This one's longish for a teaser at 500 words, but I wanted to give a little glimpse into a new section from revisions. They are on Antigua, leaving English Harbour for St. John's:
Even through my tiredness, the town piqued my curiosity as we drew away from the harbor. The houses were a hodge-podge of styles: some looked a hundred years old, and others looked like flimsy huts erected that morning. Occasionally an overgrown drive led only to a pile of rubble or a blackened shell collapsing in on itself. Right next to such a sad sight would be a freshly-plastered house brimming with sounds and activity.
"I have heard about the dwindling fortunes of sugar growers—is that what those abandoned houses reflect?" I asked.
"Parts of the town are still being rebuilt from several disasters," Duncan said. "Ten years ago, a fire swept through and claimed a lot of the oldest buildings. Then a few years later, an earthquake shook apart more buildings—including our St. John's Cathedral. Plus, every hurricane season a few more houses get blown or washed away."
"Is it hurricane season now?"
"Yes, but it's been a while since we've had a really bad one. Of course, that probably means we are overdue."
I met his mock-concerned tone with an eye roll, since I knew any other response would only encourage him.
He turned back to his tour guide duties. "That one is said to be haunted." He pointed to a ramshackle stone house, overrun with vines, and a gaping blackness seeping out of the windowframes.
I studied it as we went past, but I didn't feel any particular presence. "Do you believe in ghosts?" I asked. Because no matter how hard I try not to, there they are tugging at my proverbial sleeve, I added to myself.
"There are a number of superstitions in the islands—and among sailors, too, of course," he said.
"Is it all just superstition, then?" I pressed. "What do you believe?"
"I have heard some strange stories from men who were otherwise truthful. About witches, and duppies, and making the dead walk—if it is true, it's not the sort of thing I'd like to have dealings with."
I sank back into the cushions without a word.
"What a topic of conversation for a sunny day," Duncan said, and gestured to the view. He described Shirley Heights and Fig-Tree Hill, popular spots to look out at the beauty of the whole island.
"Such vivid names—what do they call the area where your mother lives?" I asked.
"It was originally my father's place on Scotch Row. A lot of Scottish families set up their shops in the same area, with living quarters attached to the storefronts. The part that used to be my father's office is where my mother teaches music."
As we climbed higher, a refreshing breeze lifted my hair from my sweaty brow. Duncan said the lower elevations at this time of year were often hot, but the breeze cut through the heights. Seeing my heavy eyelids, Duncan let the rest of the trip pass in an agreeable silence. I dropped off once or twice, and when the coach came to a halt I woke to find myself nestled against Duncan's shoulder.
Showing posts with label those lost at sea and drowned. Show all posts
Showing posts with label those lost at sea and drowned. Show all posts
My brain hurts! I have just finished major revisions on my novel, to the tune of adding another 2,000 words! I continued with the idea of the MC conversing with her father (even after his death) by using snippets of Shakespeare's works, like I showed in this teaser a few weeks ago. That required some new scenes and dialogue, plus I(hopefully) ironed out some of the questions and issues about Isabelle's abilities. Yep, 2,000 words to do that, though I'm sure I'll be able to do some trimming in later drafts.
So now the plan is to run this version through our critique group and maybe find a few betas that haven't seen it before. At least I know better than to think I'm finished!
The big news is that although the title that I loved, Those Lost at Sea and Drowned, survived many previous edits, it no longer applies to this very different draft. So I'm tentatively re-titling the book Spirits from the Vasty Deep. Surprise, it's from Shakespeare's King Henry IV, Part I:
GLENDOWER
I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
HOTSPUR
Why, so can I, or so can any man;
But will they come when you do call for them?
Other possible titles are A Tempestuous Noise and Damned Spirits All. Any thoughts or care to cast a vote?
So now the plan is to run this version through our critique group and maybe find a few betas that haven't seen it before. At least I know better than to think I'm finished!
The big news is that although the title that I loved, Those Lost at Sea and Drowned, survived many previous edits, it no longer applies to this very different draft. So I'm tentatively re-titling the book Spirits from the Vasty Deep. Surprise, it's from Shakespeare's King Henry IV, Part I:
GLENDOWER
I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
HOTSPUR
Why, so can I, or so can any man;
But will they come when you do call for them?
Other possible titles are A Tempestuous Noise and Damned Spirits All. Any thoughts or care to cast a vote?
