WIP Wednesdays

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Scars on WIP Wednesday

My next story to be released has a hero with a scarred face, and I’ve been contemplating the number of my books that include a character with a physical deformity. I have quite a few scarred heroes — echoes of the Beauty and the Beast trope.

In every story where such a character appears, I have to consider the scars as part of what drives the story. How is my character affected by their scars, the cause of their scars, and the impact on others of their scars?

So that’s my theme for today. The scar might be internal or external, and belong to any person in the story. Give me an excerpt, in the comments, that describes your character or one of those effects.

My excerpt is from The Beast Next Door, my Valentines from Bath story. Valentines of Bath is the next Belles’ box set, due out on 9 February.

How beautiful she had grown. The men of Bath must all be married or blind. Her wide blue eyes narrowed, and then she smiled and held her hands up as if she would fetch him down through the window. “Eric? Eric, is it really you?”
Ugo gave an amiable bark and wagged his tail, then collapsed onto the grass at Charis’s feet. She frowned again, looking from the dog to its master. “He is yours? Oh, but he has been here for weeks. Eric, have you been hiding from me?”
“I did not want to scare you, Charis. I never thought you would know me right away. But wait, I will come down.” No flinch. No fixing her eyes and then turning them away. It was as if the disfigured side of his face was no different than the side that bore a single long scar from a knife cut.
“Of course, I knew you,” she greeted him when he rounded the folly and approached the bench. “No one has eyes like yours, Eric. And no one calls me Charis except you. Here!” She backed to sit again on the bench, sweeping her gown to one side and patting the place beside her. “Come and sit with me and tell me everything you’ve done since last we could write. Oh, Eric, when Nanny died, I felt as if I had lost you both, and I can only imagine how you must have felt so far away from home! I am so sorry.”
Eric hesitated. Given a choice, he’d have sat on the other side, so she didn’t have to look at the mess the surgeons had made. Charis put her head to one side, her smile slipping a little, and he sat quickly before he made her uncertain of her welcome.
“I thought it was worse for you,” he told her, “stuck here and no one knowing or caring how important she was to us both.”

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Wounds on WIP Wednesday

Characters without character flaws and scars tend to be boring — the Mary Sues of literature, there not to drive the action but to be acted upon. I try not to write them, but that means I do spend a lot of time thinking about the emotional and psychological wounds that make my characters more than two-dimensional.

 In this week’s WIP Wednesday, I’m inviting you to post excerpts from your current work-in-progress that talk about a character’s wounds: physical, emotional, psychological or spiritual; obvious or hidden.

My piece is from The Beast Next Door, my novella for the Bluestocking Belles’ Valentine box set. My hero bears both internal and internal scars.

How beautiful she had grown. The men of Bath must all be married or blind. Her wide blue eyes narrowed, and then she smiled and held her hands up as if she would fetch him down through the window.“Eric? Eric, is it really you?”

Ugo gave an amiable bark and wagged his tail, then collapsed onto the grass at Charis’s feet. She frowned again,looking from the dog to its master. “He is yours? Oh, but he has been here for weeks. Eric, have you been hiding from me?”

“I did not want to scare you, Charis. I never thought you would know me right away. But wait, I will come down.” No flinch. No fixing her eyes and then turning them away. It was as if the disfigured side of his face was no different than the side that bore a single long scar from a knife cut.

“Of course, I knew you,” she greeted him when he rounded the folly and approached the bench. “No one has eyes like yours, Eric. And no one calls me Charis except you. Here!” She backed to sit again on the bench, sweeping her gown to one side and patting the place beside her. “Come and sit with me and tell me everything you’ve done since last we could write. Oh, Eric, when Nanny died, I felt as if I had lost you both, and I can only imagine how you must have felt so far away from home! I am so sorry.”

Eric hesitated. Given a choice, he’d have sat on the other side, so she didn’t have to look at the mess the surgeons had made. Charis put her head to one side, her smile slipping a little, and he sat quickly before he made her uncertain of her welcome.

“I thought it was worse for you,” he told her, “stuck here and no one knowing or caring how important she was to us both.”

