» Book Tours

Feather Stone {Guest #Author: Feather Stone} + #Book #Giveaway

The Book Faery — Thu, 10 May 2012 07:33:00 +0000

The young girl was alone on the country road. She could see the farming landscape stretch serenely for half a mile in all directions. She noticed the grain fields on either side of the road. A golden hue was replacing the verdant landscape. Wild Alberta roses were still blooming alongside raspberry canes.

Dust billowed over her bare feet, warm as the sun caressing her bare arms. Climbing the steep hill up into the cloudless blue sky she considered what she would tell her mother about her new friends in grade three. They liked the pretty summer dress her mother had made, especially the cherries scattered along the hem.

She thought about the chores waiting for her when she arrived home. The hens would reluctantly allow her to snatch their eggs from under their warm bottoms. Peas needed to be picked and potatoes dug up for supper. She didn’t mind. Nor did she mind the almost two mile walk home from school. If she was outside, no matter the weather, she was happy.

It wasn’t until she reached the crest of the hill that she saw him. It was a shock. He was walking in the same direction as she. Why hadn’t she seen him on the road ahead of her before? If he had come through the fields, she would have noticed. She sized him up as being a stranger having unusual clothes. He walked leisurely. Nervously, she raced on past the stranger. He called to her.

In spite of being shy and not allowed to speak to strangers, the young girl quickly lost her fear. After a brief conversation, she walked down the driveway to her home. It suddenly struck her that this was no ordinary stranger. She ran back to the road, but the stranger was gone. It was then she knew she had met her guardian angel, or in later years, known as her spirit guide. Throughout her life, his special message for her remained unchanged and guided her, even at her darkest behavior.

That was the beginning of a journey down the road of the paranormal. Several years later, her guardian angel saved her from drowning. Lying on the bottom of a lake, exhausted from trashing to stay afloat, she heard him say, “If you stand, you can breathe.” She had just enough strength to straighten her legs before passing out. Her nose was just above the water.

She went on to experience space/time travel, telepathy, and connecting with higher beings. Later, she became a healer, sending healing energy on the wings of a higher power to people and animals across the planet. In her practice of meditation and shamanic journeys, she travelled to dimensions that defy description. Her experiences beyond the physical realm have profoundly affected her view of her life’s journey, and beyond.

Yes, the young girl was Feather Stone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…As a Canadian, Feather Stone was allowed the freedom to explore a kaleidoscope of infinite ways of being human. The only restrictions imposed by her parents were that racism was not acceptable and deliberately causing suffering to any other being or creature for any reason was not tolerated. Upon meeting her spirit guide when she was a child, Feather’s life became a journey of experiencing the paranormal. Through her practice of meditation, Reiki, and study of Shamanism, she’s been able to shift to dimensions that defy description.

On February 15, 2002, Feather was honoured to receive the Exemplary Service Medal from Lieutenant Governor Lois Hole (representative of HRH Queen Elizabeth II) for her service as a paramedic with Edmonton’s Emergency Response Department. She and her husband are now enjoying retirement and loving their sheltie, Jasper, and two cats, Smokey and Leo.

Her motto? Change your thinking, change your life.

Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter |GoodReads

Caught in a reckless attempt to stop Dark forces, Sidney Davenport, a young, rule breaking, spirited member of the secret paranormal community of Guardians, finds herself imprisoned on a naval ship and slated for execution. Her struggle with the unfamiliar emotions of fear and anger becomes even more complicated when she can no longer fight her attraction to the very man who has orders to perform her execution.

Captain Sam Waterhouse, a meticulous naval captain who’s suspected of treason, teeters on a precipice between Darkness and Light. When he receives an unusual prisoner, a paranormal journey begins to unravel his disciplined life. All the while, humanity is unknowingly at great risk when two Dark forces team up to acquire control of an elusive power. Sidney and Sam attempt to quiet their powerful feelings for each other, only to discover they can save each other, and in doing so, they might even save the world.

Through stunning imagery, an intricate and adventurous plot, and a strong cast of characters, Feather Stone gives readers a fascinating glimpse into the future—a future that is chilling, yet full of hope. – FROM AMAZON

Paperback: 277 pages
Publisher: Omnific Publishing; 1ST edition (2011)
Language: English
ASIN: B005PJ04RK

BUY THE BOOK… Barnes & Noble | Omnific Publishing | Amazon | Goodreads

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS… And now the giveaway! As part of the NURTURE Your Book Tour, we’re giving away ONE copy of THE GUARDIAN’S WILDCHILD by Feather Stone to a lucky commentor of this post. This giveaway runs now through the end of the month and is open to those with a U.S/Canadian mailing address.

Good Luck!

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The Story Behind My Book WAKING UP HAPPY {Guest #Author: Jill Muehrcke} + #Book #Giveaway

The Book Faery — Wed, 09 May 2012 06:00:37 +0000

When I think back to the inspiration for my book, WAKING UP HAPPY: A HANDBOOK OF CHANGE WITH MEMOIRS OF RECOVERY AND HOPE, I think of a night three years ago. Our granddaughter Shyloh had ended up in the hospital after nearly dying of a heroin overdose. She was going into a rehab center the next day.

She had just turned twenty.

She was spending the night at our house so we could take her to Hope Center the next morning. The center was only a mile from where we lived, while Shyloh’s parents lived nearly an hour away. Shyloh had to be at Hope Center at 8:00 sharp for intake in the morning, so we had offered to take her.

Late that night, I heard her sobbing and rushed to her room. She had gotten a call on her cell and learned that her boyfriend was dead. He had died of an overdose. He, too, had been planning to go into treatment, in a different rehab facility. The two of them had great plans for their life together after they both “graduated” from rehab. Shyloh had been telling me all about their plans earlier that evening.

For Tim, that life was never to be.

For Shyloh, the hard work was just beginning.

Shyloh tells her story in WAKING UP HAPPY, and so does her mother – my daughter – Andrea.

I’ll never forget the times when Andrea was a teen and I was wakened in the middle of the night by calls saying that she had nearly died. Several times she overdosed on alcohol and ended up in a coma. We didn’t know if she would survive with brain damage – or if she would survive at all. Once she was found lying outside in the winter cold, where she would have frozen to death if she hadn’t – just by chance – been found.

Leaving Shyloh at Hope Center that morning was wrenching – as much as it had been leaving Andrea at a similar facility when she was fifteen. I couldn’t imagine how Shyloh would manage the huge weight of her grief over Tim’s death, while far from her friends and family and recovering from her addiction at the same time.

But Shyloh did the work, learned the lessons she needed to learn, and rose from the ashes of her previous life in a way I could never have imagined. She began attending meetings at a place called Connections, an oasis of recovery here in Madison, Wisconsin.

As I got to know others at Connections, I realized that all of them had stories that were begging to be told. Like my grandaughter Shyloh – like my daughter Andrea – like me myself – they had faced a crossroads, changed their lives completely, and learned to live with joy and purpose.

I began interviewing people and writing down their stories. While each person had chosen a different path, their journeys had many things in common with my own.

Ever since I’d quit drinking in 1984, I had been collecting exercises, tips, and wisdom to help me forge a new life. Along the way, I had uncovered a few secrets about change. First, I had learned that profound change was, indeed, possible. I had also discovered that it didn’t happen as quickly as I wanted. At first I was constantly frustrated at my turtle-like pace. But then I found the most important secret of all. If I did just one tiny thing differently each day, those small changes, in time, added up to a totally different life. One by one, I left my addictions and bad habits behind. And one day, I realized I was waking up happy.