I've mentioned that I'm working on revisions for Those Lost at Sea and Drowned, and I wanted to post a section I've redone. The original version had Isabelle hearing her father's voice about a month after he'd killed himself (if you're new to the story, she can hear spirits but has renounced her powers after a terrifying childhood encounter in a haunted room) and shutting him out instantly, but I realized I'd missed a good opportunity to shed some light on what kind of relationship they'd had. So I'm trying this out:
Hoping that a good night's sleep would take the strain from my features, I went to bed while it was still light. As I was drifting off, I heard someone whisper my name.
"Papa?" I was still half asleep, but even in my groggy state my father's death seeped into my memory. "No—"
A pressure in my ears, and the voice came again, "Isabelle, listen . . ."
"No, I won't listen." I curled the pillow around my head. "Not even for my own father. That way madness lies, and I can't bear it."
"Filial ingratitude! In such a night to shut me out! Your old kind father . . ." His dramatic delivery ended in a chuckle and I wondered if he'd gone mad.
Despite myself, I sat up and was about to question him when I recognized his words from Shakespeare's King Lear. We'd made a game of it since I was a child—entire conversations trading lines from literary works.
"No, I will weep no more," I said, keeping to the same passage. "The tempest in my mind doth from my senses take all feeling. No more of that."
He must have gotten my meaning that if I let him in it would open the way for other spirits, for Papa did not speak up again. I squeezed my eyes shut and rolled into a ball, and eventually I dropped off to an undisturbed rest.
--------------------
P.S. go to the Novels page above or click on the Teaser Tuesday label to see more teasers from this book
Hoping that a good night's sleep would take the strain from my features, I went to bed while it was still light. As I was drifting off, I heard someone whisper my name.
"Papa?" I was still half asleep, but even in my groggy state my father's death seeped into my memory. "No—"
A pressure in my ears, and the voice came again, "Isabelle, listen . . ."
"No, I won't listen." I curled the pillow around my head. "Not even for my own father. That way madness lies, and I can't bear it."
"Filial ingratitude! In such a night to shut me out! Your old kind father . . ." His dramatic delivery ended in a chuckle and I wondered if he'd gone mad.
Despite myself, I sat up and was about to question him when I recognized his words from Shakespeare's King Lear. We'd made a game of it since I was a child—entire conversations trading lines from literary works.
"No, I will weep no more," I said, keeping to the same passage. "The tempest in my mind doth from my senses take all feeling. No more of that."
He must have gotten my meaning that if I let him in it would open the way for other spirits, for Papa did not speak up again. I squeezed my eyes shut and rolled into a ball, and eventually I dropped off to an undisturbed rest.
--------------------
P.S. go to the Novels page above or click on the Teaser Tuesday label to see more teasers from this book
That's a very film-noir way to put how I feel about my first novel now. I did a major rewrite a few months back to address some issues with the characters and plot, ran some sections through the critique group, and then happily sent off the "finished" product to betas. I say happily not so much because I was convinced it was a perfect manuscript, but because I was good and ready to move onto something else after working on this one novel for soooo loooonng.
I got the first full beta back today (thanks again to the wonderfully insightful Karla Nellenbach) and, sure enough, some of the things that I thought I'd fixed (or at least addressed) were still there. I'd figured that out somewhat on my own, because I've started the sequel and was running into the same kinds of questions, but Karla pointed it out very eloquently.
One of the issues was to find the balance between the paranormal and the historical romance story elements. I do believe there's room for both in the book-as long as they are both fully realized. The problem is that in their current incarnations, neither one genuinely is. So back to the trenches, and the second book will have to wait a bit, but will ultimately benefit from the wrinkles I'm ironing out in the first book.
I got the first full beta back today (thanks again to the wonderfully insightful Karla Nellenbach) and, sure enough, some of the things that I thought I'd fixed (or at least addressed) were still there. I'd figured that out somewhat on my own, because I've started the sequel and was running into the same kinds of questions, but Karla pointed it out very eloquently.
One of the issues was to find the balance between the paranormal and the historical romance story elements. I do believe there's room for both in the book-as long as they are both fully realized. The problem is that in their current incarnations, neither one genuinely is. So back to the trenches, and the second book will have to wait a bit, but will ultimately benefit from the wrinkles I'm ironing out in the first book.
