Poetry: A Silent Night

Used Christmas card and wrapping paper collage enhanced with GIMP

Jingle bells

And fresh-baked smells

Santa hats

For dogs and cats

Yards of tinsel

Inches of snow

Take a deep breath

Okay, let’s go

Long store lines

And cheery signs

Shining balls

And well-decked halls

Is this Christmas?

So loud and bright

I think we need

A silent night

Peace, be still

And now you will

Hear the song

Played all along

God came to us

That holy night

Born in straw

The King by right

Oh, peace

Be still

And know

That His grace

Covers us like snow

Dawnna Jean Pearson ©2014

The Penny-Pinching Artist: Framing Need Not Be Murder (By Price Tag)

I have it from the mouth of a professional framer: Michael’s frame jobs are overpriced. Smaller shops like his don’t exactly run cheap, either. So, can artists with limited budgets really do quality framing on their own? My reply:

  

Full disclosure: a year ago, I didn’t even know what a “mat” was, nor did I have any concept of framing as an art unto itself. To me, a frame was a utilitarian object with which one could attach artwork to the wall more efficiently than with putty or nails. I have since been reformed, thanks in large part to being lovingly nagged into doing a solo art show.

Since I’m not able to make frames from scratch, I rely on second-hand ones from Goodwill and other thrifty sources. On average, they cost about $6. I prefer wood or wood composite for look and overall ease of use. (Have you ever tried screwing something into a metal frame?) My experience is limited, but here are some things I’ve learned:

What You’ll Need

Pliers and hammer—many uses in removing old contents of frames and putting in the new

Lemon oil furniture polish—improves appearance of wood frames

Mat—that cardboard-y frame thing that goes between the art and the glass

Backing (my name)—that cardboard-y sheet that goes behind the artwork to protect and hold it in the frame

IMPORTANT NOTE: Canvas artworks like oils and acrylics generally don’t need glass, mats, or backing, but more fragile ones like watercolors, pastels, and pencils do.

Offset screws—a delightful invention that can be flipped around to attach an artwork that sticks out of the frame or sinks down into it

Electric drill—for the screws…unless you have fingers of iron

Dust cover (my name)—the sheet of brown (or whatever) color paper that covers the entire back of the frame and artwork

Elmer’s glue or double-sided tape—for attaching dust cover

X-acto knife and/or scissors—for cutting paper

Vent hole (my name)—a small hole in the dust cover (only necessary for canvas artworks like oils and maybe acrylics) that lets the canvas breathe

Eyelet screws (my name)—screws with looped heads that hold wire

D-rings—screws with rings attached, more “high-class” than eyelet screws

Picture-hanging wire—multi-strand wire, more durable than baling wire or string

How to Pick the Right Frame

Bring a tape measure. If framing a canvas, measure the back inside edge of the frame. If working with a piece that needs glass and mat, measure the inside edge of the mat. Mats are particularly difficult to find in the right size. If you have the ability to cut your own, I applaud you. Mine usually turn out looking like chainsaw art. Sometimes I buy a frame just to get the mat inside.

Test the solidness of the frame by tugging the sides to see if the corners are loose.

Ask yourself some questions:

Does the color and design of the frame and mat match or compliment the color and design of the artwork? Wood can be stained a new shade, and mats can be painted a new color, but it’s nice to be able to work with the original.

Does the size/color/decoration of the frame and mat overwhelm the artwork?

(Not my art) Too much frame and mat

(My art) Better balanced

(My art) Too little frame--and no mat

Assembly

Because there are plenty of helpful instructions on the Internet and elsewhere for how to frame things yourself, I won’t do a step-by-step. I’ll just mention a few handy tips you might not learn on the Internet.

Scratches in a frame can be corrected with markers or a dab of acrylic paint.

Make sure the frame is thick enough so the screws don’t poke through to the other side, and wide enough so nothing hangs over the edge.

Drill carefully; some wood might crack.

Double-sided tape is the cleanest way to apply the paper dust cover, but sometimes it doesn’t adhere properly, so test a little piece before you lay it all the way around.

If the dust cover is curling crazily and you can’t get it to stick, try pressing it against a flat surface like a table or door, and rubbing it down with a wet cloth to smooth it out. This will also help it dry tight. A friend of mine recommended completely soaking the paper in water, but I haven’t gone that extreme yet.

I was told to use an x-acto knife to trim the edges of the dust cover, but that ended up looking messy most of the time. I find it easier to just use scissors. The main goal is to make sure none of the dust cover shows over the edge of the frame. An x-acto knife is good for making the vent hole—just don’t cut too deep!

D-rings are the “official” hanging apparatus, and art shows and galleries are likely to require them. However, eyelet screws are much more economical. They can be a little hard to put in. My method is to pound a small nail into the spot (maybe 1/4 inch deep), pry that up, then twist the screw in with my fingers and the rest of the way with pliers.

