Chapter 3

Daelia awoke suddenly and sat up straight in bed. A cold sweat dampened her body and the heavy blankets were tangled around her in such a way that made movement difficult. She took slow, deep breaths, willing her heart to stop pounding.

Her brothers and sisters were in trouble!

No, it was only a dream. She could still see Duard’s sneering face so clearly in her mind. He had been about to do something unspeakably cruel to one of her siblings; but what and to who? The only thing clear about the dream was that face, and the ill intent behind the cold eyes.

The disquiet this dream brought was very familiar. A long while had passed since her last “feeling” - as her siblings called her awareness of things to come. Since childhood she had been able to feel when something was not right or when something bad was about to happen.

“Deus has given you a gift, Daelia,” her father had said when she was still very young, “Be grateful and use it to help your brothers and sisters. The day may come when such foreknowledge could save your life or theirs.”

She unwound the blankets from around her legs, fighting to keep out the bitter thoughts that assailed her mind; but in vain. A mocking voice taunted her with doubts. He was wrong, wasn’t he? You thought you could help them but you could not. If you really had such a special “gift” you could have saved your family, but you did not. You could make their food and wash their clothes, but when it came to something so easy, so simple, you failed them miserably!

The “feeling” had abandoned her only twice in her life, but in such pivotal moments as to cause her serious doubt whether the gift was actually a good thing. The first tragedy she had failed to sense was the day Duard had first appeared at their home—with the news that her parents were dead. The more recent betrayal had been no warning before the meeting with Duard in which the rest her family had been disbanded.

Where are they?! Her mind screamed as she buried her face in the pillow. Aiden and Taerith she wasn’t as worried about; they could take care of themselves. But the others…yes, they could defend themselves if needed, she and Aiden had seen to that. Wren had her precious falcons whose talons would be enough to ward off any predator; Ilara could shoot a bow and throw a dagger as well as any man; and Zoe, she knew from experience, could put up a very good fight.

Her worry came strongly with Arnan, Aquila, and Sam, despite their own well-developed defensive skills.

Arnan was so different than the rest of them; he had always been a magnet for trouble. She had always suspected he went out of his way to find it. What would happen to him should he fall in with the wrong kind of people? Deus, do not let him go so far that he cannot turn back.

And Aquila, the smallest one of them all, was so tiny and trusting of people. She could be pretty feisty when the occasion called for it, but her size could make her a target for predators.

Nothing about Sam caused Daelia to worry about him more than the others. It was probably only the fact that he was the youngest, gentle, and quiet that evoked a motherly sympathy. He was so caring and patient, and lived to make broken things whole, sick things well. Once again, life had played the impartial tormenter.

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Thoughts of her family continued to plague Daelia in the days that pass. Soon, a week at Finneas’s quiet art shop came and went, and she began expecting to see him return any day. Strangely though, more days went by and the young man still did not appear. A week turned into two weeks, then into three weeks, then a month.

Several wealthy patrons of Finneas’s work appeared at the front door, asking whether he was back at work yet. A couple of them, upon hearing of his continued absence, asked to look over the paintings he had on display in the shop. Daelia was hesitant to allow them to enter the building without Finneas’s permission.

“I have made a special trip to view his paintings with the intention of buying one today; a trip that is not easily taken from the northern district, I might add! If I cannot be allowed into the shop in the middle of a working day, you may tell Finneas that I shall have no choice but to go elsewhere,” one irritated and red faced customer informed Daelia while dabbing at his sweating, bald head with a lacy handkerchief.

“I apologize, my lord, but I have not been given permission to sell any artwork of Finneas’s. Perhaps, if you return next week he can—“

“I shall not be back next week! If I cannot view the paintings today I shall not patronize this establishment again—and you may tell Finneas that! I am not in the habit of wasting my time!”

Other wealthy customers that appeared each day had similar sentiments. Finneas is going to be losing business, stressed Daelia. But would he want her, a stranger, to handle the sales of his artwork?

When the fourth angry customer threatened to never come back, Daelia finally assented to allow admittance into the shop.

The first customer to enter under Daelia’s watchful eye was a wealthy man with a bright red cape and hat. He picked over each work with a skeptical eye, finally choosing a large landscape done in bright shades of green and yellow. When he left, his servant barely managing the weight of the painting as they walked down the street, she carefully placed the coins in a leather bag and hid it beneath a loose floor board under her upstairs bed. She hoped and prayed Finneas would not be mad at her for taking such liberties.

That night she slept very little and kept her bow beside her, thinking of nothing but the gold coins in the floor below.

Other well-dressed people urged her to allow sell them a painting or two. On a piece of parchment, she carefully recorded each sale, a description of the painting, and the price for which it had sold. As each painting left the shop, she prayed for Finneas’s good humor upon returning to find his shop relieved of many of his prized works.

Sealen had quickly become an invaluable neighbor. Despite the difficulties he was having with rising taxes, he continued to feed Daelia each day without charge. In exchange for his kindness, she assisted him around the bakery and took a load of bread out every morning to sell at the market, hoping that the additional sales would bring in money that was becoming more scarce for the old baker.

Each day that Daelia carried her crate of warm bread to sell, there seemed to be more and more ragged people in the alleys and begging on street corners. She struggled with the temptation to pass out the bread to the hungry children whose eyes followed her pitifully. But no, the bread was not hers to do with as she wished, and she did not desire to see Sealen in their position. Fewer customers visited Sealen’s bakery each week, and each person who came in complained about their taxes.

Taxes, taxes, taxes was the only thing Daelia heard about from sun up to sun down. After listening carefully to their conversations and several more patient explanations from Sealen, she had begun to understand the bleak conditions to which she had unknowingly entered. Wagons arrived at doors on Leiden Street every day to haul away furniture and treasured possessions from those who could no longer pay the heavy taxes they owed. One by one many houses became empty and abandoned by those who had lost everything.

The rich, however, seemed to have all the money in the world to spend on beautiful artwork to decorate their homes. Only a few small paintings now remained in the shop.

Where, oh where was Finneas?