So it's a little bit of a teaser about the sequel to Those Lost at Sea and Drowned. Isabelle meets a spiritualist that can help her master her powers--but at what cost? Will she forever lose herself, and Duncan, in the process?
Working title for the sequel: Those Voiceless and Bound
I wasn't consciously trying to follow a formula of Those ______ and _______, but when I sat down to do an outline, that's the title that leapt out at me.
Working title for the sequel: Those Voiceless and Bound
I wasn't consciously trying to follow a formula of Those ______ and _______, but when I sat down to do an outline, that's the title that leapt out at me.
I'm having a harder time selecting teasers that aren't also spoilers! This section picks up shortly after the disastrous dinner with the captain.
After that disastrous meal, Captain Lee invited us to dine in his cabin quite frequently. Repulsed by him and his friends, I rarely accepted again, but Doña Catherine often went by herself or with the other women.
I was given permission to go above as long as I stayed out of the crew's way, so I spent most of my evenings on deck. I found a spot in the bow where I could nestle down among the coils of anchor rope. From there, I could watch the sea roll to either side of the prow, or look up as the clouds streamed amongst the stars. Anyone climbing in the rigging could probably see me if they looked, but I could not be seen from the deck.
If conditions were just right, the crew's words fell on me like cinders on the wind. Too bad it was mostly ugliness I heard from the men. The longer we were at sea, the meaner and baser the crew became. Coarse jokes, petty quarrels, and drunken fights were the norm.
A typical example was a man called Taylor, a braggart who thought himself an artful wit. His group of hangers-on treated every one of his words as if it were on a par with Mr. Beau Brummel’s. If Taylor made a jest and someone didn’t laugh, he was bound to take his annoyance out on the humorless man’s flesh—his knife being much quicker than his intellect.
I felt safer walking the decks in the morning, when the watch changed and most of the crew were too groggy to bother me. I always stopped at the stall that held Doña Catherine's horse: a white Moorish stallion, gentle and patient. Doña Catherine loved Alud because he had faithfully carried her husband, not just for his value as a stud. Devoted to her in turn, the horse would nuzzle me all over, searching out every last essence of her scent on my clothes.
After that disastrous meal, Captain Lee invited us to dine in his cabin quite frequently. Repulsed by him and his friends, I rarely accepted again, but Doña Catherine often went by herself or with the other women.
I was given permission to go above as long as I stayed out of the crew's way, so I spent most of my evenings on deck. I found a spot in the bow where I could nestle down among the coils of anchor rope. From there, I could watch the sea roll to either side of the prow, or look up as the clouds streamed amongst the stars. Anyone climbing in the rigging could probably see me if they looked, but I could not be seen from the deck.
If conditions were just right, the crew's words fell on me like cinders on the wind. Too bad it was mostly ugliness I heard from the men. The longer we were at sea, the meaner and baser the crew became. Coarse jokes, petty quarrels, and drunken fights were the norm.
A typical example was a man called Taylor, a braggart who thought himself an artful wit. His group of hangers-on treated every one of his words as if it were on a par with Mr. Beau Brummel’s. If Taylor made a jest and someone didn’t laugh, he was bound to take his annoyance out on the humorless man’s flesh—his knife being much quicker than his intellect.
I felt safer walking the decks in the morning, when the watch changed and most of the crew were too groggy to bother me. I always stopped at the stall that held Doña Catherine's horse: a white Moorish stallion, gentle and patient. Doña Catherine loved Alud because he had faithfully carried her husband, not just for his value as a stud. Devoted to her in turn, the horse would nuzzle me all over, searching out every last essence of her scent on my clothes.
Kind of a low-key section today, featuring an early conversation between Isabelle and Duncan (the Love Interest). The rescue ship is nearly to Jamaica, and Isabelle is worried about finding a way to support herself and Sonia, and a place to lodge, while they wait for word from the States on the sinking of the Empyreal.
"If you go to Antigua, my mother sometimes takes in boarders," Duncan said. "She can be very flexible about the rent."
She would have to be, since I had no money and little chance as yet of making any. "I should like to meet her," I said, "but I'm not sure how we'd even get to Antigua from Jamaica."
"Can you swim?" He sounded reasonable, but there was that mischievous light in his eyes again.
I had to smile. "Not well enough for that, I'm afraid. Besides, aren't there large fishes in these waters?"