WAKING UP HAPPY fell into place as I blended people’s stories with the exercises and steps that had worked for them and for me. Each time one of the storytellers in WAKING UP HAPPY learned a lesson in their life, I added activities that readers could do to make those same changes in their lives.

I realized that the book would be helpful not only to those recovering from addictions but to anyone who wanted to make a change in their life. I saw that the strategies for change were similar whether a person wanted to quit smoking, spending too much money, eating the wrong foods, continuing an unhealthy relationship, biting their nails, or compulsively and rudely checking their text messages while with their friends.

Even people who are very successful in their lives are often so invested in working and achieving that they destroy their relationships and let stress ruin their health. Stress can lead to early death. So it can be life-changing to replace overwork with calming, self-enhancing habits.

It became clear to me that by combining the true stories of people who had changed their lives, along with the strategies that had led to real change, I could provide keys that everyone could use to become their best selves and live the most fulfilling lives possible.

And now that WAKING UP HAPPY has been published and I have been hearing from readers, I cannot tell you how amazing it is to watch others pick up those keys and unlock the doors just waiting to swing open.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Juliana (Jill) Muehrcke is the award-winning author of many books and articles. Founder and editor of the international magazine Nonprofit World (snpo.org), she has studied at the University of Colorado and the University of Michigan and has a BA degree, specializing in English and psychology, from the University of Washington. Jill is listed in Who’s Who (MarquisWhoswho.com). In her spare time, she enjoys teaching yoga and eating ethnic food. For many years, in several cities, including Seattle, Honolulu, and Madison, she has written restaurant reviews.

Her latest book is Waking Up Happy: A Handbook of Change with Memoirs of Recovery and Hope.

You can visit her website at www.WakingUpHappyBook.com.

Listen to Jill on the Joy Cardin Show at http://wpr.org/search/ideas_program_search.cfm?StartYear=3&keyword=muehrcke&x=0&y=0.

No matter what kind of change you want to make in your life, this book holds the keys. As inspirational as it is practical, this first-of-a-kind handbook focuses on the positive steps of recovery and change. Powerful, absorbing, and beautifully written, it tells people’s true stories, the turning points that changed their lives, and their secrets to waking up happy, along with exercises you can follow to create a new life for yourself.

Brave and honest, Jill Muehrcke’s memoir and the stories of others recovering from addictions, habits, and intolerable situations are filled with triumphs and epiphanies, as well as concrete, step-by-step advice and guidance.

Lessons learned are summarized into secrets you can use to forge your own life-changing journey. The book ends with 365 Steps on Your Journey – one simple step for each day of the year. If you do just one thing from this book every day, you’ll see dramatic growth.

Publication Date: Dec 07 2011

ISBN/EAN13: 0960297871 / 9780960297870

LCCN: 2011925975

Page Count: 286

BUY THE BOOK… Createspace

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…We’re giving away ONE copy of WAKING UP HAPPY by Jill Muehrcke to a lucky reader of this post. This giveaway is open to those with a US/Canadian mailing address and runs through the month of May. Winners will be notified as a reply to their entry in Rafflecopter, on The Book Faery Reviews Facebook Page, and within the RSS feed email that goes out Monday-Friday. Winners are typically announced within a couple of days after the end of the month.

To enter this giveaway, use the Rafflecopter widget (if you are unable to use the widget for whatever reason, email thebookfaeryreviews@gmail.com and we’ll happily manually add your entries in).

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Why a Pen Name? {Guest Author: A.K. Alexander} + #Book #Giveaway

The Book Faery — Tue, 08 May 2012 07:25:30 +0000

I have been asked why the pen name as well as my name Michele Scott. I am writing thrillers that are pretty dark and a bit twisted, as well as ramping up the romance in them versus the light romance I write in my mysteries. I am writing these thrillers under the pen name A.K. Alexander. I actually wrote a few of the thrillers years ago and had sent them out prior to having a literary agent. One of the scripts was actually picked out of a slush pile and went rounds at Harper. At the time (9 years ago) I kept thinking “this is it,” because the editor even contacted me over the phone! However, after nine months of waiting, I received a letter that stated it wouldn’t fit into their line. I was so disappointed that I can remember standing in my kitchen in tears. My middle kid who was nine at the time came in and saw me crying. He asked me why. I told him that I didn’t think I could keep on writing. I had finally reached a point where I felt beat. I had been submitting for 12 years at that stage with continual rejection. I had completed 8 manuscripts. I figured that maybe it was time to quit.

However, my son said to me, “Don’t you know, Mom, that God wouldn’t have made you a writer if he didn’t think you could do it.” Okay, so how do you quit after that? You don’t! I didn’t. I went on to write Murder Uncorked and got an agent and within two weeks had a three book deal with Penguin. I wound up selling nine books with them. After six years of writing for them, I ventured off into the world of Indie publishing and have never looked back.

I am writing under a pen name for my thrillers because they are so different from my mysteries. They are a separate “brand”. This way a reader doesn’t get confused when they download a Michele Scott book versus an A.K. Alexander book.

I was wondering who else is using pen names out there and if so, what is your reasoning? If you’re not a writer, does it matter to you as long as you know what the book is about, or does it help you to be able to recognize which name delineates the type of book you will be reading? Do you think it’s a good idea?

Thank You!

Cheers,
Michele

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…I started writing when I was nine-years-old. I used to write short stories on my dad’s notepads. One day he read one and he said to me, “You are a writer.” It stuck. My dad is still my biggest supporter and he is also my mentor in many ways. I went to college at The University of Southern California. My parents though didn’t think that “creative writing” at USC was a major that would likely be lucrative in the long run, so I figured I would be logical and look at writing in the journalistic field. God (the Universe), etc. had a different plan for me. Soon after I graduated from USC I gave birth to my first son. He was six weeks premature and he had some health issues, which caused me to decide that going into a career at that time would not benefit my son. So, I stayed home with him and I wrote my first book. That first book is tucked away in a box somewhere because it’s pretty darn bad, but it gave me the confidence I needed to know that I could start, write, and finish a book. From that point on, it took me twelve years to become a published author and several manuscripts. It has been a wonderful and amazing process, and although many challenges have presented themselves along the way, I have never quit writing. It is my passion!

My other passion is Horses. These amazing animals are very dear to my heart and I have been known to take in “strays.” My daughter and I are very active in the horse world. My daughter is involved in pony club and three day eventing.

I enjoy work with other writers when I can , especially kids. I designed a program for young writers to help them learn how to write short stories and picture books to writing complete novellas for older kids. I have mentored several students now and it’s a joyful experience to see young writers and their creative minds at work. It is something I am working on expanding with some local teachers in my area.

Family and friends are extremely important to me. I am the proud mother of three amazing kids who have always supported me and are just great, awesome human beings (yes, I know I sound like every mother in the world about their kids, but I really mean it). My husband is my best friend and a very patient man, which is a real positive—he is married to a writer after all. We also have three dogs, a kitty, and eight horses.

When not writing, riding, or being a taxi-cab driver for my youngest, I try to find time to do a little yoga, meditate or cooking. I love cookbooks and cooking!

A.K.’s recent release is Daddy’s Home. You can visit her website at www.michelescott.com/books/ak-alexander.

A KILLER STALKS HIS PREY…
A calculating and deadly killer is in search for what he terms as his perfect family. Preying upon single mothers and their innocent children, the police have dubbed him “The Family Man.”

HE WATCHES THEM…HE TAKES THEM…
He plays out his role as the perfect father. When things don’t go so perfect in his insane fantasy world, the family man kills.

