The Darkness Within

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Questions are all that stand between us and the abyss

The Great Day of His Wrath 1851-3, John Martin

My beta readers are split on their opinions of The Darkness Within. Three think it is amazing. Two have been made deeply uncomfortable. They all agree it is not a traditional Regency, but I knew that.

The comments are all helpful, particular those about what people didn’t like. I’ve been rewriting the blurb to warn those who probably shouldn’t read this, and writing an author note to address some of the questions raised.

The question the process left me with was why I wrote this, and why now and why this way?

As you know if you’ve been following me for a while, I write by the seat of my pants, following the idea that next occurs to me. I can blame the plot elves, but the truth is that my muse responds to what is happening around me, in my own life, that of my friends, and in the world at large.

The Darkness Within takes place largely within a cult that isolates itself from the world, where the leader and his most senior disciples practice mind control, where dissension and doubts are socially unacceptable, and where happiness is mandatory.

On the surface, everything looks fine. Bland, as one of my beta readers pointed out, but fine. But underneath? The darkness within, as the title says.

When everyone agrees about everything, some of the people are either lying or having their minds controlled. It’s unhealthy. It’s scary. It’s not sustainable.

I was not aware, while I was writing, that I was making a social comment on the condition of a world that appears to be fracturing into disconnected realities, some of them less fact-based than others. Looking back, I see that I was.

I was also talking about what happens when a reality that has become divorced from the world at large collides with unpalatable facts. Some people need to be held accountable. Some can change. Some simply can’t live without the reality they believed in.

We can’t afford to become so rigid in our thinking that we are threatened when others believe differently, especially when our sense of community and the respect of our friends and family depends on a belief that is plain wrong.

We need to remain curious, to ask questions, to keep learning. And if, like the people in my fictional community of Heaven, asking question is likely to get us into deep trouble, there’s another question we should be asking.

Who is profiting from keeping us ignorant and obedient?

In The Darkness Within, it is the One. He is the best dressed, the best housed, and he’s making a mint. Even more, he is in command. Everyone believes him. Everyone adores him.

No wonder he doesn’t want anyone asking questions.

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First kiss (or at least the preamble) on WIP Wednesday

The Darkness Within will be ready for beta readers tomorrow or the next day. Meanwhile, here is a excerpt.

His hands were stroking her, but instead of being soothed she found herself crying, great noisy gusts of tears. He lifted her in his arms and she found herself sitting on his lap, weeping into his shoulder. He murmured to her, over and over, variations of, “I will keep you safe, Serenity. I will never let him touch you.”

Slowly, the comfort of being held, and by this man, seeped into her and her tears dried. Perhaps he had given her some of his strength and courage. It came to her that she desired him, and that they were alone together. Her wedding would not happen. She was old and scarred. Perhaps no man would ever want her as wife.

Indeed, who knew what the future would hold? If they succeeded in bringing down Famberwold, would the village continue? Famberworld had always told them that his brother protected them from an outside world that hated virtue. Surely, he was wrong, for he was not a man of virtue. And, certainly, Max did not hate virtue. Far from it.

Whatever happened, Max would be gone. He had come to find Reuben, he had told them. Now he was staying to see them safe, and when Famberwold and his brother could no longer harm them, no doubt he would go, too.

She shifted on his shoulder so that she could see his face. I wonder if you would kiss me, Max? If I asked?

The soft expression he was wearing changed. Astonishment. Alarm. Desire? Oh dear. Did I say that out loud?

“Kiss you?” Max asked

I did say it aloud! She could feel her cheeks heat, and she hid her face in his shoulder, taking comfort from the fact he did not push her away. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I know I am too old, and ugly too, with my smallpox scars. Please forget I said anything. Besides, I am sure that a man such as you is popular with the wives of your village. I expect they are far lovelier than I, and they know how to kiss besides, so are able to please you.”

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face so that she was looking at him. “You are not ugly to me, Serenity. Those minor blemishes cannot disguise the beauty of your eyes and your figure, the loveliness of your hair. Though it is your character that draws me to you most of all. Your kindness to a stranger. Your patience with the children. The intelligence that had you seeing through the lies Famberwold told, and the loyalty that had you wanting to believe him. The courage that has you helping me, even though coming here was the last thing you wanted to do.”

