Edited

**Reviews are luved!

"As long as one keeps searching, the answers come" ~Joan Baez

"When is my deadline?" Maysa asked her father's advisors as she sat from her throne, looking about at the five of them who circled her chair.

When she was little, these men had frightened her by their strangeness. Only one of the five spoke aloud, the other four simply whispered amongst themselves and then whisper to the one who would tell what they had decided. The only one to speak stood in the middle, bearing the name of Hetite.

"By the sunset of the day after the festival is when your advisors must be decided," Hetite answered. Emotion had long sense been beaten out of his face and he looked upon Maysa with a dead cold stare. If he did not move or breathe, this man would be mistaken for dead. His ice white hair that skimmed his shoulders only added to the pale dead look of him.

"Very well," Maysa replied. She stood and walked across the stone floor, her bare feet hidden under layers of flowing skirts that moved with her. One would say that skirts that long would put off their balance, but Maysa had been accustomed to them since she was small. The brown hair that usually hung about her face had been pulled back tightly to flow along with the hair that came down her back, held together by a red lily hair décor. It was a gift from her father before he passed.

Maysa exited her throne room and walked down a graciously decorated hall. Paintings had been hung about the walls and where there was no painting there was a wall decoration or a statue. She came soon to an opening and pushed back the curtain and stepped into her viewing room. Glass was rare and expensive, but in this room, all the walls were made of glass so that one could see out of it at any angle except facing towards the door.

It was Maysa's favorite room. The only furniture in the whole place was a chair that sat in the middle of the room and a table to hold food and such beside the chair. She walked up the chair and set herself down into the cushion. On the other side of the windows laid a garden. Cherry blossom trees swayed in the breeze and the daffodils followed the tree's dance. Many different flowers and assorted colors were splashed about the garden. Stone walkways webbed across the lot, creating no specific pattern. A wall of brick circled the garden so that seeing out or in was impossible. Guards walked the top to ward off possible intruders.

A proud hill thrust itself higher than the wall and over it led a dirt road for travelers. A wagon rattled and jostled over it, making its way into the town. A worn down mule drug the wagon forward and a farmer just as worn – if not more – than the mule walked beside the animal. Maysa frowned. It was no doubt containing a champion for the gladiator's festival. How Maysa dreaded the festival. She hated the blood and the thirst of her people and other's people to see more. It sickened her to see such a desire in her own land.

Maysa honestly wished to ban the festival completely, but her father said: "You cannot ban something that a mass of people enjoy, just because you despise it. All you will do is stir dissension up in your nation." She could come up with a whole score of reasons why the festival should be banned, but the gladiators rather wished to die than to lose and if they did then so be it.

Besides, Maysa had larger things to worry of than the gladiator's festival. She let out an exasperated sigh and began to think of how to find a well fitted group of advisors for herself. To simply run messengers to find possible candidates would do no good. Maysa had to be able to trust them with her life, and she knew none that she fully did. If Maysa did not choose advisors then Hetite would take the throne and Maysa did not trust him one bit with her country. Her father provided a necessity for her country that Hetite did not: love. That's what Maysa wanted to give to her country just as much as her father.

"Cally!"

My eyes flashed open at my mother's voice. I stretched out in my bean bag and let out a big yawn. I tend to fall asleep if I stay in one place too long after a cinnamon roll. They're just so good and make me feel all warm inside. My mom always nags me about morning naps and how sleeping too much is bad, but I never listen.

"Yes?" I yawned, looking over at my mother in the door. Her short, curly and bright red hair she kept bobbed. All the pictures she's showed me of her, even as a child, she kept it short. She's stout, but not to wear she looks over weight. But what kind of good baker is skinny? I mean have you ever seen a super model shaped cook? I'm just as tall as she is as well. Being only five foot five, I fear her attitude towards me being taller than her. The funny thing is that we share the same nose, even though I'm adopted.

