North Garden: North Garden

By Najeea C. Murray

In the shadow of war, trust is as fragile as glass.

 

The Pinnacle Star, home of the royals and nobles, is a kingdom with technology Midlanders can only dream about.

 

Technology that could give Daelia hope. A strange illness left her uncle alive, but unconscious. Accepting an opportunity to help him could send her to prison. Desperate for a cure, she attends the Prince's Ball disguised as a noble, but after one dance with Prince Marcel, he discovers her true identity. Curiosity for each other's worlds leads to interwoven dreams and forbidden secrets until a rebel attack forces them on separate paths, putting their lives in danger.

 

As their lands are torn apart, Daelia finds herself on both sides of the war. She must choose to either hide from her fears, or rise against them to protect those she loves.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Najeea Murray
• Release date: Nov 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223836254

Najeea C. Murray

NAJEEA C. MURRAY, born in Delaware, grew up telling stories through fiction and songwriting. She enjoys hanging out with her family, exploring her own backyard, and walking beside the Greatest Storyteller of all time.

Book preview

ONE

The waters are stirring.

Daelia slipped out of her daydream at the sound of Hanon’s voice. Snatched away from carelessly engaging with the party guests, she found herself back against the wall of The Soiree, tending to a hefty, serving tray of apple cider.

Standing beside her in a dashing waistcoat suit—as usual distancing himself from the crowd—Hanon sipped his cider, eyes steady on the honorary guest of the evening, Naomi, of Nathen and Dominque.

Unable to resist the certainty of widespread attention, Daelia's Aunt Patrice jumped at the chance to throw Naomi a party at The Soiree—charging an entrance fee, of course—just so she would be a part of the conversation for years to come. Naomi's promotion as the first Midlander to oversee Land of Pasture farming was historic. Never before had any Midlander been offered such a high position, gaining access to resources and information previously only available to nobles.

It was a glint of hope on the horizon for Midlanders, who believed the royals weren't looking down on them as merely citizens to control, but allies. Their lands were worlds apart, but today's major headline was a promising beginning to finally closing the gap between them.

The royals are up to something. I can sense it in the air. Hanon studied Naomi over his glass. They wouldn't be loosening their reins unless there was a bigger purpose behind it. Knowing them, they'd prefer we'd fail on our own to prove that we need them.

Daelia followed Hanon's fastened gaze. Naomi grinned big for photos with CeCe, owner of The Soiree, who tilted the tiny hat pinned to her short curls to her satisfaction. The camera flashed with a puff of smoke, momentarily blinding Daelia, and CeCe moved out of the way to make room for Naomi's fellow farmers. I think it's a sign of progress. We've earned their trust. Trust opens doors to better opportunities for all of us. Not even you could oppose that.

Hanon allowed a light smirk to disrupt his intense gaze. I wish intentions were that transparent. However, in my experience, things aren't always as they seem.

He scanned the rest of the guests, who were blissfully oblivious to his suspicions. Chatting over clanging silverware with quick chews and long sips. Whispering flirtatiously in private conversations. Filling the room with laughter as they danced around the banquet hall to sleepy jazz. The staticky phonograph barely drowned out the downpour drumming against the window panes.

While Daelia felt drawn to it all and wished to join them, Hanon observed them with disdain. Everyone's so obsessed with how the royals appear to be, but no one knows who they really are. True nobles aren't defined by their crowns. They're defined by their character.

He shook his head, growing more bitter with each word he spoke as he continued. We give them so much credit for what they've accomplished, yet it's taken years for them to acknowledge our value. The fact that we're throwing a party to celebrate a transfer of power to someone who's more knowledgeable about agriculture than every noble who's ever paid her wages is questionable enough. One group of people should never hold that much power over us when we all have something to offer one another.

Especially when one of our own sells the best books in town. Daelia smiled up at him, hopefully brightening their somber corner of the room. It was a party after all.

Hanon's smirk broadened, loosening the hostile pinch of his brows. Sadly, those books have been quite lonely lately, missing their favorite reader.

Daelia averted her eyes to the tall glasses of apple cider inviting her to grab one for herself. Patrice would have a fit if she spotted her claiming what was meant for guests only. She had a job to do and enjoying the night wasn't part of it. If she were given a choice, she would have rather spent her time at Hanon's secondhand bookstore. The Exchange had become one of her favorite places to disappear to whenever she wanted to get out of the house. In the past few weeks, her burgeoning schedule provided more opportunities for distraction, but they were far less entertaining and rougher on her posture.

