thrust with all my eloquence and skill. And I shall add "Pecksniffian" to my arsenal.

Speaking of buckles swashed, I got a note from one of my sources saying that he can put his paws on a copy of the Dumas that is described as "slightly foxed, but still desirable." The definition of "foxed," we can all agree upon; it's the "slightly" that I'm going to inquire about. I think that he will be able to provide good electronic photographs in good lighting (a skill I've yet to acquire), and I can either print them on high-quality photographic paper to mail to you, or we could make an exception and use the Devil's device for me to forward them to you. The only real advantage to the latter is that you can "zoom" without a magnifying glass. That, I confess, may take some of the fun out of it.

Interesting, isn't it, that even now no one knows the exact nature of foxing and why it occurs? Theories abound, from the acid content of the paper to some sort of particular mold or fungal growth (that no one has been able to isolate) that discolors the paper. The reddish-brown tint is presumably reminiscent of a fox's fur, although I know a great many foxes who might be offended both by the color comparison and by the association with an unknown fungus. I hold with the theory that it is a reaction to humidity and the oxides in the paper, which might explain why books kept in humidity-controlled rooms fare better than those found in old barns. It also allows us to make a jest at Ray Bradbury; oxidation is, in its literal sense, a burning... but not at 451°F, in this case!

If I may so observe, dear Mr. Solvay, you seem to feel quite strongly about the difficulties of youth. I've "been around the block a few times" (if I may borrow from the richness of American slang), and I agree that there is great store to be set in a life well-lived. I wonder, however, if there comes a point where perhaps there is too much of a gap between youth and age. Take, as an example, our books that we love so dearly. Condition becomes paramount, if I may summarize your observations, and in that category, either youth or well-preserved age will take the prize, but rarely (if ever) the twain shall meet. The newest is in perfect condition; the well-preserved is in remarkable condition. All between, it would seem, are set aside somehow. It's not an exact analogy, nor should it be. It does, however, lend itself to a number of jokes about being "middle-aged" as opposed to being from the Middle Ages.

Your idea about reuniting the cover with its book is a sound one. I imagine many of us could make use of a hot glue gun to hold us together when we reach a certain age. May I take advantage of your offer to provide some photographs for me? Perhaps I could help with the process, at least offering a few suggestions. I'll refrain from the obvious bawdy comparisons of a hot glue gun to... oh, but I've said to much already...!

If you have interest in some turn-of-the-last-century works such as Flatland, perhaps I could interest you in some original printings of S. S. Van Dine? Being in England, I can readily lay paw to a variety of editions of the early masters of detective fiction. We did rather create the genre, or at least bring it to its pinnacle. (Modest patriot, am I not?)

As always,

Harrison Burkholder-Barrows * * * * * * * * * * May 29, 2015

Shocked, Mr. Burkholder-Barrows...!

I am_shocked_ that you would place even England's greatest detective ahead (chronologically, at the least) of Auguste Dupin! While Holmes dismisses him rather perfunctorily in A Study in Scarlet, Dupin nonetheless appears (three times in fact) before Holmes, in the published works of Poe. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" (1841) is often proclaimed as the first short work of detective fiction. I provide you, as only an equine can, with a "horse laugh." So there. Nyaah.

I doubt that I have need to say that I am, of course, jesting. Couldn't resist. My first laugh, actually, was the description of "slightly foxed, but still desirable." You could describe me the same way, or at least I would hope so. My ex is a fox... Kitsune, actually, if you'll forgive a touch of indiscretion. I'll refrain from using his name. He was actually fond of displaying his tails, although he could also crave his secrecy from time to time. When he let me, I took fond care of those tails, all four. But I digress.

As you say, the definition of "slightly" remains to be seen. I would probably trust your judgment, if it's anywhere near as good as your wit and charm. I thank you for the offer of the photos, however, and yes, let's use the InfernalNet for the pictures. My email address is [email protected] - frightfully original, isn't it? I was going to use "Joss," which is what my friends call me, but I went for the whole name instead. Well... almost the whole name, but who would believe that I have the middle name of Alden? I doubt that many people know that. I welcome you to use "Joss" henceforth, since none of us really want to be called "Alden" out loud, at least not in this country. Oh, and when I have your email address, I'll provide a few somewhat amateur photos of_Flatland_; I'd welcome good advice on how to proceed.