"Did you finish unpacking?" my mother sounded rushed. She swept a piece of her red hair out of her face and looked at me. She looked exasperated which meant it must at least be eleven thirty and that New York City was a very hungry place.

"Yes, Mom." I sighed, sitting up in the bean-bag chair. I was pretty much done. All I had left was a box in my closet with a bunch of winter clothes, but it was summer so there was no point.

"Alright," my mother replied before turning out the door.

I laid back and stretched again. Mom is always busy in the bakery when it's open. Some restaurants have rush hours. We have rush weeks. Even back in the country, people would drive there from the city to get something. People sometimes come in and thank her for moving into town, and they cannot leave without a cinnamon roll at least. My mom sells really good cakes and whatnot too, but people mostly come for the cinnamon rolls, which sometimes entices them to buy a cake or a cupcake. Those are really good too, and we do sell a good amount of them, but the cinnamon rolls rule our bakery.

I glanced at the clock. It was five in the afternoon. I sighed, I had slept through lunch. That was my fault. Mom was too busy to make sure I was eating and Dad should just be getting home if it was a good day. I had stayed up late watching a marathon of horror movies and found myself unable to sleep when I decided I was done. My fault again.

A knock on the open door made me look up. My dad stood there, still in his brown sheriff uniform. His brown hair was swept away from his face with a bit of gel, and his tall figure blocked the doorway. He, unlike most sheriffs is clean shaven. I like clean shaven, stubble is gross and I think a beard would look weird on him.

"Hi, Daddy." I smiled, using my best-little-girl-in-the-world voice.

"Hi there, miss," he replied, his thin lips drawing back into a thin grin.

Dad only called me miss when he had something for me to do. I'm his right hand sidekick – or at least that's the way I see it. I have bragging rights. "What's my mission now, Sheriff?" I inquired, sitting up.

"Well, I'm sure that you are well aware that your mother is very busy with her bakery and I am very busy with my work as well." he placed his hands on his hips. "And we've basically run out of groceries and neither of have time to go. And not enough home cooking can do things to a man." he patted his stomach playfully and I giggled. My dad wasn't exactly lean but neither was he over weight though he did have a bit that hung over his pants.

"So you want me to cook?" I inquired. I've never been much of a cook - or one at all. I can't make toast without burning it. See, I'm easily distracted so even though the timer is going off by the time I remember to check it, it's black burnt.

"No, I need to drop off a case file at the court down the street from the grocery store, and you're going to get the groceries." Dad smiled.

"Do I get to make the list?" I asked eagerly.

Dad laughed, obviously remembering I would circle everything I wanted, and not what we needed. "No," he pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket on his brown shirt, the one with his sheriff badge. "Here's the list, from Mom."

I took it from him carefully, like the criminal taking information from the spy. I enjoy playing at our games and this 'miss' didn't completely trust this sheriff. Dad and I played these games since I was little. I was always the mysterious miss that secretly was the sheriff's right hand man, but sometimes my character doesn't completely trust the sheriff. I opened it and read over it.

Carrots
Broccoli
Asparagus
Milk
Juice
Bread
Peanut Butter
Eggs
Apples
Pears
Grape/Peach Jelly
Spaghetti
Green Beans
*Cally, don't get anything that is not on this list! Love, Mom-

I frowned at the last note. She knew I would grab a bag or two of candy or a box of Poptarts. I had done it before with Mom. I'd sneak it into the cart while she wasn't looking, but she always figured it out at the cash register. Hey I can try can't I?

Dad laughed again. "Well," he smiled, "if you need police escort, I would be more than happy, miss."

I smiled, I loved the police car. I liked to sit in the back and pretend to be a criminal which was fun. Sometimes, we got to chase a speeder and Dad lets me turn on the lights and siren. Though if it's a real criminal I'm not allowed to go, Dad would drop me off first or have to call in for backups to take over.

"Of course, how kind," I replied, continuing the game.

"Very well, come with me." he smiled, walking out the door.

I got up, stretched once more, and followed him out.