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Courtship on WIP Wednesday

Those who write romances also write courtships. Before the happy ending, some sort of wooing has to happen, short or long, impassioned or almost accidental. Courtship between other characters or in other genres of story may have tragic endings or trickle out into nothing, but even so, we often see them. The pressure of a courtship is a gift to the writer, allowing us to show and develop character.

This week, I’m inviting writers to post an excerpt in the comments from a courtship in their current work in progress. Mine is from my short story written for the newsletter that will go out this week. My couple married when she was still a child, separated immediately after the wedding, and haven’t seen one another for years.

When he made his way to the church, he wore the gloves she had sent him last Christmas, the muffler she had knitted for the Christmas before. His pocket bore two of the handkerchiefs she’d embroidered with his new crest; beneath the muffler, a tie pin she’d given him fastened his cravat. He was one of the early arrivals. The manger, the seat for the Virgin Mother, and a couple of rails on posts stood lonely in the transom, waiting for the players. Word of who he was must have spread, however, for friendly villagers escorted him to a chair near the front of the nave, and a dozen people made the opportunity to stop by and tell him he had a wonderful wife.

The sheep came first, herded into place by the shepherd and his helpers. Then someone led out the cows and tethered them to one of the rails. A crowd of angels processed solemnly through the nave, hands in prayer position, heads bowed, eyes dancing. Finally, the moment Hal had been waiting for, Dolly led a donkey up the aisle, and Hal’s heart stopped at the sight of the woman on its back.

Dolly had been right. She was stunning. She was looking down, so he could see little of her face beyond a white forehead and dark brows and lashes. The blue shawl he’d chosen for her in Kowton was fixed to her head by a wreath of flowers, crafted in silver, that he’d found in Baghdad. The shawl flowed over her shoulders and down her sides, but it was so light it clung to a form that dried his mouth and brought his baser self to painful attention. He’d married before sowing any wild oats, and then kept his wedding vows, waiting to return home to Willa. The part of him he’d thought under perfect control wanted to wait not another minute longer.

Hal shut his eyes, and gritted his teeth, and once he knew he would not run roaring up the aisle to carry Willa off, he opened them again.

She had taken her seat in the transom, and was staring straight at him.

***

This was going to be a disaster. When she’d received Hal’s message, she had very nearly panicked. Only Eliza’s good sense kept her from taking a horse and riding away into the night. Instead, she had donned the veil that was part of her costume for the tableau, fastening it in place with a silver circlet he had sent her and putting on the matching necklace and earrings. Not, perhaps, appropriate for a carpenter’s wife, but the marquis’s wife wanted him to know she treasured his gifts.

She’d known who he was immediately, though he was at least six inches taller and considerably broader. The eyes hadn’t changed, though. Besides, he’d said he’d be there, and no one else was a stranger. He’d stared straight at her, then shut his eyes, his jaw stiffening, a grimace passing over his face. He hated her on sight. She wanted to run, but she wouldn’t spoil the tableau. She dismounted, as they’d rehearsed, and collected little Michael from Clara, and then took her seat before looking again at Hal.

He opened his eyes and her gaze was caught. Everyone else disappeared from her consciousness. Only Hal existed. Willa was inexperienced but not stupid. That was heat in his eyes. He desired her, and his desire sparked her own. She shifted uncomfortably, uncertain whether she liked the feeling Hal had set alight. The baby sucked in a deep breath and let it out again, and she looked down, feeling both relieved and bereft to be released from Hal’s thrall. She refused to look at him again until the tableau was over, though she could feel that the weight of his gaze never left her.

 

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Courtship on WIP Wednesday

If it’s a romance, or has a love story in it, it has courting. Before, after, or instead of the marriage, but somewhere. This week, how about an excerpt with a courting scene? Mine is from The Beast Next Door, my next novella. Charis and Eric have been meeting in secret; Charis because she thinks her mother won’t approve and Eric because he worries that Charis will reject him when she knows his secret. Charis has come to tell him she is going away, and he has been rubbing her cold hands to warm them.