HOLLY JENNINGS IS ON THE CASE…
Crime Scene Investigator Holly Jennings of the San Diego Police Department is determined to track him down and see that justice is served. With Holly being a single mother herself, this man’s crimes are deeply personal to her, and turn more so when a friend and her daughter become the latest victims of “The Family Man.”

Along with tracking an evil killer, Holly is dealing with her own internal demons. She is raising her daughter Chloe alone after the death of her husband–a death she feels guilty for.

To complicate her life further, Holly is doing her best to avoid possibly falling in love again with charming veterinarian Brendan O’Neil. As Holly delves deeper into solving the murders, she finds herself being sucked into a game of cat and mouse by “The Family Man,” that may lead her down a dark path too horrible to bear. One that may cost her gravely-her family, her new found love, and even her life.

File Size: 421 KB

Print Length: 282 pages

Page Numbers Source ISBN: 1456332015

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon Kindle

THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…Thanks to Michele Scott through the Pump Up Your Book Tour, we’re giving away ONE copy of DADDY’S HANDS to a lucky reader.

This giveaway is open to those with a US/Canadian mailing address and runs through the month of May. Winners will be notified as a reply to their post comment (email does go out when there is a reply on their original comment), on The Book Faery Reviews Facebook Page, and within the RSS feed email that goes out Monday-Friday. Winners are typically announced within a couple of days after the end of the month.

To enter this giveaway, use the Rafflecopter widget (if you are unable to use the widget for whatever reason, please contact thebookfaeryreviews@gmail.com and we’ll happily manually add your entries in).

…the MANDATORY question to answer below is…

Answer the author’s question above down below.

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Assassins In Love: Assassins Guild {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Tue, 08 May 2012 02:55:47 +0000

When one killer falls for another

Agent: Misha
Profile: Highly trained in every method the assassins guild has to offer. Always goes by the book.

Agent: Rikki
Profile: Rogue assassin who kills only to rid the world of hardened criminals. Hates organizations. Always does it her way.

Love becomes a matter of life and death

Misha’s mission is to get Rikki to join the guild or give up her guns. He completely underestimated the effect she would have on him…and what heat and chaos they could bring to each other…

Mass Market Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: Sourcebooks Casablanca; Original edition (March 6, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1402262825
ISBN-13: 978-1402262821

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Barnes & Noble

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Kris DeLake is one of writer Kristine Kathryn Rusch’s many pen names. In addition to writing as Kris DeLake in romance, Rusch also writes romance as Kristine Grayson (who specializes in paranormals) and Kristine Dexter (who prefers romantic suspense). In mystery, Rusch writes as Edgar- and Shamus-nominee Kris Nelscott. In science fiction and fantasy, Rusch goes by her real name. Under that name, she’s a bestseller in many countries, and a double Hugo winner. To find out more about Rusch and her various names, go to her website, kristinekathrynrusch.com

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…Oh is this one a mind(and body)-blowing futuristic hot tale filled with danger, passion, multiple identities, and discovered truths! Right from the beginning all the way to the end I wanted in on the action (all the action…heehee). Rikki is one bad-ass woman and Misha- well, let’s say I wouldn’t mind being tracked down by this hot assassin! Can two assassins from different backgrounds with different goals learn to trust the other in order to find out the truth? Could they ever give up all they’ve known and trust their hearts for their future? You’ll just have to read it. Oh yes, I recommend this fun and steamy adventure. And I’m definitely look forward to reading more about Rikki’s “Jack” when that’s ready which I believe is next in the Assassins Guild series.

READ AN EXCERPT

Chapter 1
Hands fumbling, fingers shaking, head aching, Rikki leaned one shoulder against the wall, blocking the view of the airlock controls from the corridor. Elio Testrial leaned against the wall at her feet. She hoped he looked drunk.Things hadn’t gone as planned. Things never went as planned—she should have learned that a long time ago. But she kept thinking she’d get better with each job.She completed each job. That was a victory, or at least, that felt like one right now.The corridor was wide and relatively straight, like every other corridor on this stupid ship. Every floor looked like the last, which had caused problems earlier, and all were painted white, as if that was a design feature. She didn’t find it a design feature. In fact, it was a problem feature. Because any dirt showed, and blood, well, they said blood trailed for a reason. It did.

So far, though, she’d managed to avoid a blood trail. Of course, she’d thought about avoiding it, back when Testrial really was drunk. And because she thought about avoiding it, she had.

But there was no avoiding this damn airlock.

Her heart pounded, her breath came in short gasps. If she couldn’t get a deep lungful of air, her fingers would keep shaking, not that it made any difference.

Why weren’t spaceships built to a universal standard? Why couldn’t she just follow the same moves with every piece of equipment that had the same name? Instead, she had to study old specs, which were always wrong, and then she had to improvise, which was always dicey, and then she had to worry that somehow, with one little flick of a fingernail, she’d touch something which would set off an alarm, which would bring the security guards running.

High-end ships like this one always had security guards, and the damn guards always thought they were some kind of cop which, she supposed, in the vast emptiness that was space, they were.

Someone had fused the alarm to the computer control for the airlock doors, which meant that unless she could figure out a way to unfuse it, this stupid airlock was useless to her. Which meant she had to haul Testrial to yet another airlock on a different deck, one that wouldn’t be as private as this one, and it would be just her luck that the airlock controls one deck up (or one deck down) would be just as screwy as the controls on this deck.

She cursed. Next spaceport—the big kind with every damn thing in the universe plus a dozen other damn things she hadn’t even thought of—she would sign up for some kind of maintenance course, one that specialized in space cruisers, since she found herself on so many of them, or maybe even some university course in mechanics or design or systems analysis, so that she wouldn’t waste precious minutes trying to pry open something that didn’t want to get pried.

She cursed again, and then a third time for good measure, but the words weren’t helping. She poked at that little fused bit inside the control, and felt her fingernail rip, which caused her to suck in a breath—no curse words for that kind of pain, sharp and tiny, the kind that could cause her (if she were a little less cautious) to pull back and stick the offending nail inside her mouth.

She’d done that once, setting off a timer for an explosive device she’d been working on, and just managed to dive behind the blast shield (she estimated) fifteen seconds before the stupid thing blew.

So she had her little reflexes under control.

It was the big reflexes that worried her.

“Need help?” Male voice. Deep. Authoritative.

She didn’t jump. She didn’t even flinch. But she did freeze in place for a half second, which she knew was a giveaway, one of those moments little kids had when they got caught doing something wrong.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said without turning around. No sense in letting him see her face.

“Your friend doesn’t look fine.” He had just a bit of an accent, something that told her Standard wasn’t his native language.

“He’s drunk,” she said.

“Looks dead to me,” he said.

She turned, assessing her options as she did. One knife. (People were afraid of knives, which was good. But knives were messy, hard to clean up the blood, which was bad.) Two laser pistols. (One tiny, against her ankle, hard to reach. The other on her hip, obvious, but laser blasts in a corridor—dangerous. They’d bounce off the walls, might hit her.) Fists. (Might break a bone, hands already shaking. Didn’t need the additional risk.)

Then stopped assessing when she saw him.

He wasn’t what she expected. Tall, white-blond hair, the kind that got noticed (funny, she hadn’t noticed him, but then there were two thousand passengers on this damn ship). Broad shoulders, strong bones—not a spacer then. Blue eyes with long lashes, like a girl’s almost, but he didn’t look girly, not with that aquiline nose and those high cheekbones. Thin lips twisted into a slight smile, a knowing smile, as if he understood what she was doing.

He wore gray pants and an ivory shirt without a single stain on it. No rings, no tattoos, no visible scars—and no uniform.

Not security, then. Or at least, not security that happened to be on duty.