Her back ached just thinking about it. She squirmed into a straighter position, flattening her back against the rosy wallpaper. They shouldn't feel so bad. I rarely have time for anything these days. This is the first hour in weeks I haven't been covered in someone else's dirt.

How's the collection coming along?

Slowly, but surely. Daelia searched the crowd for her aunt. Quenching her thirst would provoke a mild reaction compared to the typhoon she would stir up if Patrice knew what she had been up to.

Hanon checked the time on the gold pocket watch chained to his waist. I'll be waiting for the call. He dug inside his pocket, drained the rest of his drink, and set his empty glass on her tray. A silver ten-piece coin rattled beneath it. Enjoy the rest of your night, or at least try to. He picked up his black, wooden-handle umbrella that leaned on the wall and headed off.

Hanon! Good to see you. Oriff, a broad-shouldered, bald man, greeted him with a rough pat on the back. I'll walk you out.

Daelia couldn't help but smile as the men moved in unison toward the exit, conversing like good friends. Just last week, in that very banquet hall during a city council meeting, their fervent exchange of words sliced at each other like raging swords. They were constantly bumping heads, always on opposite sides of the argument. Tonight, they managed to remain cordial, despite their festering political rivalry. Small victories brought even the fiercest enemies closer.

Hanon stepped out into the rain and drew open his umbrella. Oriff placed his favored bowler hat, ornate with mechanical wings, snugly over his head. Brutal night, isn't it? Thunder rolled as he shut the door behind him.

Keeping an eye on the party, Daelia lifted Hanon's glass, scraped up the ten-piece from the tray, and dropped it into her boot. One coin closer to getting the help she had been praying for and putting her tormented mind at ease. Hanon was a kind friend. She hoped he was also well informed.

Daelia! Over here!

The excitement of Hanon's generosity deflated as she spotted the pretty, caked-up faces of Patrice's two best friends. Emaline's lean figure towered over Carbella's rounder frame by a foot. They fluttered their hands in the air, beckoning her over. Both were almost completely swallowed up in their festooned teal and pink dresses as if they were competing to see whose gown could uphold the most ruffles.

Daelia usually avoided their company, since they certainly had a lot to say about her, but tonight it was her duty to serve and to do so with poise. She had plenty of practice pinning on grins. She would have to smile through whatever backhanded compliments they were about to dish out and swiftly move along.

Maneuvering through the crowd, she pleasantly approached her aunt's friends offering refreshments. Ladies, you look extraordinary, as always. Overwhelmed by a lung-clogging war of lavender, rose, and honeydew, she held back a coughing fit.

Emaline swatted at the comment as she and Carbella each reached for a glass. Why thank you, dear. We hear you're making yourself quite useful around the neighborhood. Her drink hovered at her lips as she tapped the glass. How much do you charge? My bathroom could use a good cleaning.

Carbella daintily sipped her cider, pinkie out. Mine too. I'm having my sister over next week, and I need the house to sparkle. You know how she gets. She rolled her eyes at Emaline who replied by scrunching her nose.

When can you start? Emaline's brows heightened, eagerly awaiting an answer.

Daelia searched their immediate surroundings, wishing they would lower their voices. I will let you know. She backed away to avoid answering any more compromising questions. I should get back to work.

Careful.

Dread washed over Daelia as a dark cloud filled the room. Patrice gracefully joined her side, her pouf of white hair reaching for the chandeliers. Feathers, metal butterflies, and other clockwork accessories poked through her pile of curls like Christmas tree ornaments. Her regal dress draped elegantly around her figure, accented with ribbons and chains. She was always one bloodline short of royalty, even when she couldn't afford it. 

That never stopped Patrice from playing her role. Wealth gave her popularity, and popularity earned her influence. The only thing Patrice loved more than her appearance was her status. Her grandness and the pedestal she built among her group of friends gave her plenty of admirers. Anything or anyone who would jeopardize that would suffer severe consequences. Fortunately for Daelia, they were surrounded by too many witnesses for her aunt to lash out on her in public. Her pristine reputation was at stake.

Patrice stared Daelia down, wearing a shadow of a smile for the benefit of her spectators. She can be dreadfully clumsy sometimes, and carelessly naive. A wild dreamer too ambitious for her own good. She turned to her friends with a hand to her heart, a copper scorpion with jeweled eyes resting on her thumb. I must apologize, ladies. Daelia's services are no longer available. It's far too much work to put on a child, and we wouldn't want her to neglect her own responsibilities, would we? Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with my niece in private. Please try the pumpkin bread. It's delightful.