I'm not sure that I'm all that removed from either youth or age, although yes, the difference between myself and a lover whose tails tell you that he's in his fourth century is greater than the average. I think that's what bothered him, if you'll forgive me telling tales (tails?). I hope you'll also forgive me for being silly; I think it's a defense mechanism against my own loneliness. I miss him quite deeply, and it shows at inopportune times. And although it's not the same to treat a lover as one would treat a book, I cherished him for himself, which meant his experience as well. I know that I shall cherish the Dumas, should I decide to take it, and I know that it will be for very different reasons than I loved my Kitsune, but the value of their respective ages (Dumas being much younger, actually) is...

I almost went back to delete all that. The advantage of using a computer to write letters is that it's easier to edit them, to go back and take out that "WTMI," as the kids would say. (I guess I'm young enough to enjoy that acronym, as it sounds like radio station call letters over here - "WTMI Radio, where you may not know everything about sex, but we'll tell you anyway!") I've no wish to drown you in my romanticism, nor the details (no pun intended) of my loss. I guess I simply wanted to try to tell you that age itself doesn't make something valuable, but valuing something partly because of its age is... well, healthy, or so I would hope.

I think it's why I so much enjoyed my brief time in England, some years ago. There is nowhere you can go where, within a short distance, there is history. I live in the youngest part of a very young country; here, you might find a place that has some sort of significance from perhaps a century, perhaps one and a half, but there it stops. It's a feeling that invokes "Ozymandias," although in reverse: The desert is itself conquered by what is new, and only what is new will survive it. I think that's why I moved here, after my lover's departure. I lived with history, and love it, and treasured it, and now, it hurts less to see a gleaming new fast-food joint blighting the arid landscape, and if I want history, I go into the deserts, where nothing has changed significantly for even ten times the life of my lost Kitsune.

Forgive me; I'm truly self-indulgent today. Perhaps it's a kind of kinship of bibliophiles or something - we tend to tell stories as well as to collect them. Let me know about the Dumas, and thank you for letting a not-so-young fool prattle.

Sincerely, Joss * * * * * * * * * * June 5, 2015 (email)

My Dear Joss...

First, please call me Harrison, or Harry, if you wish. After the sharing of such a story, first names are more than indicated. And for that matter, Alden is a lovely name, meaning "old friend," which is rather how I'm coming to think of you despite that our correspondence has been but brief.

Business first. I'm using the email to send the pictures to you. I think "slightly" is a good descriptor, as you'll see. I don't think any page has more than perhaps 5% of its surface area foxed, and the front and end papers are actually in remarkably good condition. My source has provided a proper set of snaps for all of the important aspects, and he has used full-spectrum lighting to ensure that the color quality is accurate; let me know if there's anything you think he might have missed, and I'll get him to take a few more. I also look forward to your photographs of the_Flatland_ volume.

And now, my dear Joss, I am about to take a risk here and put my muzzle where it doesn't belong (how terribly un-British of me, I know). I think that your observation is quite right. It has always seemed to me - perhaps as a bibliophile, perhaps as a fur who at least hopes that he has a loving heart - that the most important stories are our own, and that sometimes it's better when we have a chance to tell them. You have already shared much with me, beyond the ordinary give and take of two furs merely doing business together. Would you be willing to confide further in me about your feelings about your Kitsune? It's clear that his leaving has affected you strongly. Why is that? Did he know how it affected you? Or perhaps I mean, is there something in that which caused your break-up? Or is that even an appropriate phrasing...

Oh bother... forgive me if I've gone too far. I, too, wonder about editing, but instinct tells me to continue. I don't always follow my instincts, and sometimes to my deepest detriment...

Joss, stories need to be told, to someone. Please honor me by telling me yours...

Harrison * * * * * * * * * * June 6, 2015 (email) Dear Harrison...