Walking down the stairs to the bakery, the voices of people devoured the silence. Laughter and joyful voices filled the bakery and the stairway. As usual, it was busy. About dinner time is our busiest. Cinnamon rolls are good desert. Whether those people eat them before or after, who am I to judge?

"Fresh ones!" Kyle's voice rang out, causing the voices to rise. People filled the bakery. Some examined cakes; but most were in line, waiting for a cinnamon roll. I walked over to Mom; who had turned away, to take the tray of "fresh ones", or hot cinnamon rolls.

"Mom?" I inquired, trying to sound as sweet as possible. I was beginning to feel hungry, having not eaten lunch, and the smell of the cinnamon rolls was not helping.

"You've already had on today." she said without even turning my way as she traded a fresh one for a couple bills to the customer in front with a wide smile.

No hope, I frowned. "Looks like you got a lot of customers." I smiled, changing the subject. Maybe if I broke some ice, I could have one for dessert after dinner.

"Just dinner rush." my mom smiled back exhaustedly. "It'll slow down soon." She traded again with the next person and added a thank you.

"Well, I got to go," I said. I waved at Dad to tell him I was coming. He stood by the doorway out of everyone's way, with that impatient look for me on his face.

"Okay, no Poptarts," Mom smiled; trading. Soon, all those fresh ones would be gone only to be replaced. 'Fresh ones' usually only lasted about fifteen sometimes thirty minutes.

When I looked back at the door, my dad was gone. I supposed he had gotten tired of standing in the store and went to get the car started so the AC would be good and running by the time I got in. Dad wasn't very patient, never was. He doesn't stand still well and always has to move. That's probably good for a sheriff who has to be here, there, or where ever.

I looked at all the people in line as I picked my way out of the bakery. Most looked like hungry college students more than happy to trade two dollars for a New York City famous treat. My mom likes to keep the cinnamon rolls at two dollars. She says it's expensive enough to make good money yet cheap enough to keep people coming.

My dad was hanging on the front passenger door, looking down the street. He looked over at me when I approached. "Ready?" He inquired with a smile. I nodded and slid into the front seat, and he shut the door. Dad was a gentleman too, always holding doors and such. My mom said that's what got her head over heels. I guess my dad fell for the cinnamon rolls. Men love food. Of course they love each other for more than that or I don't think they'd still be together, but something gets you hooked.

He climbed into the driver's seat, and turned the key that had already been put in place.

"Daddy?" I asked sweetly.

"What did Mom say?" Dad smiled, not taking his eyes off the road. He knew what I was asking. Mom had left exact change in the envelope, and she knew that meant no extra money for me to spend on treats.

"Don't even think about any more sweets, Cally Phisher!" I imitated Mom. I exaggerated it a little, but my dad got the point: mom said no treats.

"Well then, I suppose you won't need the extra money." he chuckled.

I stuck out my bottom lip and sank farther into the chair. My puppy-dog look, sometimes it works. And I glanced up at him, but he wasn't even looking. Becoming uncomfortable in the position, I straightened myself up and sighed.

We rode on in silence. We passed tall business buildings, hundreds of taxi cabs, and shopping tourists on the streets. New York City is big, busy, and bright. And of course, we got stuck in rush hour traffic. I turned on the radio to entertain myself but Dad turned it off saying he needed it off just in case he got called up. When we finally got to the grocery store, Dad pulled into a tight parallel parking space.

"Open your hand," Dad smirked. I did so and he dropped a pile of quarters into my hand. Either my puppy-dog look worked or he just decided to give me a treat, but I didn't care, I was getting myself some sour gummy worms.

I grinned. "Thanks, Dad." I closed my hand around the quarters and slipped them into my shorts pocket.

He just nodded with a smile. "Don't tell your mother."

"I won't," I promised before grabbing the envelope of money and the list before jumping out of the car. I knew if I told Mom, I wouldn't get anymore treats so my mouth was staying shut.

I glanced at the top of the buildings as I walked in. I was looking for someone. I mean, that was where I first found him.