I think there might be some disagreement in the art-framing world as to whether vent-holes are necessary, but I figure they can’t hurt. The professional framer I referenced earlier didn’t think dust covers were even necessary for canvases. I take objection; I’ve had to clean them.

There’s a basic concept that applies to all framing jobs: the frame is there to enhance the artwork. The frame can command attention, but only so it can draw the eye inward toward the picture. If the frame retains attention, then it has failed its purpose. It might seem unfair after all the work—and sometimes physical pain—it took to put that frame together. But the truth is that a frame is most beautiful when it is barely noticed, except as a seamless piece of the greater work of art.

“He must increase, but I must decrease.” –John the Baptist, speaking of Jesus (John 3:30)

…That they may adorn the doctrine of God our Savior in all things. –St. Paul, in a word to servants (Titus 2:10)

Crunch Week: Pros and Cons of being 100% Focused

My trademark self-portrait.
Note that I have two things in hand at once.

Last Monday, I finally emerged from my cave and began to feel sane again.

I had spent the previous week trying to work exclusively on one project. I had a deadline to write a synopsis of my current novel-in-progress, which was complicated by the fact that I still hadn’t quite figured how I was going to work everything out in the end.

So, I gave myself completely to getting it done. All my free time, all my mental energy, went into the pounding, grinding, hair-pulling, eye-rolling, excruciating task of coming up with a story worth reading. All lesser concerns were pushed aside. If I took something out of a drawer, it got tossed to the side. Clean clothes piled up on the end of my bed, looking dejected. I didn’t cut my nails. Purses were dropped in corners. Papers lay in haphazard piles. I snapped and grumbled at family members who dared interrupt me. If I had to be away from the novel for a while, I was still thinking about it, running the possibilities through my head, testing scenarios. My brain ached. One time, when I woke up at midnight for no apparent reason, I powered up my laptop and did a few more hours of work. Small wonder I felt a bit like the undead the next morning.

So, that was Crunch Week.

Interestingly enough, it was on the one day I rested from my work (because I believe in the principle of taking a Sabbath), that I had some of the best ideas come together in my mind. I emerged from the ordeal of Crunch Week with one thought: “I’m so glad that’s over!” I felt wretched, my room looked like the aftermath of a small tornado, and, oh yeah…I didn’t even make the deadline.

I finished the synopsis this week at a more relaxed and happy pace.

The good parts of Crunch Week were:

1. I never had to wonder what I should be doing. I didn’t waste any time lapsing into daydreams while considering the twenty different projects around me.

2. I did make some significant accomplishments. This novel has been my love/hate project for the last, what—six years? So, to FINALLY have a DECISIVE version of the plot is a huge relief.

3. My normal lifestyle feels so sweet now.

I have to conclude that I have a scattered mind and I like it that way. I seem to function best in multi-project mode—if I have several plates spinning, I feel more alert, competent…and it’s just plain fun. If I overdo it and start dropping plates, a day or two of intense focus on doing just one thing ’til it’s done can be helpful, but a whole week makes my mental machinery start to overheat, the gears screeching and smoking. I like having the freedom to go from wielding a paintbrush, to typing out a suspenseful scene, to sketching a few humorous pages for a sometime-in-the-future graphic novel, to making a get-well card—all in the same day. It can be a chaotic and exasperating life sometimes, but that’s the point: it feels like life. Not like being a growling zombie fortified in her woman-cave.

Maybe I should do a Crunch Week once or twice a year—just to remind me why I like being scatterbrained.

Meet My Desk

Let me introduce you to my primary workspace:

My desk area is a pretty good picture of my personality and lifestyle—colorful, controlled chaos. It’s nearly impossible for me to work in a sterile environment, because as soon as I start doing anything, creative clutter results. Extra space is a luxury I’ve never had much of. Every corner is filled, every inch utilized, and, amazingly, I more or less know where everything belongs.

The items on my desk tell a lot of stories, and they tell a lot about me.

The desk itself was the best thrift store find of my life. I had been about to spend fifty bucks on a brand-new model that was inconveniently shaped, but my cheaper-is-better father advised holding out a little longer. I was sorely tempted to buy it anyway. I’m an impatient person, and there’s a point when I HAVE TO HAVE IT NOW!!! Plus, I like good-quality stuff. But, for once, I chose to listen to Dad. We checked Goodwill, and what would you know, but there was a twenty dollar desk, ready-made and in perfect condition, aside from some scuffs and stickers. Once I got it into my room, I saw at once that it was the perfect size and shape—as if it had been made for me.

Notice the sleek black office chair? That’s probably the most expensive piece of furniture in my room, aside from the bed. My generous grandma took me shopping for it, and I spent a while at Office Depot planting my hindquarters on various chairs, swiveling, adjusting, and leaning back, trying to find that perfect feel. Since my creative calling requires me to spend about half my waking life sitting down, it made sense to go all out to find a good seat. When I sit down in this chair, I feel like I’m buckling in for a ride to another world, and it can become a throne from which I observe a peaceful kingdom, a car headed down a dark road, a horse trotting over the grassy hills…and so on.