His mention of courage had her stiffening her spine. “Then, if your wives would not object, would you kiss me, please? I want to know what it is like with a man I desire. Famberwold has given me several kisses since I became Chosen, and they were horrid, but I have seen kisses that…” She could not think of how to explain what she had seen—two people absorbed in one another, taking and giving in equal measure, separating only to kiss again, their smiles speaking of secrets and delights.

“I have no wives,” Max admitted, “and I am certain your kiss would please me, but Serenity, I am not worthy. I have a dark past. I have done terrible things. I will be leaving here as soon as I know you and the children are safe.”

Serenity stamped her foot, but took courage, because his words pushed her away, but his arms still held her. This fact kept her voice calm as she continued to plead. “I am not asking you to stay. I am asking for a kiss. Just one, Max. Please?”

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Tea with a worried son

Eleanor knew the signs. Anthony was worried about something. (She was so pleased that he had agreed to allow her to call him by his first name. He had been Aldridge since he was a babe in the cradle, but it made her stomach ache to call him Haverford, which was the proper way to address him, now. Haverford — her son’s father and her husband for nearly forty years — had always insisted on the formal address, and to address the son she loved by the title of the man she ha… that she did not love would be unpleasant, to say the least.)

Fortunately, Anthony and Cherry, his wife, were not keen on such formality when family were alone, so she could save the hated title for formal occasions, and even then found ways to address her beloved son without naming him. No doubt, in time, the memories would fade. Should she be fortunate enough to live long enough, Haverford past would be forgotten, and Haverford present would own the name, even in the mind of his predecessor’s widow.

Which was not to the point, but she was doing her best not to question the dear man, and thinking about something else was helping. She offered him another cup of tea, but he shook his head. He did take another shortbread biscuit. Anthony was very fond of shortbread the way the Scots made it. “Mama,” he said, as soon as he had swallowed, “did you know the Earl of Beckworth and his younger brother, Benjamin Famberwold?

“Yes, my dear,” Eleanor was pleased to be able to reply. “An unconscionable pair of rakehells. Even worse than your father, who at least felt a sense of duty to his estates and his country. That pair of reprobates cared for nothing and no one except their own pleasure. There were a number of very unpleasant incidents with innocent girls. No one was safe from them. They were, if you can believe it, worse than Richport, for he at least leaves innocent ladies alone, mostly.”

She frowned, slightly. “Although, perhaps I am being unfair. As I remember it, the younger one had a religious conversion, and convinced his brother to give up his evil ways. They retired to the country to live godly lives, or so we have been told. Certainly, I have not heard a word from them since. Except…” she paused to catch the elusive thought she had glimpsed from, as it were, the corner of her mind’s eye. “That’s it. Beckworth took a wife to the country, and has remarried twice since. Country marriages, I believe. A baronet’s daughter, and the spinster daughter of a viscount.” She frowned, and then brought the rest of the thought to the surface. “A lady in her thirties who had had a single Season in Town, where she did not take. I have heard of no children. Does that help, dearest?”

“It is of interest, Mama. It seems that the religious conversion was not to anything resembling Christianity, and the earl’s lack of children has been countered by a multitude belonging to his brother, who had more than fifty wives, many of them at the same time. I’m telling you in the strictest confidence, of course. We are trying to untangle the legal and moral mess, which also includes depravities I have no intention discussing with my mother, up to and including wholesale murder. Beckworth was in it up to his eyeballs, but the new Beckworth, whomever he may be, does not deserve to have his father’s and uncle’s scandals hanging over his head, and nor does Beckworth’s widow.”

Eleanor nodded her agreement. “Both brothers are dead,” she deduced.

Anthony nodded. “the Famberwolds made the mistake of tangling with one of Lion’s Zoo,” he said.

The former Aldridge, now the Duke of Haverford, is on a Parliamentary committee making enquiries into the scandalous goings on at a village called Heaven, a month or two after the events covered in The Darkness Within, Book 4 in Lion’s Zoo, planned for publication in December 2023

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Starting the story on WIP Wednesday

Here’s the start of The Darkness Within, my current WIP.

Max paused in front of the elegant townhouse. What did the Earl of Ruthford want? There was never any question about Max obeying the summons. Even an occasional and remote member of Lion’s Zoo like himself would never ignore a message from their former colonel.

Still, he didn’t want to be here. He’d seen Lion a number of times since returning to England, mostly here in London, but he was never comfortable in the man’s home. Years of training and experience meant he could walk the stately halls of the wealthy and wellborn without displaying his discomfort , but all the same, he’d not breathe easy until he was back in the shadows where he belonged.