Once her friends were off to catering and out of earshot, Patrice’s politeness dropped like the temperature of an emerging winter storm. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have a member of my family running around town as a housemaid? She shared a lovely smile with a passing guest.

I was trying to help. We could use the extra income.

And yet I haven't seen a cent of it. Her disapproving eyes climbed up and down Daelia's fairly decent outfit. Dirty, worn-out boots no amount of scrubbing could fix. Torn lace on her skirt. The missing middle button on her blouse. Comical compared to the fashion show they were attending. It certainly hasn't gone toward a new wardrobe. All that hard work creeping about like a rat in the Burrows, and you have nothing to show for it.

Daelia focused on the drinks in her possession. She hated lying, but if Patrice knew she was stashing away pieces, she would order her to hand them over. That money had to stay hidden at the bottom of her shoe no matter how uncomfortable it got, at least until she saved up what she needed. Then she would tell her the truth. Not one piece earlier. I used it to buy extra food. Your daily rations aren't enough anymore. Prices are increasing every day.

You're a smart girl. You'll figure it out. Your behavior is shameful. Decent young women don't sneak around, and they certainly don't take tips that don't belong to them. She opened her palm, awaiting Daelia's forbidden gift.

Daelia struggled to comply. Fear of retaliation urged her to obey. She would find another way to make up for the loss.

Shifting the weight of the drink tray from one hand to the other, miraculously maintaining its balance, she raised her knee and reached inside her boot to dig out the coin stuck to her ankle. She wiped it clean on her skirt, not daring to give her aunt a sullied piece, and placed it in Patrice's hand.

Patrice trapped it in her fist. From this day forward you are not to leave the house for any other reason than your morning runs to the market. You will do as you're told, or find somewhere else to lay your head at night. She turned away, chilling the air in her absence.

The miserable truth was Daelia had no other place to go. Patrice swung that fact over her head like a leash Daelia readily attached to her own neck to keep her aunt from making good on her promise. Patrice held a firm grip on her chain, and she would never let her forget it.

A hand in the air caught Daelia’s attention. She hustled over to a couple standing near the window. The wife took two glasses for her and her husband, who was pulling back the drapes staring out into the stormy night. The rain had gotten heavier, spilling down the windows like weeping webs.

Hanon must be having coach trouble, the husband said, taking a slow swig of the cider. He's been sitting there for a while.

Daelia moved closer to see for herself. Hanon's coach was parked in the middle of the rain-swept streets, and Hanon's shadowed image sat motionless in the driver's seat. She wanted to go out and help him, but if he was having problems starting his coach, she wouldn't be of any good use. She waited for the man staring out the window to give him a hand. From his mumbling, he seemed to know a lot about coaches, but he was too distracted, speculating rather than actually inspecting the issue for himself.

Headlights glared against the slick road as another coach cruised up behind Hanon. Daelia cheered on the inside, hoping the new arrival would offer Hanon some assistance, since it didn't look like anyone else would.

The coach slowed to a stop. The driver worked his crank to roll down his window and poked his head out, despite getting soaked in the rain. What's the problem? His horn blared. Move it!

Undisturbed, Hanon focused on the windshield, consumed by whatever was keeping him in a daze. Something was wrong.

Daelia gripped the edge of her tray. She was desperate to go out and check on him, but what could she do? Her heart rate picked up, pressuring her to see if he was okay, but insecurity strangled her courage. She glanced around the room for Hanon's closest friends until realization hit her in the gut. Aside from herself, the only other person he enjoyed spending time with during these occasions wasn't there. He hadn't been in years.

Come on! Wake up! The driver pressed down on his horn, attracting glances from inside the hall. He slammed the horn again in frustration.

At first, it looked like Hanon would never snap out of it. Then he reached for something in the passenger seat and got out of his coach holding his umbrella. He moved stiffly toward the driver, who continued yelling at him, and he swung the umbrella at his head.

Daelia gasped along with the others watching. Screams and shouts erupted in the room, and more guests gathered around the window. They gaped in horror as Hanon choked his provoker with the shaft of his umbrella, dragging his torso out the car window.

Some of the guests ran outside to help Hanon's victim. A few of them wrenched the man from Hanon's umbrella chokehold while the others wrestled to hold Hanon back, trying to talk some sense into him. Hanon fought against those attempting to calm him down, kicking at the driver. The driver kept his distance, coughing and massaging his throat. Terror in his eyes.