I always keep water close at hand. I’m kind of a water nut, actually. I prefer well-water, specifically ours, and extra-specifically from the sink in the main bathroom. I don’t know—it just tastes better. And yes, that’s a lid on the cup. I hate dust.

That mound of paper in the background is my deal-with-it box. Story ideas, newspaper clippings, salvageable scraps, and everything else that I don’t want to immediately file away, get dropped in there. Believe it or not, I just emptied a bunch of it (as it had started to climb out of the box and across the books).

See the mug with the pink roses on it? I found it in a hole in the ground. Years ago, I was playing on a hillside near our house, when I looked into a hole that was an opening to an underground trickling spring. I noticed something white sticking out of the mud, almost like a bone. It was actually the handle of the mug. Dad thought maybe it had been left there by someone who liked to drink from the spring. It’s a mystery, and now it has the honorable duty of holding my collection of bookmarks.

My art-books are in the background. Most of them were handed down to me, and a large portion came from an elderly artist whom I very much admire, and who has since moved away. This distinguished lady had a history of working in graphic arts and was also a fantastic fine artist. She did everything well. She would come to art meetings and show off professional quality doll dresses that she made as a hobby project, and a huge quilt covered with pictures of native plants that she had drawn. As she was cleaning out her old art supplies, she made sure I got a few boxes worth of things. She often let me know how good an artist I was and how I could “make it” in whatever I pursued. I heard tell that she visited my art show at the Sandy Chamber of Commerce and announced to the staff that she was proud of me. I will probably never have time to read most of the art-books, much less do the activities, but they give me something interesting to flip through and get inspiration. Someday, I’ll likely pass them on to another artist.

That big binder titled "Face Book" is my reference source for many of my characters. I collect pictures from clothing ads, magazines, and other sources. Turning the pages, you’ll find a clean-cut young man with nice blue eyes and the name “Dr. Soren” penciled beneath him, a girl with a pert smile whom I’ve labeled “Saffron”, a lovely black lady called “Eden Day”, and many more whose stories I hope to tell.

Beneath the “Face Book” is my fledgling movie collection and all the CDs I couldn’t fit in my CD rack. The amazing Christian film “Faith Like Potatoes”, the true-life hockey drama “Miracle”, the dream-like anime “Howl’s Moving Castle”, and the fairy tale “Ever After” sit next to music by Gungor (folk/contemporary), The Afters (Christian pop), Clannad (Celtic folk/contemporary), and Al Denson (early 90s Christian rock).

Above is a rough collage I made on the desk cupboard to cover the old stickers. The pictures represent mankind’s inventions: writing on parchment, the abacus, a page from an illustrated manuscript, the printing press, glasses, and the light bulb. Underneath a picture of the telegraph machine, I wrote the first words purported to have been sent over it: What hath God wrought? We do well to remember that our creative gifts have their origin in Him.

This is my hardware. These machines, modest as they are, serve me well. Note the wires that look like a pile of writhing snakes. Only I know how to untangle this stuff, which I do every Sunday when I take the laptop in to my grandma’s house to use the Internet. I consider myself very blessed that I have no web-access from my desk (or anywhere else in my house). I’m too easily distracted as it is.

My close-at-hand supply shelf is perfect for pencils and pens (though not quite tall enough for the glue bottle). Those little black boxes hold woodless Koh-I-Noor color pencils that have brought the whimsical characters in Please Don’t Tickle the Tiger [link] to life, roughed out covers for fantasy novels, and been a part of fine art pieces. They’re incredibly easy to sharpen and have a nice texture. My only complaint is that I always run out of brown ones long before the rest!

Clipped to the box of markers is the envelope holding my ballot, reminding me that I have a patriotic duty to perform. Voting is important to me. Flawed as our political system might be, I was recently reminded by a poignant little comic by Will Eisner (bio) (from his book Graphic Storytelling and Visual Narrative) that it’s sure a lot better than the alternative!
In the story, a small country that used to have democracy has been taken over by a military dictatorship who say they'll clean up the messy system and make everything run smoothly by taking away choice. They allow one final vote, for what symbol will be on the national flag--the old flower image, or the new image of a mace. The citizens have a "who cares?" attitude, except for one frail old man who stubbornly insists on exercising his right to vote this final time, even though it kills him. His death helps wake the people up.
Everything run by humans is going to be messy, but I believe that God delights in turning messes into beauty.

The very top of my desk is the domain of knickknacks. That little frog used to glow with flashing colored lights—a prime example of the kind of thing Dad puts in my Christmas stocking. The dolls in the background are from my mom’s childhood, back in the pre-Barbie days. My eldest cousin made the wooden sculpture of my name for me long ago. Behind it is my pop-up leprechaun, one of those stupid things I bought just because I had to prove my love of everything Irish.

