North garden, p.1
North Garden, page 1
North Garden
Copyright © 2023 by Najeea C. Murray
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Book Cover by Vivien Reis
Edited by Carol Rushing
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
EPIGRAPH
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
About the Author
to the dreamers:
Don't follow the dream. Follow God who makes dreams come true.
EPIGRAPH
“God has chosen the weak things of the world
to put to shame the things which are mighty...”
(I Corinthians 1:27)
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.