Daelia had never seen Hanon so out of control. Angry, yes, but never violent. It was like he had become an entirely different person.

Drawn out by the commotion, noble guards on patrol closed in from nearby streets, tranquilizer crossbows aimed. Their royal-blue and silver armored suits and helmets shimmered from the rain. After acquiring the information they needed from the witnesses, two of them grabbed Hanon and pushed him against his victim's coach. His wet head wagged madly through the open window as he struggled against the guards, who were forcing his arms behind his back until he gave up and his body went slack.

Daelia turned toward murmuring coming from her left. Emaline and Carbella whispered to Patrice, who shook her head, glaring out the window with contempt, but unable to look away. Hearing the clanging of glasses, Daelia looked down and found her hands trembling.

The room jumped when Hanon's head popped back up as if he had been submerged underwater and he was gasping for air. Eyes wide and frantic, he twisted toward the guard, who was cuffing him with silver, metal bands. He spoke to the guard, but Daelia couldn't make out his words. The magnetic cuffs locked together, and the guard steered Hanon away by the arm.

Tripping up the sidewalk in a daze, Hanon looked around at the abandoned coaches, the soaking wet distraught men and woman surrounding him, and the shaken stranger sitting on the sidewalk talking with two other guards. He turned to the windows of the banquet hall, noticing the audience of perplexed, disturbed, and frightened faces watching him. A hush had gone through the room. The only sounds were from the pelting rain and lazy saxophone playing.

Someone call my wife, Hanon yelled over his shoulder as the guard led him past The Soiree. Please! I need to speak to my wife!

TWO

Patrice was going to kill her.

Daelia just stood there and watched as the woman, who butted in front of her at the fruit stand, dropped the last bunch of blackberries in her canvas bag and carried them off into the market crowd. She reached inside her boot—the frayed pockets of her old, barely blue coat couldn't hold anything but air for years—and took out her list. Blackberries were at the very top. Double underlined.

Patrice must have used up all her supply to the very last drop. Even though Daelia's morning market runs were supposed to provide for their daily meals, using the few pieces they had left of Uncle Julian's severance pay, her aunt would rather starve than go barefaced. Cheeks stained and eyelids shadowed, Patrice never left the house without her face in full bloom. And someone had just walked away with her favorite lip color.

No worries. She would improvise. Daelia quickly skimmed what was left of the sparse selection of berries for a reasonable alternative.

Patrice spent years perfecting the skill of legally mixing and manipulating hues to her pleasure—one of the only uses of chemistry that was still allowed. She could make anything look good on herself. To be on the safe side, it was better to risk buying something a little bit off than coming home empty-handed. Hopefully, raspberries would do. Preparing for the worst, Daelia paid three pieces for a carton and scratched blackberries off the list. She placed the berries inside the tote hanging from her arm, careful not to poke herself on the bundle of twigs and branches she was carrying. Tucking the list back into her boot, she moved on toward her next stop.

The Market Square crowd jostled her on every side as visitors made their rounds, weaving in and out of tents and tables to buy everything the ground had to offer. Customers picked over groceries fresh from their neighbors' farms, fish straight off the boats, and handmade goods. Glowing lanterns scented the autumn air and well-crafted, ticking clocks were made with the finest metals of the Upperland mines. All at prices that were teetering toward unaffordable nowadays. That was one thing she wasn't lying to Patrice about. Thankfully, they were managing with what little they had.

She stopped as a mother and her children cut in front of her, wandering over to the shops surrounding the square. The woman's oldest daughter begged for a dress from the boutique across the street, while her youngest kids raced to the toy shop to watch a steaming, model carriage-train loop around in a window display. They giggled every time it lifted off the ground as if it were by magic, unable to see the thin strings hanging above it.

Daelia would have bought one for herself, if she could. She would have something nicer to look at then the clutter shoved against her bedroom walls. Over the years, she grew to love Uncle Julian's room of hoarded junk, never knowing what she might find. He apologized for it every time he used to tuck her in at night, banging his foot against the same old chest on his way out. He promised to straighten it up for her one day, but that day never came.

She tore her eyes from the train, and her stomach lurched when she saw The Exchange up ahead. A Closed sign hung on the door even though it was well past opening hours. Passing through the market, she could hear whispers about last night's disturbing incident. No one could have imagined such a thing. It had shocked everyone. Hanon's deranged expression haunted her nightmares, leaving a sickening feeling in her gut. If only it really was all in her head.