  

On the other end, you see one of my dozen or so porcelain dolls, which my sister Starla thinks are terrifying and once made a short horror film about. She shut me out of my own room while she did it, too. The bucket with the sailor on it is an antique that came out of my late grandpa’s shop. As you can see, I have a lot of brushes. I actually only use about ten of them, and the rest are there just in case. In the above background is my color-clock. You may have noticed that the theme for the desk area is BRIGHT COLORS.

Between the knickknacks are my writing books and spiritual/devotional books. In scanning the titles, you can see a glimpse of the unique environment I grew up in. My parents have the ability to find common ground with a wide variety of Christian denominations, while not conforming to the man-made rules of any. They taught us to always ask questions, compare things with scripture, and not sweat the small stuff if we agree about who Jesus is. This eat-the-meat-and-spit-out-the-bones approach has passed to me. I’ve got The Case for Christ next to Blue Like Jazz, and Debi Pearl (Created to be His Help Meet) on the same shelf with Madeline L’Engle (Walking on Water).

And here, just where my eyes tend to go whenever I look up from my work, is a little reminder of what I’ve been called to do.

 Sometimes I feel confused and overwhelmed, the colors of my many projects running together into a muddy mess, and the chaos is out of control. What am I? What am I supposed to be doing?

I hope these words will pull me back to the simplicity and joy of my God-given calling.

The Season of Clarity

Come mid-September, I’m desperate. Like an old pair of jeans fraying apart at the seams, I’ve reached my limit. The heat, chores, parties, events, and activities have worn me out. Summer keeps trying to push on just a little longer, and I can almost hear the threads snapping. My energy is low, my creativity drained.

Then, all of a sudden, I smell it on the breeze. That rich, crisp scent that announces Autumn’s arrival. I walk through the woods and rejoice to see patches of orange and red amongst the green. This season of beautiful death brings my creativity to life again. The nights grow colder, making the warmth of the days precious. My body and mind are refreshed.

Perhaps the sweetness of Autumn comes from the clarity that death brings. In the haze of Summer, I only want to get through one more day. But in Autumn, I am aware of the big picture again. I remember how the seasons turn, and how death brings about life.

Therefore we do not lose heart. Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day. (2 Corinthians 4:16)

New Feature!

I've added an art gallery page to my blog! (About time, right?) Just look for it on the menu over on the right side. I would love to get feedback on it: Are the pictures big enough? What types of images would you like to see more of? Do I give too much or too little info about the pieces? And so on.

Redeeming Words

Here's a link to my latest Abolition Now story, Redeeming Words. It's a meditation on a variety of things: misused words, sex-trafficking, healing, a husband's love, the meaning of redemption, and the power of Jesus Christ.

Presenting THE BLACK ISLES

Tales of Rhohin: Book Two: The Black Isles is now available as an e-book. Look for it in Amazon's Kindle store (the easiest way to find it is to enter my full name into the search bar). I'll be running a FREE promotion on September 4-6, so be sure to pick up a copy!

“The door stood wide open, half-pulled from its hinges.

As she approached, Faerlyn felt more fear than she wanted to admit.

Ralin’s face had gone white, wide eyes staring into the dark interior.

‘Don’t be a coward,’ she chastised. When he didn’t move, she gripped his hand and tugged him after her. She wasn’t going in alone.”

Princess Faerlyn and Prince Ralin have the same family and live in the same castle, but they inhabit different worlds. While she is lively and full of goodwill toward everyone around her, he prefers the company of books and his mysterious tutor. Their father King Brien is busy making peace with the nation of Baerac and soothing the ruffled feelings of his subjects, and has no time to keep an eye on his daughter’s free-spirited ways, or to try to understand his moody son. Faerlyn comes up with a well-meaning scheme to get her brother out of his introverted habits, and begins an adventure of earth-shaking proportions.

From the majestic halls of Castle Kirlaen, to legendary islands across the Verlaine Sea, there is treachery and sacrifice, judgment and redemption, and long-buried secrets are brought to light.

“The Black Isles” is the sequel to “The Calling”, continuing the stories set in the world of Rhohin, where there are swords, dragons, mist, and a whisper of magic. Here, royal children must learn that true nobility comes from courageous, loving hearts, and even stable boys can turn into heroes. 

Open Sky: In Memory of Grandpa

My grandpa, Gene Adair Pearson, passed away Sunday morning, August 10th, at ninety-two years old. It was one of those days you know is going to come eventually, but you keep thinking it might hold off a little longer.

I’ve spent nearly every Sunday afternoon of my life at my grandparents’ house. When I hugged him hello, Grandpa would tell me how beautiful I looked, sometimes calling me “Red”, which I liked, because I’ve always wished my hair had more than a hint of copper in it. He sometimes had trouble understanding what all I was up to with my blogging, facebooking, and e-publishing, but he was sure I was the best at it, and constantly encouraged me. When it was time to leave in the evening, I’d hug him goodbye, and he’d tell me to have a good week.

