delicate maneuvering, and in David’s own words, “now isn’t the best of times.” Normally she might have been outraged at the idea of someone telling her what she could and could not do within her own home, but despite her indignation she understood that Darren was probably at his wit’s end. He had never been one for politicking and stepping around people’s sensibilities, and that was likely what he was having to do in the messages that were flying in and out of her shop. So she had let them politely bar her entry, and busied herself with all the matters of keeping a store running smoothly.
As she sat waiting for the tea to brew, her mind wandered inexorably down the track it had been treading all day. She would start with something innocuous, like how tired she was, and then she would think about how she hadn’t gotten any sleep yet, and then she would wonder if Darren was sleeping, and then she would be questioning whether she had suffered a blow to the head and this was all some fever dream. Or perhaps she would distract herself with making lunch, and then she would wonder if Darren had eaten yet, and then she would wonder how, by Ashua, a man who thought soufflé was too fancy would handle a royal court. What really got her was the sheer clichéd irony of the entire affair. Imagine, falling in love with a rough-hewn sailor boy who you had never even intended to take home with you, and then finding out that he was so far above you, normally you would never have even seen the eyes that had swept you off your feet the very first time you saw them. For it had been his eyes that had done it for her. The way they sparkled when he laughed, yet sometimes seemed so serious even in the midst of revelry.
With a snort of disgust at herself, she pushed up from the stool she was sitting on, moving to pace up and down the kitchen. It just didn’t make sense, didn’t fit in the real world. Dirt poor boys from the seaside were just that—children who had no rungs above them to climb, not great heroes waiting for their chance to be discovered and make their destinies come true. What child who had mystery in their past didn’t dream they were more than they appeared? How many small faces looked up at uncaring stars and prayed for a destiny larger than the one life had delivered? But in vain—it was always in vain.
Darren, she knew, had abandoned dreams of his own father long ago. He had told her about times when he was younger, when he would pester his mother with questions that were never answered. He imagined a knight in shining armor, slain in the heat of a dangerous battle. Or a pirate, perhaps, still sailing the sea with a feather in his cap and a sword strapped to his side. A spice merchant from the far north, stopping in Miranov before going on to Sephria, who had stolen his mother’s heart and then ridden away before she knew what was what. But he had grown up, and he had left the dreams of childhood far behind. A father who left his young wife husbandless was not a hero to be exalted in fantasy and praised in dreams. He was either a scoundrel, who had left his family when they needed him most, or else a fool, who had gotten himself killed through some fault of his own. Or so Darren said, though Taya had found this stance rather harsh. In all likelihood he had been a simple fisherman, killed in Ashua’s grief. No fault of his, nor of his family’s, simply a cast of the dice.
But here they were. Darren’s father was no simple fisherman. He was no knight, true, nor a pirate either, but the truth was far more strange.
A flash of color in the doorway distracted her from her circling thoughts, and she saw David and Ryan walking past. They were silent as always, and she doubtless would not have known they had left had she not been facing the door in the moment they passed it. It galled her slightly, to have men in control of this house she had given so much to own. They could at least do her the courtesy of letting her know when they came and went, she fumed to herself,