Besides, he was retired. If Lion wanted him for his old skills, he would have to disappoint the man.

He set his jaw, and climbed the short flight of steps to rap the knocker. A year ago, he would have found his way inside unnoticed—did, on several occasions. Lion had asked him to train the servants to see those who knew how to remain concealed, and they had proved good pupils.

The butler who opened the door wasn’t Blythe, who was in some sort a former colleague, as Lion’s soldier servant during the war. This one was the sort of superior creature he’d enjoy tweaking in a more cheerful mood, but today he just wanted to get the meeting over with. His facsimile of what the butler would undoubtedly call his betters was perfect. For most of his life, his survival had depended on his ability to imitate others, choosing as his model whomever would best achieve his goals, in this case, an upper class younger son.

The butler did not smile, but he at least gave a small bow, the depth precisely calculated, and marched off towards the rear of the house with Max’s card on a silver platter. In short order, Lion followed the butler back out into the entrance hall, hurrying towards Max with his hand stretched before him in greeting.

“Chameleon! Welcome. Thank you for coming.”

Max shook the extended hand. “I am always happy to see you, Colonel.”

“I’m not in the army any more. Lion will do fine,” the earl insisted, as he always did. “Come on through to my library. Would you like a brandy?” He led the way, still talking. “How have you been keeping, Chameleon?”

The library was a spacious room lined with book shelves, with a large desk in the bay window where the light was best. “Max. I prefer Max.”

Lion knew that. What was the man up to? Lion waved him to a chair by the fireplace; unlit on this warm day in May. Next to the matching chair, a small table held a book and half a glass of brandy. Lion poured another glass from a decanter, and brought it over before reoccupying that seat.

“Not Zebediah, or Zeb?” he asked.

Max raised a brow. The name by which the army had enrolled him. Curiouser and curiouser. “Max.”

“As you wish, Max.” Lion took a sip from his glass. “How have you been keeping?” he asked again.

Social chit chat? Even if Lion really wanted to know, did Max want to tell him? He gave a non-commital answer and returned the conversational serve by asking after Lion’s wife and children. The earl’s eyes lit up but he answered briefly.

“Both well, but Dorrie prefers not to bring the baby up to town in this heat.”

Clearly, Lion was still as besotted with his countess as he’d been nearly a year ago, last time Max’s path had crossed his. “I daresay you are missing them,” he ventured, inviting Lion to stay on that topic rather than Max’s own activities.

Not that he had anything to hide. Indeed, since he’d given up his profession, he’d not found anything to occupy himself. He’d toyed with buying an estate, but he knew nothing about farming and the idea of living in the country made him shudder. His only experiences with country living had been in Spain, Portugal, and France, where the landscape often hid snipers or troops of enemies in ambush.

He’d investigated various business interests to buy, and even invested in a couple—a canal they were building in Wales, a company to produce gas to light the streets of York. Investing his ill-gotten wealth was fun of a sort, but it wasn’t enough to fill his days.

He listened to Lion talk about his family, offering a remark or a question whenever needed to keep the conversation going. He could manage his part with just a small fraction of his mind, while another part catalogued the contents of the room, the available exits, the likely obstacles on each route out of the house. The rest wondered if he would spend the rest of his life living on the edge of a hair, ready for battle and calculating the odds. Even here, in the private home of a man he loved like a brother and for whom he would cheerfully give his life, he could not relax.

“Of course, you are battle-ready,” said that inner part of him that spoke with Sebastian’s voice. Sebastian was eight years dead, and his voice only a memory, but sparring with that memory had become a comfort in all the years alone, skulking behind enemy lines, as uncomfortable with the army he served as with the one he hunted.

“You were at war with the rest of the world when I found you,” Sebastian jeered, “and you were then only ten, as best as we could figure it. One of the many life-lessons I taught you was that letting your guard down exacts a terrible price. You’ll never trust anyone fully, ever again.”

“Enough about me,” Lion said, silencing the old ghost as the rest of Max’s mind came to attention. “You don’t want to talk about you, so let me explain why I asked you to visit. Remember Squirrel?”

Lieutenant Stedham had been dubbed Squirrel for his ability to scavenge whatever was needed by the motley band of exploring officers who served under Colonel O’Toole, now the Earl of Ruthford. With their commander already known as Lion and a Fox, a Bull, and a Bear in the line-up, they all soon gained animal nicknames. Lion’s Pride, one wag dubbed them, but another claimed they were more Zoo than Pride, and the name stuck.