I thought about "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" -would it have been worthwhile, to have bitten the matter off with a smile... I'd not even thought about T. S. Eliot before my Kitsune - when I could call him that - introduced me. Even now, I find myself wondering if it would be easier for me to make up some story, or just say nothing at all... but that would leave the wrong impression.

I may be just a foolish pony after all, despite my age. You asked why we "broke up," and truth be told, I'm not even quite sure that we did. It's not that simple, somehow, and it wasn't acrimonious. It's all too common for one party to blame the other, but I won't say anything bad about the fox, now or ever. You see, I somehow feel responsible for him not understanding. Think for a moment about what it must be like for someone as long-lived as a dragon or a Kitsune, and imagine what it would be like for him never to seem any older at all, as his lover ages before his eyes. I did think about that, and in some ways, I might even have pushed him away with that thought. The truth, though - the one thing I think he never really understood - is that I love who I love, and what I love, without thought to anything beyond that. In collecting books, I'm very much about condition, condition, condition, about appearance and provenance, about knowing what it is that I am collecting. But with everything else, I love who I love, and especially in a relationship, loving, learning, growing -discovery - is so much more important than mere knowing.

How can one describe the value of a relationship, the provenance of love? Can it have a history that predates the meeting of the two, and each somehow evaluates the other for "condition" and "desirability" and "potential increase in value"? A lover is not a book, and only once could it ever be a folio edition, and that's not a crude joke at physical virginity. We all have our pages, our private and unread, untold stories, and we have to trust the person who is going to cut our pages, because they will never be truly private ever again. It's a violent image, perhaps because, as Clive Barker told us, we are all books of blood, and when we are opened, we are red. Our deepest secrets are in the pages that take the most to cut, and we must trust the one who wields that blade, to be quick and clean, to help heal and to cherish what is found there. And the oldest books, the ones that still have some pages uncut... those we must cherish to the point of not cutting at all, or to let them open themselves. There is still so much that I never knew about my Kistune, and that I will never know, but I will still hope that, whoever he trusts with those pages, will know what a fine and rare volume he is.

Harrison, I must be grateful for our distance, since if you were here, I'd probably embarrass myself terribly. Behind this screen, I have found myself blubbering like a foolish foal for some minutes. I find myself unable to speak of him (I almost typed his name - editing, a good use of a word processor) without wondering what I did wrong. Was it a mistake of youth, I wonder? I can't help fearing that I somehow chased him away, when I had no such intention. As you may know, Kitsune were once worshiped as gods, according to the mythology. He never asked me, and I never told him - perhaps because of his vanity, perhaps because of my own - but truly, Harrison, I could see why. Not the stories of their magic; he told me a few stories, cut a few pages of his folio self, and they may or may not have been true, it made no difference to me. He was his own Scheherazade. He was the most prized story that I've ever had the privilege at least to begin. Perhaps knowing that I could never finish his story, that mine would be over long before his, was part of the sweet attraction. Imagine a truly never-ending story, at least as far as I was concerned. I'm not so old that I could provide only a thousand and one nights, like the Arabian entertainments. I'd have given him every page of my book, every night of my life, gladly, and awakened to continue the story each morning. Is that love? Or is it merely a fairy tale?

Part of me says to delete all this. Another part of me wonders why I can tell this to a stranger but never told him. I guess I thought he knew. I guess I just couldn't imagine that he wouldn't know, because I was telling him with every word, every action, every brush of his tails... but maybe the subext is too subtle, if that's all one is relying on. After all, "I love you" is a story, too, with a million million variations. Maybe stories, even (or especially) old stories, have to be retold, and often. Telling you has helped. It's important for stories to be heard, and the rarest stories are those we live ourselves. Rarer still are those pages within us which wait for some cherished and trusted love to cut open, so tenderly, so sweetly, with such respect... or perhaps I'm still just dreaming.

Okay. Back to business. The pictures are good. I am interested in purchasing the Dumas, please, if you'd like to discuss price. I can arrange with my bank to put an amount in escrow so that I might examine the book directly, if that's satisfactory to you. Also, I'm attaching my rather amateurish photos of the_Flatland_ edition; I'd be grateful for whatever help you could offer.