Was embarrassment the source of the burning warmth that flooded her? No one ever touched her so firmly, so intimately. No one ever touched her, except her maid as required to unlace her stays or put up her hair, or perhaps her sisters when excitement caused them to forget decorum. How often she had wished that ladies could exchange the fond touches she’d observed in lesser families. A hug. A kiss to the cheek. Clasped hands.

Eric lifted her hand to his lips then placed it in her lap. “Better. Now for the other.” His voice was strained, as if he spoke through a stiff throat. Did he dislike touching her?

“Truly, I am fine,” she assured him. “You do not need to bother.”

“Bother?” He took the little glass from her hand and began removing the other glove. “This is not a bother.” He glanced up from the hand he was now massaging, a smile lurking at the corner of his lips. “I have been dreaming of touching you, Charis, and am grateful for an excuse.”

Something intent and hot in his eyes speared into Charis. She could not account for the way the warmth moved lower, to parts that a lady never mentioned and touched as little as possible, even when washing, but of a sudden the air seemed to disappear from the room. She inhaled sharply, and let the breath out on a sigh, casting about for something to say to loosen the strange tension. He had dreamed of touching her? How could she think when those words echoed in the chaotic scramble his caress had made of her brain?

Ah yes. Bath. “Mama has been given the loan of a house in Bath. We leave today, Eric, and I do not know how long we shall stay.” She had meant her voice to be brisk and matter-of-fact, but the last words came out on a wail, and all of a sudden she was enfolded in Eric’s arms.

“Dearest Charis.” He was rubbing her back with his hands, kissing the top of her head. For a moment she froze, then — almost without her volition — she wrapped her own arms around him and held on tight, pressing herself against his warmth.

“The others have been over the moon ever since Mama told us. We will miss nothing, they say. Every morning engagement. Staying late at all the assemblies. No more days off because of the rain.” The tragedy that suffused her voice was ridiculous. She was an unnatural female to so hate the activities the others so enjoyed, and it would only be until the end of the season.

Eric shifted, moving his lower torso so she was against his hip, but he didn’t put her away from him which gave her the courage to say, “No more visits with you.” To her horror, her voice warbled on the last word and she burst into tears.

“Ah Charis.” The rub changed to a soothing pat as she fought to contain herself. ‘Excessive displays of emotion are ill bred,’ Miss Middleton insisted, ‘and displeasing to men’, though Eric did not sound annoyed as he murmured, “Darling Charis. We will only be separated for a short time, and when I come back I shall have the right…” He trailed off.

She drew back the better to see his face. “The right?”

 

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Secrets on WIP Wednesday

Secrets are the engine of the story. Maybe the characters know what is going on, but the readers don’t. Or the readers know, but the characters don’t (don’t get in the carriage, Mary!). Or only the author knows and everyone else has to read on to find out.

This week, I’m finishing a subscriber short story which will go out in my newsletter in a couple of days. The reader who won the right to chose the ingredients for the story picked a heroine who has a well-founded fear of men, a castle, and an enemies to lovers plot line. With ingredients like that, of course my hero and my heroine were both keeping secrets. I’ll give you an excerpt where their secrets put them at cross purposes.

Please share your excerpts. The secret might be anything, big or small. Let’s play. (Oh, and if you’re not a newsletter subscriber and would like to receive five or six newsletters a year with a short story and some news about me, my books, and my friends’ books, the subscription button is in the right menu.)

Anne had followed them out, her fine eyes flashing scorn as she watched her cousin leave. No wonder Cleghorn wanted her. Edward was fighting his own entirely inappropriate response.

“A large dowry, I take it?” he asked. Margaret’s had been 10,000 pounds. If Anne’s was the same, why was she not married? Ah. The child Cleghorn had mentioned. She had, presumably, followed her sister’s path. A pity. She had been a sweet wee girl.

“Large enough. Clarence thinks it should have been his. You didn’t come here to talk to me about my dowry, Lord Hicklestone. I am grateful for your intervention, but I would like you to state your business.”