“I remember Squirrel,” Max admitted. Young, eager, and with an optimistic outlook that even five years of a brutal war could not suppress.

“He has gone missing. He has not written to his sister for more than five months, and her most recent letters to him have been returned as undeliverable.”

Max lifted his brows. “You want me to find him?”

“If you are not too busy. It is not like him, Max.”

That was true. Max could see the boy in his mind’s eye, sitting close to the flickering light of yet another campfire in yet another godforsaken hollow of yet another bleak mountain, penning yet another letter to the much older sister who had raised him. He didn’t bother to protest that hunting men was no longer his job, and England not his hunting ground. He would do this for Lion. He would do it for Squirrel, whose cheerful outlook had intrigued as much as annoyed him. Above all, he would do it because a hunt might stave off boredom for the few days or weeks it took, and it was unlikely to involve killing someone. Max didn’t do that anymore.

“What can you tell me, Lion? Where do I start?

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Cover reveal for Lion’s Zoo

Coming up in June and July are the first two books in my series about exploring officers (we’d call them spies) from the Peninsular Wars, finding their feet and their lifetime love as civilians. Two more will follow this year

Lion’s Zoo

Once they were wounded children, each helpless against the adults who controlled their lives. Later, they became exploring officers with Wellington’s army, under Colonel Lionel O’Toole, known as Lion.

Famed for their varied skills and their intrepid courage, they were renowned for carrying out missions where others had failed.

Now Napoleon has fallen, they all have a new mission. Each must use his own unique abilities to carve a niche for himself in civilian life.

Lion, their wartime colonel, will use his influence as Earl of Ruthford to help, but he wants more for them. He hopes they will, like him, find a love that enriches their lives.

The first book, Chaos Come Again, tells the story of the colonel who gave the cadre of exploring officers their name. It takes the reader on a journey to Portugal and into the wickedness of a jealous heart.

It is based on the play Othello, by Shakespeare. But, of course, I give it a happy ending. I promise.

Book two, Grasp the Thorn, is a rewrite of a book I published several years ago under the name House of Thorns. My hero is known as Bear, and he’s a Regency house developer, buying up old estates, doing them up, and selling them to the newly rich. His bachelor life is disrupted when a lovely woman comes to steal the roses from the cottage he has just purchased.

Book three, One Hour of Freedom, started as part of a Superheroines project that got snarled in everyone’s other commitments. My heroine is called Electra. Her trust in the uncle who trained her as an assassin destroyed her relationship with Matthias Moriarty, or Bull, as he was known to the Zoo. Now, four years later, he is a Supervisor with the Thames River Police, and she has been sent to kill him. It will be out in September.

All of the books are gothic in tone, but Book four is the darkest. The Darkness Within tells the story of Max, who is haunted by all the people he has killed, and particularly the first. When he is sent to rescue a former comrade from a religious cult, he manages to fit in, like the Chameleon they used to call him. The peace of the community almost seduces him. But the secrets it hides are even darker than Max’s own. I’m hoping to have this one ready for December.

Chaos Come Again

Tormented by his past and by vile rumours, will this Regency Othello allow a liar he trusts to destroy the love between himself and his wife?

Grasp the Thorn

When secrets, self-doubts, and old feuds threaten to destroy their budding relationship, can they grasp the thorn of scandal to gather the rose of love?

 

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Inner dialogue, ghosts, and imaginary mentors in WIP Wednesday.

To Claim the Long-Lost Lover has gone to the editor, and I’m about to work on the second half of To Tame the Wild Rake. But first, I’m looking at what comes next. Either Chaos Come Again or The Darkness Within, and I’ve already started The Darkness Within. In The Darkness Within, my hero has an inner dialogue going on with someone called Sebastian. Sebastian harasses, advises, and goads him. Max thinks he is being haunted. It could be a ghost. Or it could be a memory. Or perhaps my hero is unbalanced. I think I’ll leave it up to the reader to decide.

If your protagonist talks to herself or to a dead aunt or to anyone else invisible to all the other characters in the story, please share an excerpt in the comments. Here is mine.

“Stedham was looking for a home; a purpose,” Max told Sebastian. The lieutenant had tried being a steward on an estate, and moved on. He had worked for a while in a lawyer’s office, and a few months more as secretary to a Member of Parliament. The last address the sister had for him was a vicarage, and the last contact a cryptic note from the vicar. Max was heading there now.