“He’s drunk,” she said again, hoping Testrial’s face was turned slightly. She’d managed to close his eyes, but he had that pallor the newly dead sometimes acquired. Blood wasn’t flowing; it was pooling, and that leached all the color from his skin.

“So he’s drunk, and you’re messing with the airlock controls, because you want to get him, what? Some fresh air?” The man’s eyes twinkled.

He was disgustingly handsome, and he knew it. She hated men like that, and thought longingly of her knife. One slash across the cheek. That would teach him.

“Guess I’ve had a little too much to drink myself,” she said.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” the man said as he approached her.

She reached for the knife, but he caught her wrist with one hand. He smelled faintly of sandalwood, and that, for some reason, made her breath catch.

He slammed the airlock controls with his free fist. The damn alarm went off and the first of the double doors opened.

“What the hell?” she snapped.

He sighed, as if she were the dumbest person he had ever met, then let her go. She did reach for the knife as he bent at the waist and picked up Testrial with one easy move.

She knew that move wasn’t easy. She’d used an over-the-shoulder carry to get the bastard down here, after having rigged the corridor cameras to show footage from two hours before. Not that that did any good now that this asshole had set off the alarm.

He tossed Testrial into the airlock itself, then reached inside and triggered the outer door. He barely got his hand back into the corridor before the inner door closed, protecting them from the vacuum of space.

“What the hell?” she asked again.

The man gave her a withering glance. “He was dead, you were going to toss him out, and then you were going to go about your business as if nothing happened. I just helped you along a little.”

“And now every security agent on the ship will come down here,” she snapped.

“Yeah,” he said. “But it won’t be a problem.”

“It won’t be a problem?” she asked.

But he already had his arm tightly around her shoulder, and he dragged her forward. The movement felt familiar, as if someone had done this to her before.

Except no one had ever done this to her before.

“C’mon,” he said. “Stagger a little.”

“What?” she asked, letting him pull her along. Her hand was still on her knife, but she didn’t close her fist around the hilt. Not yet.

“Do you know any drinking songs?” he asked.

“Know any… what?”

“Stagger,” he said, and she did without much effort, since he was half-carrying her, not allowing her feet to find a rhythm.

They stepped onto the between-decks platform, which she loathed because it was open, not a true elevator at all, and he said, “Down,” and the stupid thing jerked before it went down, and suddenly she was on corridor cameras.

“Do you know any drinking songs?” he asked again.

“No,” she said, ready with an answer this time. “I don’t drink.”

“No wonder you lack creativity,” he said and added, “Stop,” as they passed their third deck. He dragged her down the corridor to the airlock, and slammed it with his fist.

Another alarm went off as the inner door opened, and he reached inside, triggering the outer door.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked again.

“Is that the only question you know?” he asked.

“Just answer me,” she said as he turned her around and headed back toward the between-decks platform.

“Weren’t you ever a teenager?” he asked.

“Of course I was,” she said.

“Then you should know what I’m doing,” he said.

“Well color me clueless,” she said, “because I don’t.”

His eyebrows went up as he looked at her. “Color you clueless? What kind of phrase is that?”

“The kind of phrase you say when someone won’t tell you what the hell they’re doing.”

“Watch and learn, babe,” he said. “Watch and learn.”

He took them to the platform again, and as it lurched downward, he pulled her toward him using just his arm and the hand clutching her shoulder. A practiced move, and a strong one, considering how much resistance she was putting up.

He held her in a viselike grip, and then, before she could move away, kissed her. She was so startled, she didn’t pull back.

At least, that was what she told herself when he did let go and she realized that her lips were bruised, her hand had fallen away from the hilt of her knife, her heart was pounding rapidly.

That was a hell of a kiss, short but—good God, had she ever been kissed like that? Mouth to mouth, open, warm but not sloppy, his tongue sampling hers and hers, traitor that it was, responding.

“Yum,” he said, as if she had been particularly tasty, and then he grinned. He was unbelievably h…

A NetGalley ebook was provided in exchange for an honest review.

The Courtesan’s Lover {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Tue, 08 May 2012 01:42:44 +0000

Francesca Felizzi knows she wields an immense power over men. Her patrons see only a carefree courtesan, and they pay handsomely for the privilege of her time. Francesca never saw him coming, the man who cracked her heart open and ruined her for the job. But he’s shown her what a gaudy facade she’s built, and she doesn’t know how to tear it down without taking her beloved daughters with her. The wrong move could plunge all of them into the sort of danger she has dreaded ever since she began her perilous work all those years ago.

An exquisite tale that explores the intricate nature of a mother’s heart. The Courtesan’s Lover draws you close and whispers in your ear. In the tradition of Sarah Dunant and Marina Fiorato, a compelling and vibrant tale from an up-and-coming fresh voice that readers will want to savor. – FROM AMAZON

Paperback: 528 pages
Publisher: Sourcebooks Landmark (May 1, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1402265883
ISBN-13: 978-1402265884

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR… Gabrielle Kimm was born in the north of Scotland, the third of four daughters, but grew up in Sussex. During her late-teens and twenties, she studied and worked in Reading, London and Oxford but then moved back to Sussex, where she’s been ever since, living between the sea and the South Downs, where big skies meet open countryside and where, if you are a seafarer (which she’s not) the tides in the creeks bossily dictate what you can do when, on a daily basis.

She has a BA in English Language and Literature, from the University of Reading, a PGCE in English from the University of Oxford, and an MA in Creative Writing (Distinction) from the University of Chichester.

She’s married with two daughters (currently twelve and sixteen) and a grown-up stepson, and they share their lives with an elderly and charming Lakeland Terrier.

She first thought she might like to be a novelist when she was a child, and her mother bought her a copy of a book called ‘The Far Distant Oxus’, written by two schoolgirls: Katharine Hull and Pamela Whitlock. (The book was re-issued by Fidra Books last year.) She was entranced by it, and it began a longing in her to write her own novel. Being only twelve, and the two authors being fourteen and fifteen, she reckoned then that she had at least two years in which to fulfill her ambition! But as her first novel hits the shelves, some thirty six years later, perhaps in hindsight she has to admit that that assessment was just a little optimistic …

Her time is now divided between her family, her writing and teaching English at a local school. - Edited and taken from author’s website

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…Gabrielle Kimm brings back one of her characters from The Last Duchess, Francesca Felizzi, the former mistress to the Duke of Ferrara. The Courtesan’s Lover can be read as a stand alone as Francesca is now a sought after Courtesan living a life of luxury and raising her two twin daughters. She has beauty, ambition, smarts, and power over men yet lacks real love until meeting a certain young man and soon after his father. She realizes she wants more and to have it must give up what she’s known. This realization and need to change brings anger to some she must reject which brings danger to her and her girls. Will she and her girls survive the dangers and will she finally have genuine love returned? I recommend you to follow along the pages to discover what Francesca discovers in the end. For those afraid of what they’ll encounter among the pages because of the title, do not fear, it’s only enough to help you understand the lifestyle but not enough to have you blushing too hard. Kimm does an excellent job with giving you just enough.

READ THE EXCERPT

One

The dress I’m going to wear to meet my new Spanish patron has just been delivered-and it is simply gorgeous. I hold the skirts up against me and gaze at myself in the glass. It’s truly one of Bianca’s best. She chose the brocade for me-crimson and gold, straight in from Venice, she said, and she has given the dress the most glorious deep-red underskirt. At least nine yards of fabric in each piece, apparently. It feels thick and heavy and smooth and sumptuous, and it smells of warm spices.

I think I’m looking forward to this evening.