"That depends on your meaning of large—there are certainly large whales, but they eat creatures small as your fingernail. To see a big fish, though, you should've been there when I caught the biggest grouper ever seen in the West Indies. I was just a boy and it outweighed me by fifty pounds —"
And so I was treated to an account, illustrated with gestures, of his ultimately unsuccessful encounter with a giant fish. At one point, another crewman walked by; he must have recognized the story.
"The big fish story. May the Lord have mercy on you, Miss—he's not even halfway through."
I laughed, but the crewman's comment only earned him a scathing look from Duncan as he continued. By the time he was finished, I had gotten into the spirit of the thing and he accomplished his mission of making me forget my cares momentarily.
"If you go to Antigua, my mother sometimes takes in boarders," Duncan said. "She can be very flexible about the rent."
She would have to be, since I had no money and little chance as yet of making any. "I should like to meet her," I said, "but I'm not sure how we'd even get to Antigua from Jamaica."
"Can you swim?" He sounded reasonable, but there was that mischievous light in his eyes again.
I had to smile. "Not well enough for that, I'm afraid. Besides, aren't there large fishes in these waters?"
"That depends on your meaning of large—there are certainly large whales, but they eat creatures small as your fingernail. To see a big fish, though, you should've been there when I caught the biggest grouper ever seen in the West Indies. I was just a boy and it outweighed me by fifty pounds —"
And so I was treated to an account, illustrated with gestures, of his ultimately unsuccessful encounter with a giant fish. At one point, another crewman walked by; he must have recognized the story.
"The big fish story. May the Lord have mercy on you, Miss—he's not even halfway through."
I laughed, but the crewman's comment only earned him a scathing look from Duncan as he continued. By the time he was finished, I had gotten into the spirit of the thing and he accomplished his mission of making me forget my cares momentarily.
A friend of mine recommended I check out "Nurse Jackie"; we like a lot of the same shows so I added it to the Netflix queue. I watched the first disc last week and we had a discussion about whether we could actually like the main character.
I don't think it's too much of a spoiler if you've never seen the show to say that she's a nurse with a prescription drug addiction. In the first few episodes you see her doing "Scrubs"-like activities (standing up to bad doctors, finagling extras for patients--just trying to make a difference) and also trysting with the hospital pharmacist. In between, she's taking drugs in every possible form.
Through all that, I didn't exactly identify with her but I did have sympathy for where she was coming from (high-stress job with impossible hours, along with severe back pain). That is, until she goes off shift and heads home . . .to a husband and two little girls.
That cast a whole new light on her relationship with the pharmacist for me: was she screwing him just for the drug access? How can she possibly reconcile the "work Jackie" with "home Jackie"? It was so off-putting that we had to think about whether we were going to keep watching. There are some real laugh-out-loud lines in the show, good writing, so we'll give it another chance.
But it made me think of the line between an unsympathetic character and a villain. I've posted my prologue that features a mean schoolteacher, and I've been surprised at how much of a reaction she's stirred up. Miss Bonney is a fairly minor character in my mind, but she's definitely a villain.
I also have my MC abandoned by her traveling companion, and I had a hard time striking a balance with Mrs. Jensen. She's a charming woman and Isabelle genuinely likes her, so how is this woman able to just walk away when Isabelle is left penniless? Mrs. J is definitely a pragmatist above all, but she's also ended up being kind of a Dickensian character.
Anybody else have trouble finding that fine line between a well-rounded character and one whose flaws outnumber their virtues?
I don't think it's too much of a spoiler if you've never seen the show to say that she's a nurse with a prescription drug addiction. In the first few episodes you see her doing "Scrubs"-like activities (standing up to bad doctors, finagling extras for patients--just trying to make a difference) and also trysting with the hospital pharmacist. In between, she's taking drugs in every possible form.
Through all that, I didn't exactly identify with her but I did have sympathy for where she was coming from (high-stress job with impossible hours, along with severe back pain). That is, until she goes off shift and heads home . . .to a husband and two little girls.
That cast a whole new light on her relationship with the pharmacist for me: was she screwing him just for the drug access? How can she possibly reconcile the "work Jackie" with "home Jackie"? It was so off-putting that we had to think about whether we were going to keep watching. There are some real laugh-out-loud lines in the show, good writing, so we'll give it another chance.
But it made me think of the line between an unsympathetic character and a villain. I've posted my prologue that features a mean schoolteacher, and I've been surprised at how much of a reaction she's stirred up. Miss Bonney is a fairly minor character in my mind, but she's definitely a villain.