And that's a way of saying "Until we meet again," not "Goodbye." Thank you, Harrison. You were right... I did need to tell someone. Thank you for being a good blade.

Joss * * * * * * * * * * June 7, 2015 (email) My Dear, Dear Joss...

I'm sorry for having put you through so much pain. The hurt in your words moved me to tears, and I do not exaggerate. I view with trust your offer of escrow, and I will arrange to have the book delivered to your home directly, by messenger. As soon as I can make the arrangements, I'll notify you when to expect it.

It's my turn to ask you to forgive me for being emotional. I thank you, however, for giving me so much to consider. I will make sure you have the delivery information as soon as I do.

With greatest empathy,

Harry * * * * * * * * * * Saturday, June 13, 2015

Tucson, Arizona

Joseph Solvay was not the sort of horse to pace the floor, even when he was actually nervous rather than simply anxious with anticipation. He was glad that Harrison had managed to arrange for the delivery of the book on a weekend; it made it simpler than having it delivered to the office, where a messenger would have to wait in the front offices while someone went back to fetch the equine from the very bowels of a (he found himself chuckling at the description) labyrinthine cube-farm. It was better also for the joy of not having to wait for the end of a business day to examine the book. He had already cleared the dining table and covered it with a clean cloth covered by plastic sheeting, and he had his nitrile gloves ready. When handling someone else's books, it was best to take every precaution; when handling your own, it was best to take all the other precautions, although you could allow your bare paws finally to touch the leather of the binding, the smoothness of the pages - an experience of sensuality that no connoisseur could, or should, resist.

He checked his preparations from the short distance of the sofa, realizing that he'd remembered to do all that he could do to prepare for the delivery (he wasn't sure if messengers still needed to be tipped, but he had one ready nevertheless), and went back to looking through his photo album yet again. His mind was too excited to focus on words, and his heart was still heavy from the memories that Harrison had stirred up about a week ago. He was, in essence, still bleeding. Not that it was the bookseller's fault in any way. The emotions had been close to the surface for all this time; it wasn't likely that they'd fade away very quickly. No wound so deep could heal quickly. Looking at photographs of his former life was simultaneously uplifting and melancholic. In every photo, Lewis showed only one tail. If you wanted any proof that he was over 300 years old, you'd have to look into his eyes, and not just in the photograph. He could hide himself that way as well. He never looked much older than Joss, and the horse was never quite sure if that were an illusion (a "glamour," to the faerie folk, if such existed... and why should they be any more impossible than a Kitsune?).

Joss found it strangely easy to picture the four tails in his mind, even without photographic reminders. How could he forget how it felt to be allowed to tend so lovingly to those elegant plumes of vulpine perfection? He wondered if Lewis knew that he actually purred when his tails were being tended. Well, perhaps not "purred," but the sound was close enough that it made Joss smile to remember it. The Kitsune indulged in spa treatments from time to time ("Self-indulgence is a requirement and a duty, not a privilege," as he put it), but he loved spending the intimate hour or so that it took for Joss to work thoroughly through all four tails. During shedding season, the equine joked that he could build a whole new fox out of what he'd curried out. The fur itself was always collected and carefully disposed of; there was sympathetic magic in any fur, but it was strongest in Kitsune fur, and Lewis took precautions. Joss still had the brush, though, with some remnants of the fur, the dander, entangled in the bristles. He kept it carefully hidden from prying eyes or potential thieves. He sniffed it sometimes, usually before trying to sleep, his nostrils flaring wide. It helped and didn't, both at once, but he couldn't give it up if his life depended on it.

At long last, the doorbell rang. Joss rose to meet the courier, glad to have something else to think about for a while. He opened the door to find that he was completely wrong.

"Special delivery for Mr. Solvay."

The word choked in the horse's throat. "L-Lewis?"