Crossing to my chamber door in my shift, with the skirts bundled in my arms, I call down to my manservant. “Modesto, can you come up and help me put all this on? Cristo said he’d be here before the Angelus strikes, to take me to meet this…what’s his name? Vasquez.”

His voice sounds from the kitchen. “I’m just preparing your lime.”

I had almost forgotten. “Thank you, caro. I’ll come down and get it,” I call back. I lay the heavy skirts carefully across my bed.
Standing at the big table in the kitchen, Modesto has a knife in one hand and a lime in the other. I watch as he inserts the point of the knife just under its skin, about a third of the way down. He scores right around the fruit, then slicing through the rest of the flesh, he separates the two sections. He squeezes most of the juice from the smaller half into a bowl and finally flicks out a couple of stray pips with the tip of the knife. “There you are, Signora,” he says, handing me the little cup he has made and sucking the lime juice from his fingers. “That should do. Go and put that in.”

I run back upstairs to my bedchamber, pull my shift up and out of the way, and, with practiced ease, tuck the lime-skin up inside my body. Modesto seems to know just the most comfortable shape to cut it-I can hardly feel that it’s there.

I hear his footsteps on the stairs, and then he knocks at my chamber door. “You done, Signora?” he says from outside.

“I am,” I say, shaking my shift back down over my legs again. “You can come in. It’s all done. Everything in place. No unwanted offspring. Hopefully.” I smile at him. “Thank you, caro.”

“Come on then, let’s get you ready, Signora. Bum first,” he says, picking up a crescent-shaped, stuffed linen roll. I obediently put my arms up and, standing so close in front of me that I can feel his breath on my cheek, Modesto reaches around my waist and lays the roll in place on my hips, shifting it so it sits where it should, projecting out behind to give me a suitably voluptuous arse. He ties the ribbons neatly in front.
Over my head then go the underskirt and the beautiful brocade overskirt, trailing on the ground round my feet and looking exquisite. I reach for my bodice and hand it to him. “Can you lace me in?”

“Turn around then, Signora,” he says, “and arms up again.”

The bodice is already loose-laced, and the sleeves have been attached. Modesto lifts it up over my arms and head and pulls it down. I wriggle it into place, putting my fingers down inside the top edge to shift my breasts into a more comfortable position. I want them sitting up as high as possible for this dress-and for this occasion. Modesto pulls the laces in tightly and fastens them in a secure bow. My chemise has crumpled inside all the boning-the lawn is so fine that that happens easily-and the folds feel irritating. “Can you pull my shift down for me, caro?” I ask him. “It’s all rucked up.” He obliges, crouching down in front of me, lifting my hem and reaching up into the impossible folds of the skirts, searching for and finding the bottom edge of my chemise. His fingers brush against my thighs. He tugs gently downward, and I can feel the rucks unfolding.

I straighten the V-shaped front of the stomacher and pat it flat, and we are almost there.
Looking down at my chest, and then across at my reflection in my huge glass, I bite down a smile. I asked Bianca to cut this one low-and she has taken me at my word. The neckline is wide-out to the points of my shoulders on each side. It’s been cut deep, and she has lace trimmed it. In fact, it’s only the lace that is covering my nipples. They are virtually on display. I let out a soft breath and touch them with the tips of my fingers.

“He should be suitably impressed, Signora,” says Modesto, smirking slightly.

“Is it too much, do you think, caro?”
“Absolutely not-you look wonderful.” He pauses. “Let’s do your hair.”

Between us we concoct a web of complicated braids, leaving a fair amount of hair down, and then I wind a string of red Murano glass beads through the web. Garnet ear-drops and a heavy gold ring on my little finger, and I think my preparations are complete.
“Stand back, then, and let’s see,” Modesto says.

I stand back and preen, as Modesto frowns in appraisal, his thumbnail caught between his teeth. He stares for a full minute, as I turn this way and that, pushing my chest out and arching my back, arms held out sideways like a dancer, so he can have a full and uninterrupted view of the package I intend to present to my new patron in an hour or so’s time.

Finally, he draws in a long breath and says gravely, “Well, if this doesn’t impress him, he’s either blind or stupid, or would rather be fiddling with some grubby little bardassa’s ill-fitting codpiece.” He smiles at me, and his black eyes crinkle. “You look like a queen, Signora. Go and sit down in your chair and keep yourself clean, and I’ll fetch you some grapes.”
“Thank you.” A thought occurs to me as Modesto turns to leave the room. “Caro, could you run round to the other house after we’ve gone and let Ilaria and the twins know that I won’t be back till the morning? I believe they think I’m coming home tonight.”

He nods a brusque assent.
I’m so glad I didn’t know about limes before I had the girls. I don’t know what I would do without them.

***
I have a cloth over my lap as I eat my grapes, and Modesto has given me a bowl into which I have been told to spit the pips. Cristoforo-the Conte di Benevento, Capitano di Cavallo in the King’s Regiment-is a little late, and while I am waiting, I am entertaining myself by holding the bowl out at arm’s length and trying to spit my pips from increasing distances to test the accuracy of my aim. Cristoforo knocks and enters my chamber just as I am leaning forward and holding the bowl out at full stretch. I have just let fly with one of my pips, and it has just plipped into the bowl, when his face appears around the door. My smile of satisfaction vanishes at his obvious amusement.

“So, this is what the more eminent courtesans do when they’re alone, is it?” he says, grinning.

“Don’t make fun of me!”

“I wouldn’t dare!”

I pretend to scowl. “I was bored and you were late.”
Cristoforo bows low in apology, and I stand up, letting my cloth drop to the floor. His gaze rakes me from head to foot and, much to my satisfaction, it is clear that he approves of what he sees. “You look particularly lovely, if you will allow me to say so,” he says. “My Spanish friend is going to be…overwhelmed, I think.”

“And shall you be jealous of his spending time in my company while you’re away, readying yourself for battle, Cristo?” I say, looking at him. Stocky, crop-haired, heavily muscled, he is struggling to keep his face straight.
“Of course. I shall be devastated-how could I not be?” He puts on a stricken expression, but beneath this, the smile he seems unable to prevent is open and happy, and I don’t believe him for a moment: I doubt he’ll pine for me when he is away. I understand that he will be preoccupied-of course he will, he’s an important soldier-and I know that he is introducing me to this man, Vasquez, out of concern for my well-being while he’s away, but his lack of involvement feels almost insulting. He has, after all, been one of my most regular patrons since I first arrived in Napoli.

“So, are you ready, cara? Shall we go?” he says.

I nod, and together we go down to my front door. Modesto watches us leave the house.

Despite Vasquez’s apartment being well within walking distance, Cristo has come to collect me in a little covered carriage. Inside, it’s very small and smells of warm leather, and my skirts fill the space between the two red velvet bench seats; they billow up in front of me, puffing up much higher than my knees. No floor space can be seen at all, and when Cristo climbs in from the other side and sits down on the seat opposite, he has to push the brocade out of the way to make room for his legs. He taps the roof of the carriage with the hilt of his sword and, with a rumbling lurch and a scrunch of pebbles, we are off.
“Now, listen again,” he says. “I want to make sure you remember exactly what’s going to happen. This needs to go well.”

Feeling a little frisson of excitement-I’ve always enjoyed the moment of introduction to a new patron-I lean forward to hear what he has to say.

“Maestre Vasquez can’t wait to meet you,” Cristo says. “He’s had a meal prepared for the two of you, I believe, so I hope you have an appetite. His is prodigious.”

“I haven’t eaten anything other than a small bunch of grapes since this morning.” I’m starving, if the truth be told.

“Modesto and I have sorted out the financial side of the affair-”
“Yes, he told me.”