“My business. Yes. Well. May I sit down?” Edward gestured towards the bench. Sitting would help him disguise his body’s enthusiasm for getting to know her better. This was Margaret’s little sister, for crying out loud! He forced himself to remember the scene that had sent him fleeing England: his betrothed, her eyes shut in ecstasy while his brother pounded into her. Sure enough, the thought helped to shrivel his interest. However lovely she looked, however ladylike she appeared, she was of the same blood as the deceitful bitch that had ruined his life.

“Yes, of course.” Anne nodded. Edward took a moment to remember the question, but when she took a seat at one end the bench, he sat at the other. She was certainly more direct than her sister, no subtle hints, no flirting glances. He would do her the courtesy of being direct in return.

“I came to let you know that I plan to complete the demolition of the castle. It is not a safe place to live, Miss Cleghorn, so you and your sister will need to make other arrangements.”

Her jaw dropped as she stared at him, and the colour drained from her face then flooded back in. “Make other arrangements? You mean to throw us out?” She blinked rapidly.

Were those tears? Edward shifted uneasily. “It is not safe,” he repeated.

She lifted her chin, and her voice was cold when she said. “We have lived here more than seven years, Lord Hicklestone. None of us have been injured.”

Her glare was so potent, he almost looked down at his chest to see if his coat was smoldering. The rumble and thud of a falling rock on the other side of the wall strengthened his determination. “Nevertheless, I could not reconcile it with my conscience to allow you to continue to put yourself in danger, Miss Cleghorn.”

For some reason, that sent her fury up another notch. “You and your conscience ignored us for many years, sir, and we have managed just fine without you. Or your brother.”

What the hell did that mean? “I did not know the condition of the castle or that you lived here. Not until this morning.” His own temper flared. Why was he defending himself to her? She was living rent free on his land! But hold on. Perhaps she could not afford to move?

He needed more information. Mitcham was not able to answer his questions, and he’d ridden over here without asking anyone else. How long had they lived here? Why did John allow it? And now another one. Who had fathered Anne’s daughter? What promises had John made to them – promises he had no intention of keeping, probably, but Edward was not such a louse.

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Different points of view on WIP Wednesday

I tend to write in deep point of view for both hero and heroine, partly because that’s the way I tell the story to myself, living inside each character through each scene and seeing it through their eyes. It has the advantage that I can show the reader misunderstanding from both points of view, and that’s the theme of this week’s work in progress Wednesday. Give me a couple of extracts that contrast what one character thinks is happening with what another thinks. Mine is from The Beast Next Door, my offering for the Belles’ Valentine box set.

How the man Eric had become be content with a country mouse like Charis? She loved him more with each day that passed, each meeting they had, each story he told. The boy had grown into a strong man, and a good one.

In the first moment of awed wonder that he wanted to court her, she had not questioned the bond between them, but as day after day passed with no sign he saw her as more than a friend, her misgivings grew. How could Charis expect to capture and keep the attention of a charming, handsome, experienced man of the world? She was the least pretty of the Fishingham sisters, the odd one, the bluestocking; awkward and anxious in company; impatient with gossip and social lies.

He showed no sign that she bored him, but then his manners were excellent. He showed no sign that she attracted him, either. He never tried even to hold her hand, let alone kiss her. For her part, her whole body hummed with tension when she was near him, reverberating like a tuning fork to its own perfect note.

Surely he must feel something?

***

Eric was living a kind of blissful agony. Charis trusted him enough to meet him in private, and he’d honour that trust if it killed him. Some days, tense with need, he felt it might. As soon as the weather cleared enough for travel, he was heading east to the midlands, where her uncle and guardian lived. He’d seek Mr Pethwick’s permission to ask Charis to be his wife, and none of this nonsense about long betrothals, either. The sooner he could have Charis at his side all the time, where she belonged, the better. Even the thought spread a grin across his face. No more lonely nights.

Meanwhile, he shouldn’t be meeting her like this, but he couldn’t bear to have her so close and not spend time with her. He should ride up to Fishingham Hous and introduce himself to her mother and sisters; see her in chaperoned company away from the temptation to kiss her witless and more. Each day it became harder to honour the vows he’d made to himself, to pay his future wife the respect she deserved by keeping his hands off her.

