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basement to the front of the shop. She had put some of the best ones on display in the shop and was now going around collecting the last of them and putting them with the others in a row in front of the boxes.
    The Irene Potter Jabberwock piece had been taken into custody by the auction committee and was never on display in Betsy’s shop.
    Other stores in town had been collecting toys made of fabric and, in one case, wood. There was a secondary movement afoot for many of the toys’ new owners to donate them again to hospitals, day care centers, and charities. Betsy was pleased that Crewel World had outpaced them in donations.
    She had just put the last toy, a giraffe, on the table when the door to the shop sounded its music. The door had been left unlocked in anticipation of the arrival of someone from the committee to pick them up. Betsy turned and saw Bershada. With her was a short man of stocky build with a fringe of yellow hair around a bald head. He was wearing white running shoes, pale blue jeans, and a blue blazer over a tan T-shirt, and he was smiling broadly. He looked around the shop with interest, taking in the many spinner racks of floss, the long white cabinet full of needlework books and gadgets, the wall hangings of finished needlework projects, and then returned to Betsy. He was still grinning, prepared to be pleased to meet her.
    Bershada said, “Betsy, this is Max Irwin, the auctioneer I’ve been telling you about.”
    Betsy put her hand out. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Irwin.”
    â€œMax, call me Max,” he said, taking her hand in a warm grip. His voice was rough-edged, probably from years of loud and fast talking.
    â€œAll right. Max. I hope Bershada has prepared you properly for this auction. It’s kind of different from the usual.”
    Max laughed. “Ma’am, they’re all different. No two alike. That’s what keeps me going, the variety.” He gestured toward Bershada. “This kind lady knows her stuff. She has her eye on the goal and takes dead aim at it. This is going to be a great auction.”
    Betsy said, “I hope you’re right. I guess I’m a little nervous, worried they might end up selling all these beautiful toys for a quarter apiece. People have been working very hard on them.”
    Bershada said, “Trust Max. That is not going to happen.”
    â€œThat’s right,” declared Max, one hand on his chest, elbow out. “Trust me.”
    â€œMax wanted an advance look at what we’re auctioning off,” said Bershada, “so I brought him here.”
    â€œAll right,” said Betsy. She gestured at the toys she’d been picking up, about a dozen of them. They were standing in a row on the library table. “Here are some of the best examples. I’ve been using them as displays in the shop, both to encourage customers to knit and contribute some, and to sell the books of instruction I have in stock to make them.”
    Max went to the table and picked up Godwin’s leopard. “This is nice, real pretty. I bet it took some talent to make it.”
    â€œYes, it did. My store manager knit it. I’m thinking of bidding on it myself so I can keep it on display next to
Knit Your Own Zoo
, the book he got the pattern from.”
    Bershada reached around Max to pick up the red rooster. “Oh, I think you should bid on this—it’s more of an eye-catcher.”
    â€œNo, I’m going to knit another one. It’ll be easier to talk about it to a customer if I’ve done two of them.”
    Max eyed her sideways. “You did this?”
    â€œYes. I find I have to at least try to work the kinds of patterns I’m selling, so I can answer questions about them. But Godwin’s my real expert; he can do just about any kind of needlework.”
    â€œWhere is this paragon?” asked Max, looking around.
    â€œGone for the day. He and his partner are going to a