“And you’ll be pleased to hear that your new friend will be paying handsomely! More than I do, at any rate. So you’ll be financially secure while I’m away, at least. All you have to worry about now is looking beautiful and doing what you do best.”

I smile at him, pleased at his confidence in me. But I am still a little hurt that he seems so happy to be handing me over to another man.

“When we arrive, I’ll leave you in the care of Maestre Vasquez’s servants, who will help you set up the surprise. They’ve been paid well to keep the details from their master, and they’ll make sure everything runs smoothly.”

And Cristo runs through the exact details of what I am to do, one more time.

***

Cristoforo raises a hand in a final farewell salute as the door closes, leaving me inside with the Maestre’s servants. This is not the front door to the big house in the Via dei Tribunali, but an unimpressive side door that we only reached by stumbling down a cobbled alleyway so narrow that I had to hold my skirts bundled up in front of me, to stop them brushing against the walls and getting stained.

Inside, even in these servants’ quarters, this house is opulent. Cristo was right-my new patron is clearly wealthy. The three young men who are to prepare the “surprise” hustle me down a long covered walkway, one behind me, one on either side, pressing in close, moving fast. They are dressed in old-fashioned, stiff black fustian doublets with starched ruffs, and they all seem intrigued and excited by their task. They are grinning and chattering to each other in Spanish. All three keep glancing around them. It feels clandestine and furtive. I smother a laugh.

“Quick, this way, Señora!” the tallest of the three whispers, in heavily accented Italian this time, pointing to an iron-studded door to our right. He reaches in front of me and opens the door, whereupon, feeling these men’s hands on my shoulders and in the small of my back, I am shuffled through and out of sight. The men close and latch the door, then whistle out their relief at having succeeded in their covert operation so far.

Just inside this door is a spiral staircase-wooden, narrow, winding up and out of sight. My new friends urge me to begin climbing, and with one man in front and two behind, I have little choice in the matter. We soon reach another door, which proves to lead into a beautiful upstairs room: huge and bright, with four great floor-to-ceiling windows, through which the evening sun is blazing in thick, downward-sloping diagonal shafts of yellow light.
At the far end of the room, a table has been laid for two; it is positively glittering with glass and silver, and I can see a spray of some brightly colored flowers in a bowl in the middle. Several dishes, covered by gleaming silver domes, have been placed on a nearby credenza.

I wonder what we shall be eating.
Between each of the windows, facing into the room, stands an ornately carved, cross-framed chair, upholstered in gold-colored silk. And at this end of the room, just near where we are standing, fiercely lit by the sun, is an enormous lettiera-a monumental bed. The carving on this great monster matches that of the chairs, and the hangings are of the same silk. It is as though the bed has been swathed in sunshine.

One of the three servants darts forward now and draws back the bed-hangings. The bed within is made up, with the sheets neatly folded back on one side, away from one of several plump pillows. The latent sense of invitation is irresistible.

I feel my hand being taken. The tallest of the servants, who seems to be the only Italian speaker, is pulling me toward the bed, saying, “Señora, my master arrive very soon. But he not expecting you for another hour. We must get you ready for surprise him.”
I nod. The servant pulls from a pocket in his breeches a roll of a deep red satin ribbon as wide across as the span of my spread hand. This he flicks out to lie widthways across the bed. Then, from under the bed, he drags a bolt of fabric; pulling the whole length of it off its roll by the armful, he flaps it all out, like shaking out a freshly laundered sheet, across the bed on top of the ribbon. This fabric is sheer and golden, almost transparent, and it shimmers in the low light from the window. It’s absolutely beautiful. It is far wider than the bed, though: I watch as the servant leans across and carefully doubles it over, making it two thicknesses deep.

***

“We could deliver you to Vasquez in a carpet, like Cleopatra,” Cristo had suggested.
He seemed excited by the idea, but I demurred. “That’s a horrible idea, Cristo,” I said. “It would probably ruin the dress, which cost a fortune. Any carpet you might be able to find will probably be filthy,and I’ll end up covered in dust and cobwebs and smelling of old wool. Not very attractive. It may have been all very well in ancient Rome, or Egypt or wherever it was, but I don’t fancy it in the slightest, here in Napoli.”

Cristo saw my point in the end, and so we discussed for some time how we might adapt Cleopatra’s plan to suit the occasion. He was wedded to his idea of concealment and would not be moved from it. “People like unwrapping gifts,” he said.

***

“Quick!” the servant says. “Get up here!” He and the other two men help me to seat myself as near to the middle of the bed as we can manage, without creasing my clothes, rumpling the golden fabric, or disturbing the straightness of the ribbon. They almost lift me, in fact. I lie down, both ribbon and gauze stretching out flat on either side of me.

“Ready, Señora?” my new friend asks. His tone is deferential, but his eyes are dancing. He licks his lips, twitching down a smile.

I nod again. “Quite ready, thank you. Just don’t wrap it too tightly. It must be left loose: this dress will be ruined if it’s crushed.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Maestre Vasquez will be here in moments, Señora,” he assures me, leaning across me and taking the far ends of the sheer length of doubled-over fabric. He lifts it back toward himself, letting it fall so it completely covers me from head to foot. He gently tucks it in under me. Then he takes the other side and folds this back over the first layer, tucking that in on my other side, until all the ends are (so I imagine-I can now see almost nothing) out of sight, and I am neatly wrapped like a big parcel inside four layers of cypress gauze. The last thing I feel is the servant’s hands tying the ribbon around the level of my belly. Not one part of me remains visible: not a wisp of hair, not even the tip of one shoe.

I feel somewhat confined and discover I cannot really move my arms properly, but I suppose it is still more comfortable and sweet-smelling than a carpet would have been.

“Are you quite comfortable, Señora?” my friend asks.

“Quite, thank you,” I reply politely. My words sound oddly muffled.

“We go downstairs, now, and tell Maestre something important is deliver to the upstairs chamber-as soon as he home. He not be long. You wait.”
I hear footsteps, the click of the door closing, and finally a soft and sunlit silence.

As I have been instructed, I wait.

And wait.

And wait.
All I can hear is my own breath, inside my silk cocoon, and the rustling of my skirts as I shift position a fraction.

What will he be like, this Vasquez? Cristoforo has assured me of his wealth, his eminent standing as a senior official in the occupying army, and of his desire for my company. But what sort of man is he? I wonder if I shall enjoy what is about to happen. Will he be gifted in the arts of the bedchamber? Might he even be someone who will turn out to be more to me than a paying patron? Perhaps, in time to come, I shall look back fondly on this evening as the moment something extraordinary began. But then, of course, the converse is just as possible: tonight’s tryst could as easily turn out to be that fateful encounter that every courtesan secretly dreads. Because such fateful encounters do happen. It happened to me all those years ago, after all, did it not? I was lucky to survive that night.

I might not be so fortunate another time.

My scar tweaks as I remember.

But…Cristo made it all sound so enticing the other day.

***
“You tell me you need a new patron-well, what would you say to a Spaniard?” he said.

“A Spaniard? An Inquisitor?”
Cristo laughed. “No, no, no-nothing like that-can’t imagine any of them spending a single scudo on such sinful and wicked activities as a liaison with a courtesan-even one as beautiful as you, Francesca. No, this man’s a tremendously wealthy Maestre de Campo in the Spanish Army. I’ve been working with him for months. Now, I could be wrong, but from what I’ve heard him say, I am given to understand that he’s becoming increasingly desperate for the attentions of a beautiful woman. He rarely goes an hour without mentioning the fact, as it happens.”

