The Zoloft really is helping.

[bloodsong1]

"I may have made a tactical error," Bridget said to her studio. It was Wednesday, a full month into her year long stay in Great Britain and the enormity of her situation was crashing over her like a massive tsunami. Weekly markets meant constant turnover of stock. Her goal had been reduced to one framed piece and four to five unframed pieces each week. She had five days to replenish stock, minus one day to finish the Mayoral Portrait, so four days this week and one was already gone. Three days and only two paintings were salable. Frowning, she walked her perimeter. One framed piece, the house scene from Maryland. One fox and spotted dick painting, complete. A forest scene, about two-thirds done. Two sheep grazing, half done in that the sheep were painted but nothing else. On her easel was a wash of various shades of grey, testament to the brooding landscape that surrounded her. There were hints of walls and meadows and a large building, possibly a church of some kind. Ending her patrol at her worktable, she picked up one of her imported sketchbooks. Inside were several potentials to be expanded and coloured, or maybe one or two that would stand alone as pencil work. Now there was an idea, but would it be enough? She didn't know. This was beyond her scope of experience and not even her Daily Lists of "Eat", "Paint" and "Sleep" could answer that fundamental question. Could she live on her art alone? Prior to this there had always been some form of steady income. She had worked retail and administration jobs until her artistic reputation gained enough momentum to gather a book deal, then another and so on. Even with regular royalties, she still moonlighted at an art supply store for the employee discounts.

Could she live on her art alone? Could she survive, thriving being out of the question at this point, on what she produced here? Could she make enough to feed herself and stock her studio without touching the book royalties or the online income? Bridget stumbled to her wicker sofa and fell down. Had she doomed herself? Had she set herself up for poverty and abject failure? Her heart started pounding and she clutched her sketchbook. Had she killed herself for her art?

Her mobile rang, startling her out of an impending panic attack.

"Um, hello?"

"Hi, this is Aisling from Lee Longlands. Is this Bridget?"

"Yes, it is."

"Oh good! I wanted to talk to you about a commission."

"A commission?" Bridget's Inner Accountant kicked her roughly in the side of the head, demanding a more professional voice and to quit sounding like an idiot. She rubbed her left temple. That had hurt!

"Yes. I came by your stall Monday and I love your work." There was a small pause. "Could you please paint me as a fairy princess?"

"You want to be a fairy princess?" Bridget repeated, feeling dazed. Her Inner Accountant kicked her again.

"Yes!" Aisling gasped. "I have a costume and everything and I have Tuesdays off so I can come to you."

"I. See."

"I looked you up online and saw your commission ranges. I figured my request would fall in the L300-L500 range, and I can't afford L500, but I could give you L300 and a supper for every sitting."

"A supper?" Bridget asked, clutching the left side of her head. Why was she being beaten up by a figment of her imagination in the middle of a phone call?!

"Yes! I'm a great cook and I was hoping you would be willing to do a little barter."

"I usually need three sittings."

"So you'll take L300 and three home cooked suppers?"

"Yes." The Inner Accountant threw up her hands and stomped off back to the subconscious, leaving Bridget with a one sided headache and lots of confusion.

"Oh wonderful! I'm so excited! What time on Tuesday?"

"One o'clock."

"I will be there with a wonderful supper. I have your address from the shop. Thank you so much!" Aisling rang off. Bridget stared at her phone.

"I need to call Carlie."