The Saturday before Grandpa died, I had a poem called “Open Sky” running through my head. It had come upon me years ago, fully-formed, words in perfect metre with a gentle, haunting tune. But I just filed it away because I wasn’t exactly sure what it was about, and it felt very personal.

Now, the meaning of the poem seems clear to me. On one level, it’s about the sadness of losing someone you love, and longing to be reunited with them. But most of all, it’s about the joyous hope of Jesus coming back for us, and the eternal life we have in Him.

For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.

(I Thessalonians 4:16-18)

Open Sky

I will find you in the open sky

Past clouds in castle shapes we’re floating by

Much higher than the birds of earth can fly

I will find you in the open sky

I will find you in the open sky

The galaxies and planets roaring by

Between the stars beyond the dark we’ll fly

I will find you in the open sky

I will find you in the open sky

The new world’s light now dawns upon your eye

And with me into eternity you’ll fly

I will find you in the open sky

Dawnna Jean Pearson ©2012

Coming Soon: THE BLACK ISLES

Releasing The Calling, the first book in the Tales of Rhohin series, has been one of the most exciting events of my past year. The novel I began as a teenager, and once planned to hide away on a dusty shelf, has gotten into the hands of, by my count, 278 readers around the world, via Kindle, and I have been amazed to get compliments from total strangers who enjoyed my work. To God be the glory, through Jesus His Son. He gave me the gift, the determination, and the opportunity.

And now it’s almost time for the sequel!

The Black Isles picks up about sixteen years after The Calling, and follows the adventures of Brien and Ella’s children. It includes slave-traders, dragons, ships, a noble stable-hand, amnesia, scheming wizards, and feisty birds, to name a few things.

Once again, I hired the help of my brilliant younger sister and fellow fantasy-lover Twila to proofread and edit the book. I anticipated a few of the revisions she might hope for and made them ahead of time, but of course, she was able to push me to do even better. The Black Isles is now in the final stages of production.

Here’s behind-the-scenes art and an advance look at the Prologue and Chapter One:

Prologue

On an island mountain, a man knelt beneath a grey, rolling sky. His hands were bound, his dark hair matted, and his bronzed skin mottled with welts and blood.

Slowly, he lifted his head to meet the cold blue eyes of the man who stood over him.

“Daenan,” the beaten man murmured, “why do you do this?”

His nemesis’ face was white and stiff with maniacal energy. Evil pulsed from him in tingling waves. “Oh, you are humble now, Gallian,” he sneered. “You quiver. Now it is you who is at our mercy. You are helpless, and we are strong.”

Gallian looked out at the group of people surrounding them: men, women, and children who were pale-skinned and fair-haired like Daenan. Sylvans, the graceful forest-dwellers who had once ruled the land of Rhohin. These ones were outcasts, rebels against King Shawn, who had been sent here to the Black Isles as punishment for their unrepentance. Tears filled Gallian’s eyes as he remembered the day he first saw them, staggering ashore from their battered little boats, trembling in terror, some weeping. He remembered their looks of amazement and happy cries to find a human presence on their dreaded shore of banishment.

Now, they gazed at him with the coldness of their leader. A few faces were troubled, eyes wavering, but they quickly turned away.

“Daenan, this is a mistake,” Gallian said. “This will not strengthen your people. It will only harm them.”

“Be silent!” growled the leader, slapping Gallian across the face. “So, you want to know why I do this? First it was Shawn, the Mordovian pretender-king, trying to rule us, now it is you trying to manipulate us! You are a plague to my people. You even defiled a Sylvic maiden and got her with child—a half-breed disgrace.”

Gallian struggled to keep his rage under control. “Hannyl is my wife—you blessed our marriage yourself! What has changed in you since last winter?”

Daenan gave a small, poisonous smile. “Last winter, we would have starved without the knowledge of these islands which we could only get from you.”

Lionna, a Sylvic girl

There was a rustling in the group of watching Sylvans, and a red-haired man took a step forward. “My lord Wizard-King,” he said quietly, addressing Daenan, “can this be right? Gallian and his friend have only done us good.”

The leader whirled on him. “Sythrin!” he hissed, “Are you declaring yourself one of them?”

The man lowered his head, looking ill, and stepped back.

Daenan turned to Gallian. “Your plague is spreading. I will not let you infect my people with your foolish religion and the story of your foolish god. You tell lies that turn the world upside down, and it must be stopped!” Daenan brandished a jagged stone knife. “The plague will be ended.” He stood close by Gallian’s side. “Renounce you god, and I will let you live.”

Gallian looked up at him. “No. Jesus the Christ is my Lord forever.”

Daenan gripped Gallian’s hair, yanking his head back and exposing his throat, then roared, “I claim these islands for the Power and its gods!”

Gallian’s voice came gently as he stared into the hovering sky. “You cannot kill His light.”