I smiled, and Cristo grinned at me. “He’s as rich as Croesus,” he said. I glanced over to where Modesto was standing by the door to my chamber, but my manservant’s face was unreadable.

“He’s young,” Cristo went on, “younger than me, a good soldier-not the brightest, perhaps, but clever enough to have been promoted several times. He’s a bit particular, I suppose you could say. Others might say pedantic, but-”

“I really meant, shall I find him attractive?”
Cristo laughed. “That’s not for me to say, really, is it, cara? Come with me the day after tomorrow, though, and I’ll present you to him-with a suitably ostentatious flourish, I think-and then you can decide for yourself what you think of our young Miguel Vasquez.”

I wanted to know what Modesto thought of this idea before I agreed to anything.

“I think you should do it,” he said after a moment’s pause. “What with the death of the Conte di Vecchio, and now the news that the Signore here is leaving the city”-he nodded toward Cristo, then turned back to me-”you have to think of your financial position. With the likes of Emilia Rosa and that simpering little bitch Alessandra Malacoda rising to such dizzying heights in the city, you’re going to have to make sure you keep pace. Old and decrepit he might well have been, but the Conte di Vecchio had status in Napoli, and his patronage was a godsend last year.”

I looked at my feet and pushed the toe of my shoe down into a knot hole in the floor. He was right, I knew, but, wanting to justify myself, I said, “But I have other patrons. There’s Filippo…”

Modesto rolled his eyes.

Irritated, I added, “And I took on Signor di Cicciano a few weeks ago.”

Cristo’s eyebrows lifted. “That young reprobate? I’ve heard of him. You should be careful, Francesca-I’m surprised you’re still in one piece, from what people have said. I’m serious, you must take care.”

The same thought had occurred to me, on a couple of occasions in the company of this new patron. Michele di Cicciano can be very wild. Perhaps Modesto had a point, I thought. I need someone steady. Rich and steady. At least while Cristo is away.
***

A door bangs somewhere below me. Somebody shouts, and then several male voices rumble incomprehensibly. Heavy footsteps thud on a staircase. My pulse quickens. Perhaps this is him. Oh, dear. Cristo said he had a “prodigious appetite”… What if he is enormous? Shall I end this evening completely flattened? I fiddle my lips between my teeth to redden them, then lick them. I try to lift my arm to pinch color into my cheeks, but the servant has tied the ribbon too tightly, and I can’t reach my face without spoiling the lie of the cloth.

No one comes into the room, however, and within seconds, the sounds from below fade away. My thoughts begin to wander again.

***

The poor Conte di Vecchio. I feel horribly responsible for his death. I told Cristo about it-I said I’d killed him. Oh, I know I didn’t actually do it, but I still feel so guilty about it that it seems to me sometimes that I did. I should never have agreed to see Vicino da Argenta that day, vile man that he is. It was stupid of me. Modesto has always told me I should keep away from him. And if Argenta hadn’t been with me that afternoon, the Conte di Vecchio would still be alive, Modesto would be happy with the money I’m earning, and I wouldn’t be lying here like an oversized birthday present, unable to move, almost entirely ignorant about the man I am to bed.

Cristo was shocked when I told him about the Conte di Vecchio. He had known the old man was dead but not how it had happened.
“I hadn’t seen him for two or three weeks,” I said. “He’d been on a trip, I think.” I pictured the old man-Giovanni Battista, the elderly Conte di Vecchio: stooped, stiff and slow in his movements, the wreck of a once debonair adventurer. Lovemaking had cost him dearly every time, I think, but he had enjoyed it-on the days when he was able to manage it-and on those occasions when his bones had ached too fiercely to permit him to rut, he had just liked sitting in my bed with me and listening to me recite poetry or reading to him from my diaries. He was a dear old thing; he was the means of my establishment here in Napoli, and I am genuinely sorry he’s gone. And not just because of the money, either.

“Go on,” Cristoforo said.

“Well, as I say, he’d been away for ages. So had you.”

“It’s an annoying habit of the army, to request one to work from time to time.”
I ignored his sarcasm. “So, seeing as all my favorites had declined to come and see me, I had to resort to scraping the bottom of the barrel.” I paused. “Vicino da Argenta.”

Cristoforo did not need to comment. The expression of disgust on his face was eloquent.

I gave him a wry smile. “I know-the man’s repulsive.”
“Then why?”

Shame glowed warm in my cheeks as I admitted it. “Because I needed the money.”

Cristoforo shook his head and made a soft “tut” of disbelief with his tongue. The heat in my face flared now with irritation. “Don’t look at me like that!” I said. “I have a living to make just as you do. I have two houses to manage and my children to care for. If the men I prefer choose not to come and see me, I have to make do with the ones I would rather avoid.”

He inclined his head in reluctant acceptance of this.

“Anyway,” I said. “Vicino had come here early on the evening that Giovanni Battista died. He was drunk-which was hardly a surprise-and he was being particularly boring. I had no wish to engage him in conversation, and he seemed incapable of actually doing anything very exciting, so I decided that the best way to deal with the situation was probably just to make sure he couldn’t expect me to talk to him.”

Cristoforo raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“My mother always told me it was ill-mannered to speak with your mouth full.”

Cristo tipped back his head and barked out a laugh. I continued my tale. “And then, the door to my chamber-this chamber-bangs open. Thinking it’s Modesto, I take no notice, and just carry on with what I’m doing-Vicino’s too drunk to care about the interruption-but it isn’t Modesto. It’s Giovanni Battista.”

I had glanced over my shoulder from where I was crouched on the floor in front of Argenta. The expression on his poor face-it’s still haunting me. He looked utterly devastated. He said nothing, just stared at me for several seconds, and then blundered blindly out of the door. I made to follow him, but as soon as I started to stand, bloody Vicino caught my wrist and tried to hold me back, and by the time I had pulled myself from his grasp, the front door had slammed and the Conte di Vecchio had gone.

I explained all this to Cristo, and then finished my story by saying, “Modesto told me how the poor man had staggered off up the street, and then collapsed when he reached the piazza. Several people-including Modesto-tried to help, but it was no good. He was dead in minutes.”

Cristoforo rubbed a hand around his unshaven jaw and puffed out a disbelieving sigh. “Poor old man.”
***

A dove clatter-flaps past the window, startling me out of my reverie. It’s warm here, and the sun is lying across the gauze over my face. I wriggle a little, feeling a prickling tingle in one of my feet.

He has to be here soon.

And then the door opens, banging back against the wall and making me jump.
Oh, Dio! I hope it’s him: I shall feel decidedly foolish, trussed up here like a goose prepared for the table, if it’s anybody else. Several sets of footsteps clack into the room, and I hear men’s voices, speaking in Spanish. One of them is my servant friend from before, I think, but the others are unfamiliar. Their indecipherable conversation rumbles for a moment, and then an order is barked out, the various footsteps retreat, and the door clicks shut.

Somebody strides across the room. I hold my breath. The newcomer pauses, and then I hear soft male laughter, which ends with a cough. A voice says in Italian, “Oh, yes! Juan was quite right-this delivery is indeed ‘significant.’ Well, well, well, I wonder what it can possibly be. Whatever it is, it must be investigated immediately.” This voice, like the servant’s, is breathy and heavily accented, though this man speaks more softly, and his grammar is accurate.

