Purple . The foundation of an influential trade in a Roman world dominated by men. One woman rises up to take the reins of success in an incredible journey of courage, grit, and friendship. And along the way, she changes the world. But before she was Lydia, the seller of purple, she was simply a merchant’s daughter who loved three things: her father, her ancestral home, and making dye. Then unbearable betrayal robs her of nearly everything. With only her father’s secret formulas left, Lydia flees to Philippi and struggles to establish her business on her own. Determination and serendipitous acquaintances―along with her father’s precious dye―help her become one of the city’s preeminent merchants. But fear lingers in every shadow, until Lydia meets the apostle Paul and hears his message of hope, becoming his first European convert. Still, Lydia can’t outrun her secrets forever, and when past and present collide, she must either stand firm and trust in her fledgling faith or succumb to the fear that has ruled her life. "Afshar has created an unforgettable story of dedication, betrayal, and redemption that culminates in a rich testament to God's mercies and miracles." Publishers Weekly Achingly tender from the first flutter of romance to the last sting of betrayal, Bread of Angels is an intensely emotive and satisfying read. Mesu Andrews, award-winning author of the Treasures of the Nile series Bread of Angels By Tessa Afshar, Kathryn S. Olson Tyndale House Publishers Copyright © 2017 Tessa Afshar All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4964-0647-7 CHAPTER 1 TWENTY-SIX YEARS EARLIER AD 25 Their clothing is violet and purple; they are all the work of skilled men. JEREMIAH 10:9 PURPLE YARN HUNG from thin trees, swaying in the breeze like odd-shaped fruit; dark-lavender fabric the color of old bruises spread over two rough-hewn stone benches, drying in the sun; a large plum-colored mosaic of geometric designs dominated the otherwise-plain garden. In the shade, a massive vat the size of a diminutive Roman bath sloshed with purple dye so dense it looked black except when a ray of sunlight found its way over the surface, illuminating its true color. The mistress of this purple kingdom, a young woman in loose, patched clothing, hunched in front of the vat, her forehead damp with perspiration. She had prepared the formula as her father had taught her. It was time to soak the linen. Her father usually conducted this part of the process. His was the genius that had created the dye in the first place; his the skill that turned ordinary yarn into lush, purple beauty. Lydia had never gone through the process of dyeing without his help. Her father was the dye master. She merely acted as his assistant, a role she relished. The thought of dyeing the wool alone made her grit her teeth. Eumenes was late. He should have arrived over an hour ago. Lydia wiped the sweat trickling down her temple and stared into the vat. She thought about the unusually large order they had to fill within the next two weeks. There was no time for delay. Every hour counted if they were to make a prompt delivery. Her stomach churned as she considered their narrow schedule. Most of their local clients suffered from a strange inconsistency. They had no qualms being late in their payments to an honest merchant, but if their merchandise arrived a few days after the promised date, they acted as if the world were ending. Demanding all manner of reparations, they threatened to blight the merchant's truest treasure: his reputation. When the two orders had arrived, one on top of another, Lydia had objected to her father, demanding that he delay at least one. "It is too much," she had said. "We cannot accomplish it all in such a short time." He had laughed at her objections. "You despair when we have no orders, imagining that we will grow impoverished and lose our home. When we do receive two perfectly good requests, you worry that it is too much and we will fail to meet expectations. You must make up your mind, Daughter. Which is it to be? Shall we starve or perish of overwork?" Lydia found that she had no problem dreading either eventuality, which did not help her present situation. Where was her father? She fetched several of the hefty baskets overflowing with linen yarn from their workshop, located in the eastern end of the garden. The baskets were heavy — too heavy for a sixteen-year-old girl. Lydia gritted her teeth and half dragged, half carried them, one shuffling step at a time, until they were within easy reach of the dyeing vat. On the other side of the garden, a three-minute walk from the workshop, lay their modest home with its three rooms, its crooked walls, the leaking ceiling that her father never had time to fix, and the fading furniture that no amount of purple could transform into a semblance of riches. But it was theirs, and she never felt so secure anywhere in the world as when she was nestled within the safety of its walls