Daenan yelled, the knife slashed, and Gallian’s blood watered the barren ground.

* * * * *

Hidden in a cavern that echoed with the roar of the sea, a man and two women sat together and wept.

“Why would God allow this?” cried one woman, a fair-skinned Sylvan. She leaned against the black-haired man. “You and Gallian survived shipwreck all those years ago,” she moaned, “only to end in terror and darkness.”

He tried to comfort her, but his own eyes were reddened with tears.

Battle scene, near the end

The other woman sat a little apart from them, arms enfolding her pregnant belly. Her blonde hair hung like a veil over her grief-lined face. She looked up, as if listening, and her eyes flickered with life. “The light will shine,” she whispered, “even in these caves. It cannot die.”

Chapter One: Faerlyn and Ralin

Princess Faerlyn stared up at the house that’s peaked roof seemed to nudge the sky. Its yellow plaster walls were being invaded by ivy that framed its bright red door. The ten-year-old grinned and squeezed her father’s hand. “Isn’t it so beautiful, Papa?”

King Brien, sovereign of Rhohin, smiled back at her. “Yes, Fae.”

The tall woman beside them gestured toward the house. “Your highnesses are free to come inside. It’s still a bit untidy, though.”

“That’s fine, Megan!” Faerlyn cried, running for the door. “I want to see everything!”

The main room, with its scattering of disarranged furniture and bundles, had a soaring ceiling upheld by timber pillars. On each side were two-story wings of smaller chambers.

“We’re thinking that side will be for women and girls,” Megan explained, pointing to the left wing, “and the other for men and boys.”

A slim man with a tool-belt around his waist and plaster dust in his curly hair appeared on the loft of the men’s wing and bowed to the visitors below. “Good morning, your highnesses!” Instead of coming down the stairs, he climbed over the loft railing and swung to the floor.

Megan frowned at him and crossed her strong arms. “Rennivar, you won’t keep doing that once children come here. I don’t want you giving them ideas.”

“Of course not, my dear.” He strode over and placed a kiss on her cheek. “I’m sure they’ll be able to think of it on their own.”

Megan shook her head in exasperation and Faerlyn giggled.

“Come, your highness,” said Megan, taking the princess by the hand. “I’ll show you some rooms.”

Faerlyn, a few years older

Faerlyn followed Megan through the women’s wing. The princess especially liked a large room on the second story that had beds for six girls. The furniture included chairs and a cupboard donated from Castle Kirlaen. Faerlyn was delighted by the collection of toys spread around the room, many of which were her own. She began setting the dolls on a bed, straightening their dresses and smoothing their fiber hair and yarn braids. As her fingers brushed the faces—smooth wood and cool ceramic—she began to feel a little sad.

Faerlyn looked up and gave Megan a trembling smile. “My dolls will be happy here.”

The woman sat down beside her, eyes teary, and drew her into a firm hug.

“They can leave me,” the princess went on with a catch in her voice, “because I’m getting so big now. The orphan girls need them.” She nestled deeper into Megan’s embrace, a comforting feeling she had known since she was very small. “And I’m glad you’ll be a nursemaid to the girls, because they need you lots more than I do.”

“You’ve got a loving heart,” Megan whispered.

Faerlyn eased out of her arms, and her cheerful mood returned as quickly as it had flown. “I hope I can come play with the orphan girls sometimes!”

They went back downstairs to the main room, where Rennivar and King Brien were talking.

“Now if there’s anything else,” the king was saying, “I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”

“Thank you again, your highness,” said Rennivar, with a deep nod. “This place was just a dream Meg and I had when we worked at the castle. Now it exists, mostly because of your contributions.”

The king shook his head. “It exists because of God…and a certain little princess. She was very persistent about reminding me why it was important to provide a safe home for our city’s neediest people.”

There was a rapid pounding on the door.

Exchanging a bemused look with his wife, Rennivar went to open it.

A dark-haired young man in ragged clothes stood there, breathing hard.

“Why, Ian!” exclaimed Rennivar. “How are you today?”

“I’m well enough, I suppose,” he said in a low voice, nervous eyes darting from Rennivar’s face to the floor. “But my friend…he’s not so well. Not at all.”

“Mycael? What happened?”

Ian cringed. “Bit of an accident, sir. In the line of work, you might say.”

Rennivar frowned. “Work, Ian?”

“Alright, thievin’. He wasn’t helpin’—I’d never make him. But he had to run ’cause I was runnin’, and then he went and fell in some rubbish and cut his leg. It swelled up awful and he got a fever.” Ian’s brow furrowed. “He just lies there moanin’.”

Rennivar looked from the lad to King Brien. “Your highness, I wonder…would you by any chance permit us the use of your carriage?”

Brien nodded. “And hurry.”

Ian stared at the king, and his eyes bulged. “He—he’s…?”

