Chapter One

It's hot. Way too hot. What time is it? I'm supposed to finish my painting today and I can't do that without actually seeing the sunset! If I'm being totally honest, sleeping sounds much more appealing than anything else right now, but I've been stuck in a rut and this seems like the only way out.

The obvious first task at hand is getting these covers off. It's unusually warm for this time of year, so there's already birds talking amongst themselves outside despite the fact that the sky isn't even showing the first hint of the sun quite yet. The familiar tunes float in through the open windows and are the final push I need to swim my way through the mounds of blankets and pillows surrounding me.

I'm skipping making the bed today in favor of using that time to shower before heading to the garden. My hair has certainly seen better days. It's times like this that I miss my mom most. She would've sat me down and brushed out my hair for me days ago. Somehow she was gentle even when she was pushing through knots, humming away as she ran the brush through my curls over and over, even though the tangles were long gone; her ease of doing my hair probably resulted from years of managing her own hair, which was even thicker than mine.

That was back when my hair was barely to my shoulders, and it's just about at the cusp of my lower back now. My hair length is a sudden reminder of how long I've been alone. The all too familiar warmth creeps into my cheeks and I know that before long it would turn to tears if I'd let it. I'd rather not venture into this frame of mind today, so I quickly cross the room and head straight down the narrow hallway to the bathroom.

The hot water feels so good, but it's not enough to distract from the deep ache in my muscles from walking a few miles too far yesterday while carrying at least a dozen bags of food. I should've brought the wagon, but it's too late now. I could've taken two trips, but the thought of admitting to myself that I'd purchased more food than I could handle carrying in one trip, let alone eating in a reasonable amount of time prevented me from doing so. My stubbornness is another trait I surely inherited from my mother, although I'm sure my father provided a healthy dose of it as well.

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes at the thought of my father passing along anything to me considering he's never spent even a moment with me in my entire life, but the water is turning to ice and my hair is still coated in soap, so the eye rolling has to wait for another time. If I even stop to think about him again, that is.

I decide to pull on some tattered jeans and a long button down shirt and forego wearing the nightgown I slept in last night outside as planned. It takes me just a few strides from the bathroom to reach the door, but the sizable canvas in my hands slows me down a bit as I clamber outside. In this moment I regret choosing such a large cloth to paint on. I'll choose more wisely next time.

The air is getting thick now as the first slivers of sun pop up over the field. The sky is beginning to transform into a buttery orange color before my eyes. The wooden stool beneath me creaks a bit as I lean forward to grab my supplies off the grass. This is the moment. The paintbrush feels light as ever in my hand. The light blue on my canvas is slowly becoming something else entirely as I swipe across with oranges and pinks desperately trying to capture every little thing my eyes see. In my hurry, paint speckles are flying everywhere, another shirt will be ruined, I suppose.

"Hi sweetie!" my neighbor, Louisa yells. "You nearly finished with that one?"

I'm pulled from my work a minute too soon, but now that I'm not as absorbed in it, I'm beginning to think it just might be finished.

"Good morning! Yeah, I think so."

"I'll believe it when I see it! If I had a terai for every time you lugged that giant thing inside only to bring it right back out the next morning...I'd be living in the Winddane castle by now." She could barely get the last few words out as she was laughing too hard to say them properly.

She was right, too. I have a bad habit of letting feelings of doubt creep in about how good something looks and painting layer over layer until I'm satisfied or can't stand to look at it anymore, typically the latter. Most of the paintings are thick and textured because of this, but I like to think it adds a certain flair to them, and at this point, it's become a sort of signature.

I laugh along with her for a moment before adding, "Well, if you ever find a way to make that happen, let me know because my bags will be packed quicker than this thing can dry." It's a lie. I wouldn't trade living here for anywhere, but I learned as a child that people always expect you to be reaching for more, and this simple house isn't exactly "more."

"That castle is beautiful, huh? Almost as beautiful as that Alder boy. It's a shame he's never taken to anyone before, that would be one lucky girl if I do say so myself. A rich husband's enough to keep you satisfied, but a rich husband that looks like that? You'd never have a sad day in your life."

"What's this I hear about a beautiful boy?" Ezra shouts with his head out the window.

"You're hearing things again, dearie"

I wave to them both as Louisa heads inside, probably to bicker with Ezra some more about his hearing even though I suspect his hearing is better off than hers.

I've never seen Alder Winddane before. It's impossible to go to the main square without hearing about him though. I'll often hear girls gossiping about his hair or his muscles while I check the firmness of pears and linger over the pasta a bit too long to hear more. From what I gather, he's irresistible and he knows it. Men like that make my skin crawl. I'd like to meet him just to put him in his place. Looks aren't everything, and neither is a heavy pocket. If they were, I would've been married a thousand times by now.

My head shakes as I try to dispel thoughts of the Winddanes and focus on the canvas. Now is about the time when I'd usually decide to add a few more strokes here and there, but as I look it over, I don't feel the need to. Glancing from the canvas to the field and back, it's a pretty close match.

All thoughts of my mother, my neighbors, castles, and most of all, Alder Winddane, leave my head. Instead, I'm thinking about how this just might be my highest selling piece yet.

Before I can process what I'm doing, the brush is back in my palm and dipping into a faint pink color before grazing the canvas. Just a few more adjustments and it really will be almost perfect.