Ollie was a bit confused when the courier dropped off the letter. It was a Sunday, after all, and he had been labouring under the impression that no one in Rhydin did any sort of business on a Sunday. But here he was, standing bare foot in the open doorway of his loft, dressed in thread-bare jeans that probably should have joined the rag pile ages ago, a white t shirt that was now covered in at least 30 different shades of paint, and a black eye so prodigious that it was threatening to become a black half-his-face, clutching a letter that looked and acted like business. On a Sunday. Maybe it was another letter from his father, via his attorney. Maybe it was from the Old Man, reinstating his former position with the Guild. "Well," he said to himself. "There's nothing for it. I'll have to end the mystery and open it."

He turned, headed back into the loft, and shut the door with a well-placed kick. The interior of the loft had never been cleaner or more sweet-smelling and Ollie felt a pang of regret that Kay might leave soon. His clothes were regularly washed, he'd put on a few pounds, and he hadn't smiled or laughed so much since his mother died. It had been wonderful, these few weeks with Kay living under his roof. He didn't want to let it " or her " go.

Pushing these thoughts aside, he threw himself down on the saggy red velvet couch that sat in front of the bank of north-facing windows. Finding his ice pack and once more applying it to the side of his face, this time with much less of a wince, he carefully opened the envelope in his hands and read the sheet of parchment contained therein. He read it twice. Then he glanced at the rectangle of heavy card stock and read the letter a third time. He frowned. What was the date" 3 April. Too late for an April Fool's joke. So, that must mean...

He sat up, the ice pack falling away with a wet splat on the hardwood floor. "Holy God," he whispered, feeling a tug of guilt at the blaspheme. A gallery had solicited him, his work! Someone thought so much of his painting that they had actually taken the time to track him down, send a letter " a hand-written letter, no less " to his house, and invited him to show in their gallery! He stood up, letting loose an impressive crow of triumph.

His first thoughts turned to Cally. He'd have to tell her. He could see the happy, proud smile on her face, the way the corners of those sapphire eyes crinkled up when she laughed. Then he thought of Lala and Kay, in that order. They'd have to know, too. He could feel Lala's hug and hear Kay's shouts of happiness.

And then he thought of his father and his elation collapsed. Junior should be happy for him, proud of him. But that was not Junior's way. He had never approved of Ollie's talent or his dreams of being a successful painter. "Well, f*ck him," Ollie swore vehemently and then dashed a guilty look around the loft. Thank heavens Kay was not home; he'd never hear the end of it otherwise. She would have been shocked that Ollie even knew that word, let alone used it on occasion.

He went into his bedroom, selecting clothing that would balance the disreputable state of his hair and the black eye, scribbled down a quick note to Kay telling her that he was going to see a man about a dog " he grinned, wondering what she'd make of that ? and headed out to this Vanima Art Gallery, owned by one Fallon Quinn, who thought he was one of the finest young artists Rhydin had seen for some time.

He wondered idly if she was pretty.