“Aye, he is,” replied Rennivar, clapping a hand on Ian’s shoulder as he led him out to the yard.

“And I’m ridin’ in the royal carriage?” Ian sputtered.

After they were gone, Megan sighed and invited the king and princess to sit down at a table piled with wooden boxes and glass vials. She brought out a tray of pastries and cups of mint tea, and joined them.

“Renn and I may not have children of our own,” she murmured, opening a box and beginning to sort the bandages inside. “But he takes every boy and girl he sees into his heart. Those two orphan boys—” She glanced toward the window. “Ian’s nearly a man of sixteen, and a bit of a scoundrel. Tried to pick Renn’s pocket when they first met. But he’s got a soft heart as far as his younger friend Mycael is concerned. That one’s a sweet boy; he wouldn’t survive on the streets without Ian.”

As soon as the rumble of the carriage wheels returned, Megan ran to throw the door open for her husband. He came in lugging the limp body of a boy in his arms. Ian was behind him, but he stopped on the threshold, and looked around the inside of the house with an expression that was both longing and fearful.

“You can come in too,” Megan urged him.

Ian darted an anxious glance to her, clutching the tattered hem of his shirt in his hands. Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, m’lady…this isn’t for me.” He cast one last affectionate look at his sick friend. “Just take good care of him, alright?” Then Ian turned and ran.

Faerlyn studied the figure in Rennivar’s arms. The boy was much older than her, she thought, and probably quite tall if he was standing. But he was very thin, and his copper-colored hair hung damp with sweat. His eyes were closed and his breathing raspy.

She felt her father’s arm come around her shoulders, pulling her to him.

“He’ll be alright now, won’t he?” she asked.

“I pray so,” Rennivar replied. He carried Mycael toward the lower story of the men’s wing, and Megan followed.

“Come, Fae,” said the king, “we should leave them to their work. When we get back to the castle, I’ll send a physician here.”

“Just a moment!” she pleaded, and hurried after them.

Rennivar laid the boy on a bed, and Megan began to undo the dirty bandage on his right leg. A bad smell came from the wound.

Faerlyn swallowed hard, breathed through her mouth, and came closer, still staring at the boy’s face. This was the closest she had ever been to someone who was from the streets, someone who had been abandoned and hungry—someone real, not just a story.

Mycael, a few years older

Rennivar rested a hand on the boy’s forehead and looked at his wife with a wan smile. “It seems Haven House is opening a bit earlier than we planned.”

“Not earlier than God planned, I’ll wager,” Megan replied, removing the boy’s flimsy leather shoes.

Faerlyn reached out, tentative, and laid her small hand on the boy’s arm. “Hello, Mycael,” she said softly. “You have a home now.”

His eyes struggled open. They were rich brown and gentle.

The princess smiled at him.

Then her father told her that it really was time they left.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, within the walls of Castle Kirlaen, a young boy stood in the courtyard, clutching a book to his chest. He was Ralin, crown prince of Rhohin, but that knowledge made him feel no braver. He watched a group of servant boys enjoying time off from their duties by holding a game of tussleball, a rowdy sport that was devoid of much strategy besides capturing the leather ball by any means necessary and holding onto it as long as possible. They were laughing and joking, even as they pummeled each other.

Behind Ralin, his grey-haired manservant Logan cleared his throat. “Go on, your highness. You’ve only got to ask.”

The prince clutched the book tighter against his thin chest, wishing the courage of the heroes from its pages would sink into him. He wasn’t even as brave as his sister. He was Faerlyn’s twin brother, though they did not look alike. She was rosy-cheeked and dark-haired, and he was pallid and blonde. She had grown up healthy and active, while he had been constantly falling ill.

But he hadn’t been dangerously sick for nearly a year now, and his mother thought he might be well enough to play with the servant boys.

“As long as Logan watches you the whole time,” she had warned. “And the boys promise to be careful. And you stop the moment you feel faint or get a pain.”

The queen might have insisted on coming along herself, had she not had Ralin’s toddler sister Brianna to take care of.

It might be nice, he decided, to prove he could do something without her standing guard.

Ralin, a few years older

Ralin stiffened his narrow shoulders and thrust his book into Logan’s hands. Clenching his trembling fists, he walked toward the group of boys. They noticed him coming across the beaten-down grass, and their lively noise faded into awkward silence as they disentangled themselves from their giant wrestling match and stood up, casting uncertain glances at each other.

“Your highness,” mumbled the grey-shirted boy who held the ball, bowing. The others imitated him.

Ralin felt anger surge through him, though he wasn’t sure why. “I want to play,” he snapped. “Don’t just stand there.”

The boys exchanged glances, there was a bit of whispering. The tallest, nearly man-sized, had a sneer in his smile as he replied, “Terribly sorry, your highness, but we were just finishing up.” He winked hard at the others.

“Indeed we were,” said the boy with the ball, nervously.

“Come on then, lads,” said the tall one, stalking off, “that’s enough for one day.”