I also have my MC abandoned by her traveling companion, and I had a hard time striking a balance with Mrs. Jensen. She's a charming woman and Isabelle genuinely likes her, so how is this woman able to just walk away when Isabelle is left penniless? Mrs. J is definitely a pragmatist above all, but she's also ended up being kind of a Dickensian character.
Anybody else have trouble finding that fine line between a well-rounded character and one whose flaws outnumber their virtues?
I was planning on posting the results of another exercise from the dialogue and POV class, but there wasn't anything else I was very excited about. So this is from Ch. 2 of my novel, Those Lost at Sea and Drowned. The women have barricaded themselves in their cabin, but Isabelle emerges to see what the crew is up to. . .
At this point I was so nervous that I no longer felt hungry, but my friends were expecting me to bring back some food. After tying a loose knot to hold the boat canvas, I snuck down to the galley. The cook snored in the corner, his head lolling side to side with the motion of the ship. I quickly grabbed bread and cheese, wrapping it in a bundle with a few boiled eggs.
As I reached for a large meat knife, the ship rolled heavily and I bumped a pot. It crashed to the floor, the clang waking the cook. We stared at each other, and he opened his mouth to call an alarm.
"Oh, please don't give me away," I whispered.
He licked his lips as he considered.
"I won't," he said, "as long as you're nice to me, girl."
I backed away at his approach, which only made him more eager.
"Now, now, you wouldn't want me to holler and bring some of my friends running," he said.
I shook my head and stood rigidly as he pinned me up against the wall. I gagged as his foul breath enveloped me, his hands squeezing my breasts painfully. He shifted to unbutton his trousers, and I twisted from his grasp. Grabbing the bundle of food, I ran from the galley.
"Come back anytime, and bring the other gals." His voice chased me. "We'll have us a party."
At this point I was so nervous that I no longer felt hungry, but my friends were expecting me to bring back some food. After tying a loose knot to hold the boat canvas, I snuck down to the galley. The cook snored in the corner, his head lolling side to side with the motion of the ship. I quickly grabbed bread and cheese, wrapping it in a bundle with a few boiled eggs.
As I reached for a large meat knife, the ship rolled heavily and I bumped a pot. It crashed to the floor, the clang waking the cook. We stared at each other, and he opened his mouth to call an alarm.
"Oh, please don't give me away," I whispered.
He licked his lips as he considered.
"I won't," he said, "as long as you're nice to me, girl."
I backed away at his approach, which only made him more eager.
"Now, now, you wouldn't want me to holler and bring some of my friends running," he said.
I shook my head and stood rigidly as he pinned me up against the wall. I gagged as his foul breath enveloped me, his hands squeezing my breasts painfully. He shifted to unbutton his trousers, and I twisted from his grasp. Grabbing the bundle of food, I ran from the galley.
"Come back anytime, and bring the other gals." His voice chased me. "We'll have us a party."
I realized that a line got dropped in last week's teaser, so I'm backing up a bit and then finishing out the prologue this week. You can see the first part of the prologue here
I froze in place, holding my breath and straining to pick up the slightest noise. Suddenly, there was a flurry of whispers around me, dry and fluttery as the cries of moths. The voices of three girls, overlapping and swirling together, so agitated that I could only pick out a few words.
"You shouldn't be here—"
"Get out—"
"There is still time—"
My mouth was dry; it took me a few tries to ask, "What happened here?"
"We'll show you—" they said together.
Since I ordinarily could hear spirits but not see them, their cascade of images caught me unawares. I struggled to make sense of the pictures: this room filled with moonlight and candlelight, three girls weeping over a bloodied woman lying still on the carpet. And the figure looming over them, coming out of the shadows with axe raised and ready to strike.
I must have fainted; I came to on the floor, the scent of dust and old blood filling my nostrils. As I tried to re-orient myself, the whispers started again.
"You see? He's too strong."
"We tried to tell you—"
And then, "He's coming," and I felt I was alone again.
But I was not alone for long, as I saw the dust motes by the window begin to swirl and coalesce. The very air boiled, blood-red and seething as it took on the outline of a human form. I didn't wait to see more, stumbling in terror as I ran to the door.
I pressed my lips to a crack. "Miss Bonney, Miss Bonney! Please, you have to let me out!"