How would Mrs Fishingham react? From what Charis said, anyone with a title or wealth would be acceptable. Charis deserved better than that, and so did he. She wanted him for himself; not for his place in Society or his fortune; not even for the boy he was, though she was the only person alive who knew him well from his childhood. After all their conversations, she wanted the man he had become. He didn’t believe that would change whatever her mother and sisters said, but he saw no need to risk it. Besides, he didn’t want to share his time with her in polite conversation with others.

When the rain stopped it came almost a a relief from the churning of his thoughts and the struggle with his lust. His attention so focused on his errand, he forgot that the clearing weather meant the Fishinghams could resume their assault upon Bath.

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Dwellings on WIP Wednesday

 

Where do your characters live? And do you describe the place? This week, I’m looking for an excerpt that gives us a sense of a dwelling place that you describe in your work in progress. As always, give your excerpt in the comments so we can all enjoy it.

Mine is from House of Thorns. It is the house Rosa moved to after she was evicted to make way for the new owner.

Bear shook his head. He’d seen many such warts on the landscape; some landowner’s idea of workers’ housing, tucked into any corner — however unsuitable — that placed them out of sight of the local landowners and those they wished to impress.

Miss Neatham could not possibly live here. Bear looked for a street name, but there was none. He tried the key she had given him in the door of the third house on the left. What the hell had Pelman been thinking, putting a lady of Miss Neatham’s refinement in a slum like this?

Bear pushed the door open and let himself into a narrow hall, where he removed his coat and hat, and looked around a little helplessly for a hook or a rack or even a chair to lay them over. In the end, he draped the coat over the newel post of the staircase, and put the hat on the floor by the door. Puddles began to spread across the bare board beneath both. At least he wasn’t destroying Miss Neatham’s carpet.

Where would he find the father? He called out. “Mr. Neatham?!”

All he heard was the rain driving viciously against the outside of the house and his coat dripping on the floor.

Bedridden, she had said. Upstairs then. “Mr. Neatham?” He repeated the call at the turn of the stairs, and again when he reached the landing.

“Who’s there?” the voice from the room at the end of the short passage above the stairwell shook with fear or age, or perhaps both.  “Who’s there? Go away! I am armed. Rosie? Rosie, someone is in the house. Run, Rosie. Get the constable.”

Bear pushed open the door to find an elderly man, not much larger than the rose thief herself, propped up on pillows in his bed, clutching a sheet to his chest, his eyes wide. He flourished a candlestick, his gaunt wrinkled face showing more terror than aggression.

Bear stopped in the doorway. “Mr. Neatham, your Rosie sent me.”

Mr. Neatham lifted his chin and sniffed. “I do not know you, sir.” The voice, thready with age, bore the same hallmarks of birth and education that distinguished his daughter’s.

Bear bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself. Hugh Gavenor, at your service.”

The room contained little beside the man and the bed. The corner of the bedside table rested on a stack of broken brick in lieu of a leg. A battered trunk and a few garments hung on hooks along one wall completed the room’s furnishings. The room was clean, almost painfully so, except the strong smell of fresh urine hinted another clean — of the frail body before him — was overdue.

Neatham seemed to have forgotten his alarm in his puzzlement. “Gavenor? I know no Gavenors.”

“I purchased Thorne Hall.” Bear stepped toward the bed, stopped, and waited for Neatham to react to his approach.

 

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Arrivals on WIP Wednesday

This week, I’ve picked arrivals for my theme. Your choice. An arrival at a ball or dinner. The end of a long journey. Any kind of arrival, and from anyone’s point of view. Mine is Mia, the captain’s wife from Unkept Promises, meeting her husband again after seven years, when she comes to South Africa to look after his dying mistress. Ever since her own arrival, Mia has been expecting Jules back from his patrol in the seas off southern Africa.