“Paul hasn’t been able to settle since he returned from the wars,” the sister had told Max.

Her husband’s estimation was harsher. “He cannot stick to anything. Some of those ex-military men are like that. They need the adventure, the thrills, and they’re no use in ordinary life. He should join up again.”

Max didn’t agree. “Stedham was a good soldier, but he wasn’t made for that life. Not really,” he told the man, but he might as well have talked to the wall.

“You don’t know him like we do,” the brother-in-law said.

“That man wants his wife to himself,” Sebastian commented. “I know jealousy when I see it.”

Max thought the ghost might be right. Sebastian usually was right about the darker emotions. “Stedham needs a place to belong, but his sister’s home wasn’t it.” Stedham could hardly have missed the lack of welcome. Was that why he stopped writing to his sister? But he’d only stayed with the pair for the first two months after arriving home from France in 1814. He’d continued to write faithfully, week after week, until a few months ago.

“No one belongs,” Sebastian argued. “Belonging is an illusion, and the ones you love most are the ones who most hurt you.”

Max ignored the oblique reference to Sebastian’s death.

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Escalating stakes on WIP Wednesday

A good story raises the stakes, chapter by chapter. In my favourite stories, the stakes are high to start with and keep getting higher. I’ve enjoyed books where the stakes are as simple as the happy outcome of a love story. Even in those, the story requires raising the stakes: rumours or misunderstandings that threaten the outcome, family disagreements, incompatible life goals. Add a suspense thread, and the stakes can include the fates of dependents, even lives. Different genres, different stakes. Failure must always be a viable option, even if we, the reader, know the author won’t let that happen.

Today, I’d welcome you to share an excerpt where the stakes are rising. Mine is from The Darkness Within. My hero is trying to gain entry to the community. Sebastian, by the way, is a memory. He has been dead for 10 years, but he won’t stop talking inside Max’s head.

Finally, Faversham looked in Max’s direction. When he caught Max’s gaze, he tipped his head to one side, his eyebrows lifting in question. Max pushed off from the cart. Time to discover whether he could pass the prophet’s test.

The first questions were about his name and history. He gave an edited version of the truth. He was Zeb Force, a workhouse brat turned apprentice turned soldier turned wandering handyman.

Faversham was sympathetic. “Many soldiers have found jobs hard to come by,” he condoled. “You have no family to help you? Your old master? Comrades in arms or friends from your workhouse days?”

Sebastian, cynical as ever, perked up at that. “He likes that you are alone,” he observed.

Sebastian thought the worst of everyone. Still, Max told Faversham, “No, sir. No one.” In his mind’s eye, he saw Lion, anxious to get home to his beloved countess. “I haven’t seen anyone from the workhouse since I was eight. My old master—it was his death that sent me into the army. Those I fought with—the ones who survived—have their own lives.”

Faversham nodded, his face grave. “You have suffered many losses, Zeb.”

“I want a place to belong,” Max said, the fervent intensity of the words surprising him.

“What sort of work have you been doing?” Faversham asked, then held up a hand to stop Max’s answer. “No. What I really want to ask is what could you do in the community, Zeb? What are your skills?”

“I can turn my hands to most things,” Max replied. “I have shod horses, dug ditches, built walls, ploughed fields, stitched wounds, taken dictation to write letters, kept accounts. I can teach, too, if that is of use.”

Faversham’s eyes widened. “An unusual set of skills for a workhouse brat. You learned to read and write in the army?”

Max shook his head. “My master had me taught. He was a steward.” That was what Sebastian always said: ‘I hold the wealth created by those who came before me as steward for those who will follow.’ “He planned for me to replace his secretary,” Max explained.

“You outstripped your first tutor in less than a year,” Sebastian reminded him. “I was so proud. I gave you a holiday while I found a new one; do you remember? I took you with me to my hunting lodge.”

“His successor did not wish to keep you on? I’m sorry to hear that. Still, you found a place in the army. What rank?”

Max had prepared an answer for this. If he passed this test, he would be living at close quarters with Faversham and his people, so he was keeping as close to the truth as he could.

“Someone who knew my master  bought me a commission as a cornet. I made lieutenant by the end of the war. My commander put me up for captain, but they wouldn’t give the rank to a workhouse brat.”

“And your regiment?” Faversham asked.