The steps on the other side were muffled, and far too slow. "Hurry!" I called. I spared a glance over my shoulder; the figure was becoming solid, I could see the man's wild hair and demented grin. This spirit looked substantial enough to do me real harm, and I scrabbled at the door in panic.
The key scraped into the lock, but Miss Bonney asked, "Are you ready to admit you were lying?"
"Yes, yes, I was lying," I cried. "Let me out!"
"I want to hear you say, 'There are no such thing as ghosts and I cannot communicate with the dead.'"
I heard a dragging step behind me as I repeated, "There are no such thing as ghosts and I cannot communicate with the dead."
The key rasped in the lock and the door opened in front of me, spilling me into the corridor. I rolled to my feet and ran down the gallery, hardly registering the sound of the door closing to muffle the frustrated roar beyond it.
I ran until my shaking legs would no longer support me, and one of the other teachers found me and took me to the infirmary. I lay in bed, raving, for four days, crying over and over, "There are no such thing as ghosts and I cannot communicate with the dead."
And with time—and much practice—the latter became true for me.
I froze in place, holding my breath and straining to pick up the slightest noise. Suddenly, there was a flurry of whispers around me, dry and fluttery as the cries of moths. The voices of three girls, overlapping and swirling together, so agitated that I could only pick out a few words.
"You shouldn't be here—"
"Get out—"
"There is still time—"
My mouth was dry; it took me a few tries to ask, "What happened here?"
"We'll show you—" they said together.
Since I ordinarily could hear spirits but not see them, their cascade of images caught me unawares. I struggled to make sense of the pictures: this room filled with moonlight and candlelight, three girls weeping over a bloodied woman lying still on the carpet. And the figure looming over them, coming out of the shadows with axe raised and ready to strike.
I must have fainted; I came to on the floor, the scent of dust and old blood filling my nostrils. As I tried to re-orient myself, the whispers started again.
"You see? He's too strong."
"We tried to tell you—"
And then, "He's coming," and I felt I was alone again.
But I was not alone for long, as I saw the dust motes by the window begin to swirl and coalesce. The very air boiled, blood-red and seething as it took on the outline of a human form. I didn't wait to see more, stumbling in terror as I ran to the door.
I pressed my lips to a crack. "Miss Bonney, Miss Bonney! Please, you have to let me out!"
The steps on the other side were muffled, and far too slow. "Hurry!" I called. I spared a glance over my shoulder; the figure was becoming solid, I could see the man's wild hair and demented grin. This spirit looked substantial enough to do me real harm, and I scrabbled at the door in panic.
The key scraped into the lock, but Miss Bonney asked, "Are you ready to admit you were lying?"
"Yes, yes, I was lying," I cried. "Let me out!"
"I want to hear you say, 'There are no such thing as ghosts and I cannot communicate with the dead.'"
I heard a dragging step behind me as I repeated, "There are no such thing as ghosts and I cannot communicate with the dead."
The key rasped in the lock and the door opened in front of me, spilling me into the corridor. I rolled to my feet and ran down the gallery, hardly registering the sound of the door closing to muffle the frustrated roar beyond it.
I ran until my shaking legs would no longer support me, and one of the other teachers found me and took me to the infirmary. I lay in bed, raving, for four days, crying over and over, "There are no such thing as ghosts and I cannot communicate with the dead."
And with time—and much practice—the latter became true for me.
This is the very beginning of my book, Those Lost at Sea and Drowned, or technically its prologue. I thought it would be a good continuation of the spookiness I posted yesterday. And do you have your towel today?
"Where are you taking me?" I tried to plant my feet, but Miss Bonney roughly pulled me into motion again.
"I'm taking you to the east wing, to put an end to this superstitious nonsense once and for all," she answered, holding my arm in an iron grip. "I will solve two problems with one fell swoop—get some use out of that room, and cure you of lying."
"But I don't lie," I said, my breath coming in puffs as I trotted to keep up.
Miss Bonney snorted. "I suppose you deny telling the other girls that the ghost of the groundskeeper and his dog walk the gardens? Or that Tabitha's late grandmother wanted to speak with her? Some of those girls haven't slept in a week. You're nearly ten years old, Isabelle, you're getting too old for such stories."
"They are not stories. And I told the others that they didn't need to fear these spirits, they don't mean us any harm."
Miss Bonney turned left into a long gallery, raising her candle to get her bearings. This wing of the school was cold and disused, smelling of decay and mildew. I was more curious than frightened—until we approached the door at the far end.