Shine like the Pinnacle Star!

A mob crowded around a cart embellished with a showcase of jewelry to feast their eyes on the merchant's shiny, new accessory. Daelia joined the stirring onlookers as the merchant tantalized them with a shimmering, sky topaz necklace hugged by tiny diamonds.

Royalty awaits you. The merchant grinned as he dangled the gorgeous necklace in front of them.

Daelia eyed it with wonder. Was that really what the royals wore? It appeared majestic, but no one could really be sure if he had actually acquired it from the sky, or how. Their only exposure to the Star's fashion these days was the armor of the guards and the modest blue-and-silver uniforms worn by nobles who worked on the ground, nothing the Midlanders were inspired to imitate. They had to use their imagination to determine how the royals dressed. Every year, their assumptions got more and more extravagant—bigger hair, puffier skirts, longer coats, and more buttons and pockets than a vest had use for.

Currently, accessories were the trend for royal resemblance. The less fabric visible underneath the armor of corsets, chains, leather arm pieces, and ribbons, the more stylish. The more royal. It could get very expensive, but Midlanders were willing to pay the price for it, even if that meant giving up every piece they had left. They were practically throwing them at the seller, barking over each other to get their hands on the tiniest glimmer of the Star.

As hard as they tried, Daelia doubted that necklace barely touched the polished surface of what luxury the Pinnacle Star beheld. They could fill their wardrobes with authentic clothes straight from the royals' closets until the hinges broke loose, but it wouldn't quench their cravings for what they truly wanted. What Daelia dreamed about for years. Not even a thousand diamonds could buy any of them a trip to the castle in the sky.

Daelia broke away from the crowd that was now scrambling to peruse the seller's collection or showing off their dazzling new purchases. Imagining what it would be like to wander the busy streets of the Star, she followed her usual path to the end of the butcher's line.

A woman coming up behind Daelia huffed, her nose turned to the sky, as two nobles carrying baskets browsed a nearby tent of potted flowers and blooming bouquets. The silver North Star emblem emblazoned on their royal-blue shirts announced that they were diplomats of Lighthouse Midlands. The nerve of them. Taking our goods when they're swimming in wealth. It's despicable. We work our fingers to the nubs, on our own ground mind you, for them to come along and help themselves. Yet, they can't even share their own precious toys.

This bitterness had been brewing under the surface of a handful of Midland smiles. Some of them resented the nobles for a number of reasons, but most of their anger came from them feeling ignored.

Lighthouse was the headquarters for communications between the Star and the Midlands. Nobles were sent to bridge the gap between both lands by seeking the needs of the people and consulting with the royals to meet those needs. They claimed to be setting things in motion, but some had yet to see the difference. Daelia patiently waited for change with expectancy and understanding. Their issues couldn't be fixed overnight. Progress took time. If the royals made a promise, they would make good on it. That's what being noble was all about.

As the nobles observed a pot of begonias, gently petting and smelling their petals while having a discussion, someone else caught Daelia's eyes.

Gliding in and out of the crowd, the Cloaked Man traveled through the market with his hood hanging low over his head. The folds of his copper-colored cloak covered his face, keeping his identity a secret. Shrouded in mystery, he became a local celebrity. He had first appeared two years ago, strolling through the ostentatious crowd in his strikingly modest cloak, never buying anything or stopping to make conversation, just aimlessly perusing.

Patrice's gossipy friends informed her that he was an overgrown orphan kicked out of the orphanage and forced to live in the streets. They claimed he was a thief, slipping his pilfered possessions in the hidden pockets of his suspicious cloak, yet no one had ever caught him stealing. Patrice's friends were very imaginative when it came to other people's lives. For the longest time, they referred to Daelia as Patrice's mute niece who lost her voice in the fire. It went without saying that Daelia knew better than to eat up their folktales. She assumed the Cloaked Man just enjoyed taking walks among the people, happy to be a silent observer in their company. Maybe he was lonely.

Keep the line moving, girl. The woman behind Daelia shoved her forward.

Sorry, Daelia replied as she stumbled to the front counter. Behind it, the butcher lowered his thick brows in impatience. She searched the signposts for drumsticks and found that their price had gone up since yesterday. One of these days, they would only be eating carrots for dinner. Three drumsticks, please.

Five pieces, the butcher grumbled. He grabbed three chicken legs in one grip and wrapped them tightly in waxy paper. Daelia handed him a ten-piece. He dropped it in the pocket of his bloodstained apron and tossed her package on the counter. Next.