Dear Heavens. The man was gorgeous. In the seven years since Mia had last seen him, she had managed to convince herself her memories had played her false. She had been alone and frightened, trapped by smugglers and locked up in a cave. And then a golden god had wriggled through from the cell next door. He had kept her company in the darkness, comforted her when her father died, fought the smugglers to win her safety, and then married her to save her reputation and give her a home.

Of course she adored him. She very likely would have developed a major crush even if she’d met him socially — she had been fourteen, had grown up largely isolated by her father’s social position as a poverty-stricken scholar of good family.  It was no surprise she fancied herself in love with the first young man she had ever properly talked to.

Handsome is as handsome does, she warned herself as she made her way down to the kitchen. But even in a taking about something, as he clearly was, he was unbelievably handsome. Mia thought she was immune to handsome men. Her brothers-in-law were all good-looking, and Mia had been propositioned at one time or another by most of London’s rakes, who clearly believed that a wife who hadn’t seen her husband in seven years must be in need of their attentions. None of them made her breath catch, her heart beat faster, and her insides melt.

Jules did, destroying all her preconceptions. Mia had assumed that, in the renegotiation of their marriage, she and Jules would be equally dispassionate. So much for that. Even grumpy; even with most of his attention on another woman, even with all that she’d heard about him to his discredit, she wanted him.

In the kitchen another handsome man, this one only twelve, took pride of place in Cook’s own seat, being waited on by his two adoring sisters. Marshanda was shuttling between the table and the chair, refilling the plate from which Adiratna was feeding her brother, who was sampling scones topped with different flavours of jam with the judicious air of a connossieur.

Marshanda saw her first. “Ibu Mia,” she announced, then ducked her head. She was not fond of being noticed, whereas her little sister wanted to be the star of every occasion.

Adiratna patted her brother on the cheek as a means to get his attention. “Ibu Mia is Mami’s sister, and our elder mother, Mami says.”

Perdana narrowed the beautiful eyes all three children had inherited from their mother, examining Mia thoughtfully.  Then he lifted Adiranta from his knee and stood to bow. “You are the Captain’s wife,” he announced. “Has the Captain arrived, Ibu Mia?”

Mia nodded. “He is with your mother, children,” she told them. “Give him a few minutes, my dears, and I am sure he will be down to find you.”

Adiratna was already on her way to the door, but she stopped obediently when Mia said her name. She turned and stamped her foot. “But I want my Papa now,” she whined. “He has been gone for ever so long. I want to show him the doll that you brought me from London, Ibu Mia.”

“And so you shall, darling,” Mia reassured her. “But we cannot properly greet Papa without just a little noise, can we? And noise makes Mami so tired.”

“Yes, Ada,” Marshanda said, her bossy streak overcoming her reticence. “You know you will squeal when Papa gives us presents. You always do.”

Adarinta’s eyes widened and sparkled. “Presents!” In moments, she was back across the room, tugging on Perdana’s hand. “What has Papa brought me, Dan. You know, I know you do.”

“Lumps of coal, like the Black Peter we saw on St Nicolas Day,” Perdana answered, promptly, “And a switch to beat you with, for you have undoubtedly been a great trouble for Mami and Ibu Mia.”

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The real world on WIP Wednesday

Our stories happen in a context, whenever and wherever they are set. And we build our context from our real life experiences. This week, I’m looking for extracts that contain the facts we use as settings for our tales. Please pop them into the comments and let us all enjoy them.

I write historicals, so I do a lot of research, around 10% of which makes its way onto the page. The following excerpt is from Paradise Regained, which is now on preorder in the Belle’s holiday box set, for release on 4 November. My story is set in the mountains north of Iran, in an entirely fictional hidden kingdom, at a time of great turmoil when one Iranian dynasty was giving way to another in bloody confusion. (No, I didn’t swear.) My fictional Mahzad’s grandfather is a relative of the historical old dynasty and has stolen the seal of a fictional saint, but such relics were and are treasured in real life.

Quickly, Mahzad and Gurban told him all that happened, breaking off frequently as yet another group of people came running to check that the arrivals were, indeed, their people and their kagan.

“So,” James said, once he had the gist of it, “the Khan has a secret, which he will tell only to me. Very well. Let us give him the opportunity.”

