Chapter 33 - Thirty Three
The part of the kingdom Delia went to look for Owen was a world away from the manicured lawns and grand manors she was used to. The abandoned tea shop stood at the end of a crooked, dusty lane, its windows boarded up and its paint peeling. Inside, however, Delia had brought a small pocket of comfort. She had laid out a feast from a nearby bakery on one of the less dusty tables: a whole roasted chicken, a loaf of soft bread, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a large pitcher of lemonade.
"Hmmm, this is delicious, Lady Delia," Owen said, his voice muffled as he chewed on a chicken leg, his mouth full. His eyes, bright and sharp in his young face, were shining with pure delight. "I’m so glad you came. I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday evening." He finished the chicken leg and licked the grease from his fingers without a hint of shame, his hunger far outweighing any sense of etiquette.
Delia smiled, a genuine, warm expression she reserved for the few people she trusted. "Eat as much as you want, Owen. There is plenty."
She had found Owen by chance a few days ago. After wasting precious money from her father’s brooch on baseless rumors about the Duke, she had been at her wit’s end. She had seen the small, wiry boy delivering papers to a nobleman’s house and had overheard him sharing a surprisingly accurate piece of gossip with another servant. Delia, desperate, had approached him.
She learned that Owen was an orphan, a child of the streets who had been unofficially adopted by the owner of the city’s main printing press. He slept on bundles of old papers in a back room and, in exchange, worked from before dawn until after dusk. He knew the ways of the street far too early for a young lad of twelve. His main job was delivering papers to the aristocrats, but his performance, and the tips he received, determined if he would have a meal that day or not.
Because he worked at the press, information was his currency. He saw pamphleteers come in, eager to sell their gossipy stories. He heard the whispers and the secrets of gossipmongers. With his sharp listening skills and a mind that missed nothing, he absorbed it all. For a few small coins, he had sold Delia the information about Duke Eric’s private life, information that had proven to be completely true and had formed the very foundation of her plan.
She reached out and gently stroked his messy brown hair. "Take it easy, Owen," she said softly. "We don’t want you choking."
Owen nodded his head enthusiastically and took a long drink of water before diving into the mashed potatoes. He looked at Delia’s side of the table and saw it was empty, save for her own glass of water. "Aren’t you going to eat, my lady?"
Delia smiled and shook her head. "I’ve already had mine," she lied gently. "This is all for you."