"What is this place?" I whispered, trembling now.
Miss Bonney fumbled with a ring of keys. "This apartment has been locked up for years; something unfortunate happened here and the staff are convinced it's haunted. But once you've spent the night in it, and you emerge unscathed, I'll prove to them there's no reason to neglect this space."
"And if it is haunted?"
"Impossible. There are no such thing as ghosts, and once you admit that I will let you out."
With a triumphant grunt, she turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open. I turned to run away, but she grabbed me and shoved me inside the room. The edge of a rug caught at my foot, tripping me, and before I could recover the door was closed and locked. She had not even given me the candle, but moonlight filtered through the cobwebbed windows. Every one of my senses was on edge, alone in this room.
It was quiet at this end of the building; all the students would be getting ready for bed in their dormitories by now. The furnishings in the room were years out of date and covered in a thick layer of dust. Chairs and small tables were knocked over and broken, from some long-ago disturbance. My steps lifted the dust on the carpet, and I sneezed. At the sound, the silence in the room took on a new quality.
I froze in place, holding my breath and straining to pick up the slightest noise. Suddenly, there was a flurry of whispers around me, dry and fluttery as the cries of moths. The voices of three girls, overlapping and swirling together, so agitated that I could only pick out a few words.
"You shouldn't be here—"
"Get out—"
"There is still time—"
"We'll show you—" they said together.
"Where are you taking me?" I tried to plant my feet, but Miss Bonney roughly pulled me into motion again.
"I'm taking you to the east wing, to put an end to this superstitious nonsense once and for all," she answered, holding my arm in an iron grip. "I will solve two problems with one fell swoop—get some use out of that room, and cure you of lying."
"But I don't lie," I said, my breath coming in puffs as I trotted to keep up.
Miss Bonney snorted. "I suppose you deny telling the other girls that the ghost of the groundskeeper and his dog walk the gardens? Or that Tabitha's late grandmother wanted to speak with her? Some of those girls haven't slept in a week. You're nearly ten years old, Isabelle, you're getting too old for such stories."
"They are not stories. And I told the others that they didn't need to fear these spirits, they don't mean us any harm."
Miss Bonney turned left into a long gallery, raising her candle to get her bearings. This wing of the school was cold and disused, smelling of decay and mildew. I was more curious than frightened—until we approached the door at the far end.
"What is this place?" I whispered, trembling now.
Miss Bonney fumbled with a ring of keys. "This apartment has been locked up for years; something unfortunate happened here and the staff are convinced it's haunted. But once you've spent the night in it, and you emerge unscathed, I'll prove to them there's no reason to neglect this space."
"And if it is haunted?"
"Impossible. There are no such thing as ghosts, and once you admit that I will let you out."
With a triumphant grunt, she turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open. I turned to run away, but she grabbed me and shoved me inside the room. The edge of a rug caught at my foot, tripping me, and before I could recover the door was closed and locked. She had not even given me the candle, but moonlight filtered through the cobwebbed windows. Every one of my senses was on edge, alone in this room.
It was quiet at this end of the building; all the students would be getting ready for bed in their dormitories by now. The furnishings in the room were years out of date and covered in a thick layer of dust. Chairs and small tables were knocked over and broken, from some long-ago disturbance. My steps lifted the dust on the carpet, and I sneezed. At the sound, the silence in the room took on a new quality.
I froze in place, holding my breath and straining to pick up the slightest noise. Suddenly, there was a flurry of whispers around me, dry and fluttery as the cries of moths. The voices of three girls, overlapping and swirling together, so agitated that I could only pick out a few words.
"You shouldn't be here—"
"Get out—"
"There is still time—"
"We'll show you—" they said together.
My first ever Teaser Tuesday posting; this is from my YA historical/paranormal novel, Those Lost at Sea and Drowned. There is also a synopsis of my book under the Novels link above. This is a section I've added fairly recently, so comments are welcome and appreciated.
Isabelle (MC) and Doña Catherine have been invited to dine in the captain's cabin.
Captain Lee did his best to be charming, but he was not of the same class as the beautiful Doña Catherine, or even myself. He would start to tell a funny story and realize it was inappropriate for ladies, trailing off into a mumbled punch
line.