They did not have to look for the man. As they entered the palace, Garshasp Khan was waiting, wearing a huge smile.

“My son Jakob, you are come home. Welcome. Welcome. Peace be upon you.”

Mahzad crushed her irritation at her father’s arrogance, acting as if this were his own house and not hers and James’s. James took the greeting with equanimity, returning the formal greeting. “Peace be upon you, Excellency. We are blessed that you have chosen to grace our house.”

“You will say so.” Garshasp chortled. “You will say so indeed. I have brought you a treasure, Jakob.”

James said nothing more but led the way into a chamber off the main hall, turning everyone away except Mahzad, Gurban, and Garshasp.

James wasted no time, cutting straight to the point with Western directness. “I took from you a treasure, excellency, and for her sake you are always welcome here, but you have also brought trouble to my gates. I am told you have promised me an explanation.”

“And you shall have it. I took it from its hiding place the moment I knew you were here. Look, my son. Look.”

Mahzad leant forward to see the small gold item her father pulled from his robes. James plucked it from Garshasp’s palm and held it up so that she and Gurban could see.

“A seal stamp?” Gurban asked.

“The inscription reads ‘Abu Rahman ul Hafi,” Mahzad said. She turned to look at her father aghast.

“Abu Rahman ul Hafi?” James closed his fingers over the seal, hiding it from view. “The saint whose shrine is in Asadiyeh?” He whistled low and long. “No wonder the Qajar are at my gates.”

Garshasp smiled broadly. “A treasure, as I told you, and one you can use to buy the safety of my daughter and my grandsons.”

Mahzad rounded on the old fool. “We were safe until you brought them on us.”

The old man looked down his long nose at her. “Think you the Qajar would leave any of my blood alive? No. The purge is underway even as we speak. And you, you ungrateful woman, are the last of my children. Your sons are the only hope of my line.”

She would have retorted, but James cut through with quiet authority. “You will address Mahzad with respect, excellency. She is no longer merely your daughter. She is the katan of this valley, a position her merits won for her. Beyond that, she is, as you have pointed out, my wife and the mother of my sons and daughters.”

“Daughters!” Garshasp growled. “Wait till your own are grown and then talk to me of daughters. Hah! I have given you the seal, Jakob. Use it as you will, and the rest of the goods I brought with me are for you and your sons, though half the value was in the slaves, which this wife of yours declared free. You will excuse me. This old man needs to rest.” He turned and strode out, though his steps faltered as he passed through the doorway.

 

 

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Building empathy on WIP Wednesday

You have a dilemma. Your fellow has some problems, or he’s not at all interesting (and the story is over a few paragraphs after it starts). But you want your audience to like him, or at least to feel empathy for him. He needs to do something selfless, or nice, or just plain sweet. Maybe he gives flowers to old ladies or dances with wallflowers or says nice things to our shy heroine or plays ball with children. How about using the comments to show me an excerpt of an empathy scene? Mine is from Abbie’s wish. Ethan remembers rescuing his cat.

Boss was up for a ride. Like all cats, she was territorial, sticking to the place she loved best. Unlike most, her territory comprised the Triumph and Ethan. Had ever since Ethan had rescued her and her brother, two scrawny kittens tossed into a deep drain and left to die. Ethan took them home inside his jacket and stayed up all night feeding them the goat’s milk preparation he’d found on the Internet. The brother didn’t make it. Boss got her name from the pre-emptory demands she was making when Ethan returned inside after removing the frail body of the dead kitten.

Boss thrived on frequent feeds, graduating from an eye dropper to a baby’s bottle and then to tinned kitten food and biscuits. She lived in Ethan’s pocket, or around Ethan’s shoulders, or in the pannier bags of the Triumph as Ethan moved from job to job, getting experience but never finding a place he wanted to settle. Two years on, Boss was a magnificent beast; at least, Ethan thought so. Tucked inside Ethan’s jacket as they cruised the highway out to Valentine Bay, she mostly slept, but poked her nose out from time to time, her eyes shut and her hair and whiskers streaming back in the wind.