That is what Daywen Athalia had come to. She closed her eyes to still the twitterings in her stomach. It had to be theft, or it would be a life of bitter loneliness. Her sister Llannyn suffered that fate. She, who had once been bonny and full of laughter, drawing the attention of many, had descended into the darkness of her soul. She lurked about the crannies of the house, muttering to herself, snapping at Cook, snarling at any man. She spoke of unseelie tricks, of betrayals, always in generalities, never in specifics. She would be a spinster for the rest of her life. It had frightened Daywen. It was not so much her sister she cared about, for she and Llannyn never did get along as children, but herself. The thought of spending the rest of her life in angry solitude frightened her more than any old gypsy woman with her curses and her dispensaries of fate. That morning Goody Hubbard, who had leaned over the fence for a good chinwag with Cook, shared a tale of a man come to town. “MacEuros has gold aplenty, aye,”