“Good day, your highness,” murmured a few of the boys as they crept after him.

“It’s a stupid game, anyway,” Ralin growled under his breath as he watched them leave. The prince turned back to Logan. “They…they said they were finished,” he mumbled.

“Aye, I suppose they were,” sighed the old servant, though he didn’t sound convinced. “I’m sorry, your highness.”

Now Ralin felt anger again, hot and writhing. He almost wanted to hit Logan. He snatched the book back from his servant and told him, “You can go. I’ll come in later.”

Logan hesitated a moment, looking his little master up and down, then sighed and walked back to the castle.

Ralin trudged around the paths that surrounded the castle yard, past trees and under stone arches, looking for a good spot to sit down and immerse himself in the magical book, Collected Tales by Master Threnn. Perhaps the story of the winged people who lived on mountain peaks, or the one about the young warrior who set out to conquer the dragon that had destroyed the land…

Ralin heard a ruckus coming from the part of the yard he had so recently left, and crept toward it, keeping hidden by darting from tree to tree along the path. A knot twisted tight inside him.

The servant boys were back and playing tussleball again. He watched them from behind a tree, and listened.

“Camron,” grunted one as he and the tall boy wrestled for the ball, “do you think it was alright—foolin’ the prince like that?”

“What else could we do?” laughed Camron, tossing him off. “You know what a lily-blossom he is. If he so much as bumped his royal nose, he’d be running to his mother, and who knows what she’d do to us!”

They all paused a moment to shudder at the thought of incurring Queen Elowene’s displeasure.

One boy scratched his cheek. “King Brien’s a great warrior—so how come he got such a pathetic son?”

Camron snorted. “Why do you think you never see them together? The king’s ashamed of him, for sure.” He hefted the ball, ready to toss it out and begin another round. He smirked. “Maybe under those fine clothes, the prince is really a girl in disguise.”

There were incredulous guffaws and snickers of “Princess Ralin,” and then they plunged full force into another tussle. They were too preoccupied to notice the thin little figure that went running down the path, away from their shouts and laughter.

Ralin fled to the far end of the yard, where there was a cluster of hemlocks. He squeezed in amongst the trunks, his slight body fitting snugly. Tucked in the embrace of the trees, he folded up on himself and the book, pressing his face against the embossed letters on the cover. He began to sob in sharp, gasping breaths.

Eventually his tears stopped. He wondered what would happen if he stayed here all day. They would think about him then. Everyone would be thinking about him. They would be running all over the castle, searching, calling his name. Maybe even his father would come looking.

Then Ralin heard a sound: dragging footsteps and a tapping on the paving stones of the path.

He set aside Collected Tales and crawled forward, peeking out between the trees. The sound was coming from a dark archway just ahead. Ralin cringed and ducked back into his hideaway. Nothing good ever came out of the dark. Grief-filled cries burned in his memory, and he tried to ignore their echo.

Then he remembered Camron’s taunt. Lily-blossom.

Gritting his teeth, Ralin looked out again and saw a man emerge from the archway, peeling away from the shadows. He was a stranger—tall and cloaked in black, with hair the color of dry grass. He dragged his right foot, and carried a carved white staff. As he came closer, he looked toward the cluster of trees. His eyes were an intense, blazing blue that immediately captured Ralin’s full attention.

The prince rose from his hiding place, hurriedly trying to brush himself clean and smooth the wrinkles from his tunic. The man looked unsurprised to see a rumpled boy emerging from the greenery, and nodded to him.

“Who are you?” Ralin asked.

The stranger gave a slow smile. “Evan is my name.” He had a faint, lilting accent.

Ralin hid his hands behind his back, then remembered that that wasn’t a princely thing to do and brought them out again. “I’m…er…I’m Ralin. The prince.”

Evan chuckled. “This is fortunate. You are my purpose for coming here. I intend to become your tutor.”

Ralin felt dismay roil in his stomach. He had gone through four tutors already in his young life. Each had been appointed by his father, and each resigned from the job shortly thereafter.

Unteachable.

Stubborn.

Sharp-tongued.

They had long lists of complaints, and the king became as upset with Ralin as they did, lecturing him about the importance of a prince being well-learned. Ralin had given him sulky silence. He didn’t need tutors. He had already taught himself to read.

The prince looked up at Evan and asked, “Did my father hire you?”

“I and the king have not met. I heard of your need, so I came.”

Ralin frowned. “What do I need?”

The man leaned down so he was closer to his eye level. “A tutor who is as intelligent as you.”

Cover in progress

The prince felt a little stirring of hope. “Do you…do you like books?”

Evan chuckled. “How could I not?”

“Not just practical books. Books with…stories?”

The man leaned closer. “Better, I can tell you stories…stories you have never heard.” His hand rested lightly on Ralin’s shoulder. “Would you have me, your highness?”

Ralin stared at him, caught by his intense eyes. Then he gave an eager nod.