Eventually, he changed his tack and attempted some flattery. "Doña
Catherine, there is a certain kind of seaweed that grows on the Atlantic shore—it's a vivid green, and I do believe the color of your eyes comes close."
"Indeed?" Doña Catherine trod on my foot, a clear warning that I was not allowed to laugh at the captain.
"What's more," he continued, "you're mightily well-preserved for a woman old enough to be Miss Brandt's mother. Skin like a seagull's breast, you have."
Doña Catherine and I avoided each other's gaze; this clumsy effort would send us both into gales of laughter if we weren't careful.
"Skin like a seagull's breast?" She finally choked out. "Is that a good thing to have?"
"It truly is. Most people have no idea how white the feathers are on a seagull, or how soft they feel against the hand." He stared at Doña Catherine as he said this last part, an oddly intent look on his face.
As the silence grew uncomfortable, I asked, "How do you come by your intimate knowledge of gulls, Captain Lee?"
I regretted my choice of the word "intimate" almost immediately, as I felt a giggle well up. I hastily coughed into my napkin, but my question had its intended effect.
Captain Lee took his gaze off Doña Catherine to answer me. "I had a pet gull once, when I was a boy. I found her injured on the dock and took her home to fix her up. Snowflake was her name, and I used to sit and stroke her by the fire." His eyes went back to Doña Catherine again.
"What happened to Snowflake?" she asked.
"Once she started feeling better, she'd try to bite me. She siezed the tip of my finger one time, nearly took off the nail. I couldn't have that, of course."
"So you set her free?"
"No—my temper got the best of me and I wrung her neck. Kept her skin for a long time, just to stroke the feathers once in a while."
I no longer felt the urge to laugh, and the food lost what little appeal it held. I turned to our other dining companions, but Captain Lee's story had unsettled me and I found myself looking askance at his partners, Mr. Stevens and Mr. Vogel. I noticed that no matter how warm an anecdote they shared, their eyes stayed cold. The way Mr. Vogel ate turned my stomach, as well. He used the knife as a surgical instrument, separating bits of meat from the bone like a vivisectionist.
Isabelle (MC) and Doña Catherine have been invited to dine in the captain's cabin.
Captain Lee did his best to be charming, but he was not of the same class as the beautiful Doña Catherine, or even myself. He would start to tell a funny story and realize it was inappropriate for ladies, trailing off into a mumbled punch
line.
Eventually, he changed his tack and attempted some flattery. "Doña
Catherine, there is a certain kind of seaweed that grows on the Atlantic shore—it's a vivid green, and I do believe the color of your eyes comes close."
"Indeed?" Doña Catherine trod on my foot, a clear warning that I was not allowed to laugh at the captain.
"What's more," he continued, "you're mightily well-preserved for a woman old enough to be Miss Brandt's mother. Skin like a seagull's breast, you have."
Doña Catherine and I avoided each other's gaze; this clumsy effort would send us both into gales of laughter if we weren't careful.
"Skin like a seagull's breast?" She finally choked out. "Is that a good thing to have?"
"It truly is. Most people have no idea how white the feathers are on a seagull, or how soft they feel against the hand." He stared at Doña Catherine as he said this last part, an oddly intent look on his face.
As the silence grew uncomfortable, I asked, "How do you come by your intimate knowledge of gulls, Captain Lee?"
I regretted my choice of the word "intimate" almost immediately, as I felt a giggle well up. I hastily coughed into my napkin, but my question had its intended effect.
Captain Lee took his gaze off Doña Catherine to answer me. "I had a pet gull once, when I was a boy. I found her injured on the dock and took her home to fix her up. Snowflake was her name, and I used to sit and stroke her by the fire." His eyes went back to Doña Catherine again.
"What happened to Snowflake?" she asked.
"Once she started feeling better, she'd try to bite me. She siezed the tip of my finger one time, nearly took off the nail. I couldn't have that, of course."
"So you set her free?"
"No—my temper got the best of me and I wrung her neck. Kept her skin for a long time, just to stroke the feathers once in a while."
I no longer felt the urge to laugh, and the food lost what little appeal it held. I turned to our other dining companions, but Captain Lee's story had unsettled me and I found myself looking askance at his partners, Mr. Stevens and Mr. Vogel. I noticed that no matter how warm an anecdote they shared, their eyes stayed cold. The way Mr. Vogel ate turned my stomach, as well. He used the knife as a surgical instrument, separating bits of meat from the bone like a vivisectionist.
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