Max named the regiment he had nominally been part of, though he’d gone straight from signing his papers to a hidden training camp that taught and tested the skills they’d recruited him for. The regiment was based far enough north that it was unlikely in the extreme that he’d meet any ex-soldiers who might be supposed to know him.

Faversham fell silent. Max waited, his body relaxed though his mind was on high alert. The disciples talked among themselves, a low murmur of voices a few yards away. The fair made more racket—squeals of excitement, gleeful shouting and angry yelling, vendors’ calls, babies crying, half a dozen different tunes from a score of instruments.

Finally, Faversham seemed to make up his mind. “Very well. I will take you, I must first tell you what you are choosing. You must turn your back on every one and every place you know. People enter heaven with nothing. What you see there; what you experience—you will love it, I am sure, but I invite you in for a trial period only. If we accept you and you accept us, you will be initiated and become one of us forever. If not, we will part ways with no hard feelings.”

He held out a hand. “Are you in?”

Max took it, and accepted the firm handshake. “I am, sir.”

“In Heaven,” Faversham explained, “I am called the One, and addressed as Lord or Father.” He beckoned to the three disciples, ignoring the bodyguards. “Courage? Justice? Peace? Meet Zebediah. He wishes to enter Heaven, and I have agreed.”

Max accepted handshakes and broad smiles from each of the three men. He was in. Now to see if Paul Stedham was still with the community. Briefly, he wondered if Paul was now named for a virtue. “I’d love to know what virtue they’d name you after,” Sebastian commented. “Vengeance, perhaps?”

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Introductions in WIP Wednesday

We want to meet the main characters in the story early on. We want to know a bit about them, and we want to get a sense of whether they’re likeable (the protagonists) or potentially villainous. But we don’t want to be overwhelmed with backstory. Today, I’m asking you to share a few paragraphs from when one of your main characters appears in your story. Mine is my heroine from The Darkness Within, one of my current projects.

Serenity Witness would be Chosen in the next ballot. This was not a matter of faith, it was an inevitable fact, since she was the last of the current crop of brides. Hers would be the only lot in the golden chalice that was used at the ceremony. Even though the girls two years younger had been moved into the bride house after the Winter Solstice, it was only so that the Spring and Summer brides would not be alone, and the Spring bride had been Chosen just over two months ago. Her turn would end four weeks and a day from now.

The younger girls were all tremendously excited about the ballot ceremony tomorrow, but mostly because, in three months, their lots would be added to the chalice, and one of them would be chosen as Autumn bride. They assumed Serenity was even more enthusiastic, and she did nothing to dissuade them.

She should be delighted, of course. She was way past the age when most Witness girls entered adulthood.

The Powers had passed her by the first year she was eligible, when she was just sixteen. Seven females shared her birth year, and three were still unchosen from the year before. In the second year, she was left again. In the third year, the four girls a year younger were added, and that year, Serenity was Chosen, but between the ballot and the wedding, she contracted smallpox and nearly died.

By the time she recovered, another had taken her place, for the vitality of the community depended on the Chosen bride, and the position could not be left vacant.

Her smallpox scars did not matter, the Incarnate One assured her. The Powers saw beyond the surface, to the beautiful soul within. Still, they passed her by in the next ballot, and the next, until here she was, nearly twenty years of age and still a maiden bride.

Sitting in the little chapel of the bride house, she faced the Powers and confessed what they, who knew all, must already see within her. “I am afraid.”

At sixteen, she would have been thrilled. Even at eighteen months ago, had she not contracted the smallpox, she would have been nervous about being the centre of attention, concerned about failing in her duties, but deeply content to step over the threshold that marked the separation between girl and woman.

“I am afraid,” she repeated. “I doubt, even though I know that I should not. Take away my doubt, dear Powers.” Every one said that to be Chosen was the greatest of all privileges, and that the three months the Chosen spent as Goddess Incarnate filled her with a joy that would last the remainder of her life. But ever since her friend Verity was tempted from the path by the acolyte called Paul, Serenity had been unable to keep the questions from her mind.

Paul had moved on a few days before Verity became Goddess Incarnate and Verity had served her appointed term, but Serenity had seen the sadness in her eyes when she stepped down from beside the One after the Goddess moved to the next Chosen. A few weeks after she entered the wives’ house, she had died suddenly—an accident with a knife, the community was told. But Serenity had doubted, and the doubts multiplied as she began to notice other signs of secret distress amongst the wives.

“Take away my doubts,” she prayed, but the calm certainty she sought evaded her.