Before him on the porch stood Lewellyn Maxwell Fortnam, immaculately dressed, ears splayed with anxiety, all four tails on full display, if low and barely moving. Quite apart from the tails (not to mention all the other aspects of Lewis that he'd grown to love over those few years), it was impossible for Joss to have thought it was anyone else. Those eyes, those magnificently soft, cool, sky blue eyes were the same as those he'd been looking at in photos only moments before. As usual, when seen in real life, those eyes made the equine's heart burst and re-heal itself a hundred times in an instant, made his own eyes want to fill with tears of joy... or was it rage he felt brewing in him?

"What do you want, Lewis?" The failed attempt to steel his voice was not lost on either of them.

"I have a rare, old, and special item that I hope you'll want to take in." He brought up his forepaws, holding a carefully bound rectangular package. "And a book."

Joss felt himself struggling to settle on a single emotion, failing, trying again.

"You know how many names I've used over the centuries," the Kitsune said softly. "I didn't mean to deceive you, lovely. My sole intention was to help you find your book. Even ex-lovers can do that for one another, without it having to be anything more than that. But when you started to talk about... me..." This time, it was the Kitsune's turn to swallow and look away. "Joss, I never knew..."

"How could you_not_ know?" the horse exploded without warning. "How could someone so... so experienced, so magical, so bloody old not know how I felt?"

"Because it's not so much that with age comes wisdom as it is that with age comes the realization that you've survived this long, so maybe you haven't screwed everything up entirely. Although maybe that's not true after all." The Kitsune, shorter than Joss by a good quarter meter or so, looked up, his eyes showing all the years, and in equal measure, all the shame. "I didn't listen, Joss. You kept trying to tell me, and I didn't listen. What you said about telling stories -the story - I never thought that they might be more than just stories." He swallowed, shifted his weight from one hindpaw to the other. "And because I didn't trust the magic. Or... maybe I didn't trust that love was the magic."

"What are you talking about?" Joss' voice had softened, although his tail still swished its own opinion.

Ears splayed, the fox continued to look the horse in the eyes. "It's what you told me about books. When we were together, I saw how you respected your books for their age and their content, but I saw how important their appearance was to you. What if what I look like, what I am, really is an illusion of magic? What if I became old enough that I no longer could look like the special editions and treasured books? 'Condition, condition, condition,' that's what you said, even to my bookseller self."

"In books!" the equine huffed sharply. "And what have you to worry about condition? You'll outlive me by twice your current age!"

"And what will you do about me as you get older, and I seem not to change?"

A long moment passed before the horse said, "Love you more."

"And that's the story that I couldn't hear..." One of the tears that the Kitsune was holding back escaped to run quickly down his russet-furred cheek. "So many pages."

"What?"

"What you said about the pages that we leave uncut, untouched, unread. There are so many, Joss love, so many, in both of us. Have I cut you so badly that I can't recover? Can you forgive an old fox for being ridiculously stupid? Or would you rather I just handed this to you and left?" His forepaw pushed the book forward. "I'll cancel the escrow."

Joss took the carefully-wrapped package into his forepaws, examining it for damage. It was a habit he couldn't have broken if he'd tried. "Condition, condition, condition," he said softly, then placed the book carefully to one side before looking back at the Kitsune. "And I seem to have two venerable old items here, both of great value, in excellent condition, with a very powerful and loving story that has yet to be told in full. I'd be a fool to turn down such a deal. If I can read the story "

Lewis laughed a little. "Any other conditions?"

"None. Love doesn't have conditions."

The horse opened his arms for a hug, and the old fox threw himself at the horse and squeezed him tightly. "Not even slightly foxed conditions?"

"I'd rather have my heart be thoroughly foxed than be forced into accepting anything modern and of significantly lesser quality."

Joss heard a hiccupping, crying purr from the Kitsune. "I'll try not to cut you so badly, my sweet stallion."

"New stories need new pages,boku no koibita okami... manuscript pages don't need to be cut; they just need to be set free."

The horse gripped his lover tightly, welcoming the wetness of tears on his chest. He then closed the door on the matter, carefully watching out for all four tails, as he promised himself he would do till his dying breath. And if there really is magic... who can say if any story truly ends?