Daelia dropped the meat into her tote. My change?

The price is five. You gave me five. He leaned around her to assist his next customer. Next!

The woman shoved Daelia again, but she couldn't leave without those five pieces. She had two more meals to buy without a piece to spare. Sir, please. I need those pieces—

Move out of the way, he barked. You're choking the line.

The people behind her grumbled and shouted. Daelia's face burned from embarrassment and then shame as she swallowed back tears. Not wanting to cause trouble, she let it go. She could make something up for breakfast. She had done it in the past during rougher seasons of their lives. Arguing clearly wasn't going to do her any good.

She turned away and stopped short before bumping into the Cloaked Man who had appeared beside her like a ghost.

Is there a problem? His eyes were barely visible within the shadow of his hood. He had a presence that reduced the grumpy chatter around them to quiet mummers.

The butcher reached for his heavy, sharp cleaver, leaving it lying on the counter. What's it to you? Mind your own business, boy.

If your business is stealing from your patrons, maybe I should recommend they go elsewhere. The butcher's lip curled as his beefy fist tightened around the handle of his cleaver. The Cloaked Man didn't flinch. Give her what she's owed.

Grumbling under his breath, the butcher let go of the cleaver. He dug inside his apron pocket, removed a copper, five-piece coin, and flicked it at Daelia. She clumsily caught it with her one free hand, spilling the collection of sticks at her feet. She met the Cloaked Man on the ground as they both bent down to pick them up, her heart swelling with gratitude.

He helped pile the fallen branches back into her arms. Building a nest? I'd want to fly away too if I had to deal with people like that every day.

Daelia released a laugh that felt more like a relief of air caught in her lungs. A fire, actually. Cheaper to build your own. She pushed her hair behind her ear feeling stupid for getting emotional and making a fuss over five measly pieces. But they belonged to her. She just wished she had done a better job of fighting for them.

As he handed her the last stick, she caught the Cloaked Man staring at the thin scars etched down the left side of her face. Uncle Julian had tried to treat them as best as he could with plant oils and herbs. It helped them heal, but couldn't fully get rid of the marks. A permanent reminder of that day.

Lowering her head, she took the stick from him, her fingers brushing against the warm, rough leather of his glove. She met his eyes, ashamed of what he might see when he looked at her. Who she saw was nothing like the stories she had been told. There was a kindness to him that people neglected to share. Clearly, no one else had ever met the Cloaked Man.

She stood up and he followed, rising to his full, less imposing stature, now that she knew the heart behind the cloak. Thank you for all your help. The five-piece happens to be my favorite. She wanted to say more, know more. She had imagined this introduction multiple times in her head, but now that they were face to shrouded face, she knew there was much more to him than any of her expectations.

It was the noble thing to do. He watched her for a moment. Then he reached under his cloak. Admittedly, Daelia expected him to reveal his stolen goods to her. Instead, he stuck his hand in a leather satchel around his waist and produced a fistful of coins. He took her hand and placed them carefully into her palm, curling her fingers over the silver, gold, and copper that attempted to burst free. She intended to protest, but words couldn't reach her throat. The pieces weighed heavy in her bulging grip. She was holding more money than she had held in her lifetime.

I hope the rest of your day is brighter, Firefly. He tipped his head toward her then floated away, his cloak billowing behind him.

Daelia squeezed the coins until they pinched her skin. This was not a dream.

THREE

Daelia struggled to unlock the front door without spilling the bags full of groceries in her arms until finally she made it inside the living room.

Her cousin Julice lounged lazily in front of the television set, flipping through the fuzzy channels. Her bush of frizzy, zigzag hair stuck up on her head in all directions—the only part of her visible from the couch.

Took you long enough. I'm starving. Julice turned her head, and her bored, sixteen-year-old eyes enlarged when she saw the abundance Daelia was holding. She hurried over, her beautiful mane bouncing wildly. How in the world did you get all this? Instead of helping Daelia with the bags, she dove into them, looking over their contents one by one. It's a feast.

Daelia scooted past her into the kitchen to relieve her aching arms. She dumped the bags onto the table, which only slightly rocked to one side, thanks to the broken leg wearing one of Uncle Julian's old boots. Her brow bounced playfully. Take a guess.

Only a scientist would have this much money. And they're all extinct. Julice peeked inside a bag of produce. Ooh, apples. She picked one out. With a curious head tilt, she dug back into the