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He very deliberately points his finger toward a sign and the sign shows the way back to Main Street.
I muster every last bit of goodwill I can. I am not home. This is a new territory, a new country with its own customs. That’s what I have to say before flying off the handle. With all the grace I can scrape up, I say, “Thank you.” And then I mutter under my breath as I turn around. “Was that so hard?”
“Clearly for some more than others.”
Damn his amazing hearing. I have to remember that about Otherkin. I take another deep breath and keep walking. It’s not worth getting into a fight. It’s not worth an incident.
The rules of this place are clear. Human laws do not apply here. The relationships, though, are tenuous at best. This is one of the goodwill cities, and so I will not be the one to create essentially a diplomatic event simply because one of their people is petulant.
Remi Storm
I walk backand lose myself with great food and immerse myself in the beautiful art on display.
There are several pieces that I would love to coordinate through the Orchard Haus, many of which had that same stamp and logo on it.
“How do I get in contact with this artist?” I ask Roscoe the tour guide.
“That artist is extremely reclusive. He shows off, or he creates a new piece of art each year and places it on the town square. It’s tradition, you see. Every time he does that, it creates good luck for the next year.”
“Good luck?”
“Yes, it’s a tradition among Firebirds. That there’s an area of them means that the town they live in it means that they are bringing luck to the town they live in.”
“So you are lucky to have them?”
The faun’s face lights up. “That’s a good way to put it,” he says, laughing at a joke only he seems to understand. “We are indeed.”
He seems overly cheerful for a joke that wasn’t much of a joke, but considering the surliness of that Firebird, I keep my comments to myself, considering.
As if I manifest him, the Firebird appears beside me. “I see you’ve found Main Street, after all.”
I sigh. “Yes, I did, thank you,” I grit through my teeth.No thanks to you.
The familiar Firebird glares at me. Instead of saying anything, he nods towards the sculptures. “So you like the art?”
I shake him off. I won’t let him goad me into losing my temper. Plus, speaking about art is a mood elevator for me. “Yes, it’s gorgeous. Where I’m staying at in the end has one of these sculptures. I’ve been trying to track down the artist.”
“What if the artist doesn’t want to be found?”
“I mean, I would respect their privacy. I would at least like to be able to tell them how much I love their work.”
The Firebird shifts his weight on his feet. “Would you, now?
“And what would you tell the artist?”
“I want to see if he or she would like representation. Like this would be amazing for my client back home.”
“And where is home?”
“New York. I have clients there that would love these art pieces.”
He snorts.
“You don’t seem to approve?”
“Why must everything be monetized? Why can’t something just be beautiful?”
I shrug. “Of course, it can be beautiful; however, if it can be bought or if it can be sold, why not? I don’t believe in the idea of a starving artist. Only an artist who doesn’t know how to market themselves.
