Recently in Excerpts Category

Here’s something you won’t often see from me: a 3,000 word day. Yes, if you squint at the number in that counter (it’s the project target counter from Scrivener), you’ll see that the word count is 3,056. And what was more, I wasn’t done. I had had a nice nap, and so while the counter reset I stayed up far too late — till 3:00 — and wrote another 1000 words. I made myself cry. Ah, retreat. I miss you already.

If you’re also squinting at the text, squint no longer. Here it is. Otter, the protagonist of Sorrow’s Knot, is seeing one of the most feared things in her world, a White Hand, for the first time.

“She could hardly make it out in the purpling light. It did not hold its shape, but drifted and billowed, swarmed and bulged. Only its hands were clear: white as peeled roots, five-fingered human but twig-skinny, bone-skinny. You could have taken them for a birch branch, if you were just glancing — but then your hair would rise in warning and you would turn slowly back and look again.”

Today’s little piece is from early in Swan Riders, the sequel to Children of Peace. In this scene our narrator has just met the titular riders for the first time. It’s not a brilliant paragraph but I kinda like how it’s structured.

*I considered the two Riders. They could have been picked for contrast. Francis Xavier was big and broad, with a face as round as the moon. Sri was as narrow as if she’d shut herself in a door, her face almost comically tapered and intense, like a heron’s face: bright eyes and beak. He was thoughtfully slow; she was delightfully quick. They were both murderers, of course.
*

(This is from the novel I’m drafting, The Swan Riders, a sequel to Children of Peace)

“So,” said the thing that had not yet decided on a name. Michael? Michael, from the Hebrew  מִיכָאֵל, Mikha’el, “who is like God.” Michael, the warrior angel. The leader of heaven’s armies. Michael, slayer of dragons. Michael, patron of soldiers. Michael, the body on the slab in front of him. Michael.  

“So,” said the thing: “This was billed as ontologically disturbing. And I’ve gotta say, it’s living up.”

A body, a human body. His body. A flop of hair, strong cheekbones, bit of a scruffy jaw, lips almost girlish. He’d looked clever when he was alive. He didn’t look clever any more.

Across the body, Aranjinda stood hunched up in a lumpish cardigan. The thing checked and found that, yes, the room was cold.

Well, it would be.

His ceramic fingers pulled up and twirled a lock of the sandy hair. It was longer than he usually liked to let it get. “I had pretty good hair, though, didn’t I?” he said.

This is from The Swan Riders, the novel I’m drafting: a sequel to Children of Peace..

The stillness of my previous life was punctuated by whirlwind trips to Halifax, where I was sent so that I might keep up with my country’s affairs, and so that my parents might continue to love me. More the later than the former. If one holds royal children hostage, if one hopes that the prospect of their death will deter their parents from declaring war, it does not do to let those bonds weaken. It is better if the parents must occasionally look the children in the eye. It is best if the children are loved.

I believe, for what it is worth at this late date, that my parents did love me.

The king my father did, certainly. It was easier for him: he was consort, not ruler. It would not fall to him to make the decision that would kill me. As for the queen my mother: between us it was never easy. But it was her duty to love me and she did her duty.

I understand duty very well.

For what happened to me, I do not blame her.

It’s actually hard to find a snippet from Children of Peace that both makes sense out of context and doesn’t give the game away. I guess that’s good: perhaps an indication that the manuscript is getting woven more tightly as I revise it. Anywoo, here’s today’s teaser, where Greta talks about getting her portrait done — a portrait that will come up again later. This isn’t the first time a great piece of art used as a reference photo has influenced my books, but it is the first time the art itself has appeared explicitly in the plot. Thanks to the artist at Image Studio for letting me use the art (which I also bought for my office wall) on my site.

Without further ado: Greta Gustafen Stuart, Duchess of Halifax, Crown Princess to the PanPolar Confederacy, and blood hostage to Precepture Four, on her portrait.

Last Christmas the queen my mother had commanded my portrait painted.

We fought over the matter. I wanted to be painted in the white clothes of the Precepture, as is proper: the Children of Peace, around the world, are so depicted. In the PanPolar court itself there are dozens of such portraits, portraits of royal children who never lived to rule. I do not know what made my mother object to the tradition, but object she did, and fiercely, her accent getting away from her until she was rolling Rs like a fisherman and spitting like a whale. She brought me the royal tartans and a crown to wear, and when I objected (I am not of age and it is utterly inappropriate for me to dress as a ruling monarch) she brought me the gown I’d worn at the Yule Ball.

That gown: I do not know what vault they found it in. Taffeta figured with flowers, tones of goldenrod and teal and emerald, ivy that was almost black, roses the red that roses really are. I had worn it to the ball; I had had too much punch; I had flushed and danced; I had been interviewed and told the world that I was not afraid.

Since it’s Tuesday (actually it’s Monday, but I’m trying to figure out scheduled posting) here’s a teeny little teaser for my work in progress, Children of Peace. Greta and Elián here are supposed to be picking apples. Greta is normally diligent. Elián … not so much.

Elián wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and stole a likely looking apple straight off the tree. He took a bite of it, but before he could take another something winged and yellow landed on the exposed flesh. Elián flicked it away with a snap of his fingers. “Hate those buggers,” he said.

“Bees are essential pollinators.”

“Bees, yeah, but that was a wasp,” he said. “Wasps are just evil with a stingy bit. I stirred up a nest once when I was little, and it was —” he paused. “Used to think it was the most painful thing on God’s earth.”

We both fell silent, unwilling to talk about what had changed his mind.