A faint tug near my middle pulls me slightly to one side: he’s undoing the ribbon. Taking his time, he peels back the fabric, bit by bit, leaning over me to untuck the various layers of gauze. I can hear his breath, soft in his nose. Then, after several seconds, blinking in the light, I am finally able to see who has released me from my wrappings: at first he is silhouetted against the window, but then he moves to one side into the shadow of the damask-hung bedpost, and I can make him out more clearly.
Maestre Vasquez-I presume this to be him-must be some thirty years old; he is neat and slightly built, with short dark hair and a tidy beard. Like a mythological faun, he has pointed tips to his ears. On meeting my gaze, his smile broadens, he runs his tongue over his lips, and holding out a hand, he gestures to me to sit up.

“Señora Felizzi? I was not expecting to see you so soon. Or for you to arrive quite so covertly.”

“Signor Vasquez.” I swing my legs around and stand, smoothing out my skirts with my hands. Then, my gaze on his, I drop down into a curtsy, but my would-be patron takes my hand and pulls me back to standing. We are much the same height. He releases my hand, and, stretching out to touch the neckline of my dress, he feels his way softly down from my shoulder, fingering the lace as he goes. His hand moves across the horizontal, then pauses, his eyes widening as he reaches the first of my all-but-exposed nipples. “Are you hungry?” he says, pinching it for a brief second.
I run my tongue over my lips and smile assent.

“I have had food prepared for us. Come and eat.”
Vasquez lifts the covered platters over onto the table. He seats me in one of the two chairs, pulling the other round so he is sitting close to me. Filling our glasses with a tawny-colored wine, he then lifts off the domes. Olives. Some sort of tiny bird’s eggs, nestling in a bed of shredded leaves and little flowers. And oysters. Shucked and gleaming and dressed with lemon slices.

Picking up an olive in his fingers, he offers it to me, obviously expecting to put it directly into my mouth. “Señora?” he asks.

I smile and open my mouth a little. His fingers rest on my lips for a brief second. I turn the fruit over with my tongue, enjoying the briny sharpness, and, having removed the flesh, I push the stone forward so it protrudes from between my teeth. My new friend grins and takes it from me.

“More?” he asks.
I nod.

He repeats the process. Twice.

I reach forward then and pick up an oyster, holding it up for him to eat. He tilts his head back, and, touching his lip with the edge of the shell, I slide the oyster into his mouth. He flicks his head to throw it to the back of his throat and swallows it. As he sits forward again, a thin line of liquor runs down his chin into his beard, and I lean toward him and run the tip of my tongue up the track of the juice, holding the side of his face with my fingers. He smells of brine and incense and garlic.

Letting out a long, slow breath that shivers as it leaves his mouth, he says, “Oh, you are going to be worth every scudo! Benevento sang your praises to the heavens, but I think now that he failed to do you justice.”
“I always hope to please.”

“Your hopes are being fulfilled as we speak, believe me,” he says, picking up another oyster. He raises his eyebrows questioningly. I nod, and he slithers it into my mouth. Its sea-smelling bulk is thick in my throat for an instant and then it’s gone. Vasquez leans forward and runs his tongue along the edge of my lip.

I open my mouth a fraction.

And that, it seems, is invitation enough for him. He stands, takes my hand, and flicks his head toward the great gold-draped edifice on the far side of the chamber. “Come with me, now, Señora,” he says softly.

And, tracing around inside the curve of his palm with my fingertips as we walk, I follow him across the room.

A book was provided in exchange for an honest review.

Amelia Grey {#Author Interview}

The Book Faery — Thu, 03 May 2012 08:38:15 +0000

Welcome back Amelia! I do believe this is the FOURTH time you’ve visited us! Can you believe it? The first being an interview back in April of 2009 when the 1st book (A Duke to Die For) of The Rogues’ Dynasty series came out. And of course I’ve read numerous other books (that series included) and other reissues of your older novels. You’ve also been a guest here (A Marquis to Marry; 2nd book in The Rogues’ Dynasty series) and here- where you gave us all 35 old tips for new writers. Time sure does fly by, doesn’t it?! I’m just thrilled to see you back again. So why not another interview with you now that time has passed? I promise not to ask you the same questions. In fact, as I re-read our previous interview, I could tell I was just starting to interview authors just by the type of questions I once asked, very typical questions. Today, I’m just going to ask you FOUR questions to commemorate your 4th visit with us.

AMELIA GREY: Thank you! I’m pleased you keep asking me back. I don’t ever get tired of talking about writing. I love it and of course I love to talk about my books on your fabulous site!

I’ve always wanted to know how author’s come up with their pen names. Are they personally chosen or chosen for you? And is there a reason it’s done when the author’s picture is posted on their site or book? I’ve found many with different names BUT are clearly the same person. In your case, you’ve written romance novels under the current name Amelia Grey, previously as Gloria Dale Skinner in the early 90′s, and also as Charla Cameron from the early 90′s (I’m assuming you no longer write under those name). Was there a reason for the name changes when the genre remained the same? And is there even a reason for a pen name when an author’s picture is still used on marketing materials?

AMELIA GREY: Oh, that is a very good question. When I sold my first book I published it under Gloria Dale Skinner back in 1990. It was a historical and was being published by Warner Books. But a funny thing happened along the way to the first book coming out. I sold a contemporary book to Harlequin and at that time Warner didn’t want me using my name on a contemporary book so I had to take a pen name. My daughter’s name is Charla and my son is Cameron so that is how I took the name Charla Cameron. I only wrote that one contemporary book because I was contracted to write a historical every nine months and didn’t have the time to write more. Later, when I sold a Magnolia Road book to Pinnacale, I was still writing as Gloria Dale Skinner and once again I had to take another name so I chose the same name of Charla Cameron. I don’t think publishers are as worried about authors competing within different houses now, but at the time, if you were contracted with two houses most of them wanted you to write under different names. When I decided to leave America Historicals and write Regency I moved to Berkley Books and my editor suggested that since Gloria was known as a writer of American Historicals why not start in a new country with a new name. It sounded like a good idea to me I suggested the name Amelia Gray. I thought it sounded very British and my editor said it will when we spell Gray the way the English do–Grey. So that’s how I became Amelia Grey and ten books later I’m still Amelia.

Let’s talk about book re-issue. As an outsider (but more an insider than the usual book reader) “re-issue” makes one automatically wonder if they call it re-issue because there was an issue to begin with? Course I’m sure that’s not really the case with most book re-issues, at least when it comes to the writing. (Sorry, my ADHD mind wanders occasionally when something makes me think about something else.)

The real question…When it comes to re-issues with new covers to suit the current time and trends, are you involved with the cover design in any way and do you and your editors revisit the story and make changes or add to it? I would think that a re-issue is a good time to take all the previous feedback from your readers to make a story more memorable. Another question I have on the topic of re-issue- is it typical to re-issue mainly when you switch publishers? Or only if the new publisher buys the rights from the old publisher?

AMELIA GREY: You are full of good questions today! I published five Regencys for Berkley and then had to stop writing for a couple of years for family reasons. When I started writing again, I sold to Sourcebooks. I asked Berkley for the rights back to my first five books and when I got them, I resold them to Sourcebooks. So it’s usually the author who re-sales her books to new publishers. Now, Sourcebooks is re publishing my first five Amelia Grey books. They are publishing one new book and one reprint each year to give me two books out a year. They have to put new covers on the reprints because covers remains with the publisher, only the book is returned to the author. And, yes, Sourcebooks always asks me to give them cover ideas, even with my reprints. As in my latest book A Gentleman Says “I Do” I suggested that the heroine should be holding a piece of parchment with writing on it behind her back and that’s exactly what they did. And I need to add that Sourcebooks has given me fabulous covers for my reprints. As far as tweaking the old books, yes we can do that to some extent, but usually there isn’t the time to make large changes or to completely rewrite a book even if we wanted to. But there is always some things we want and need to change before the book is reprinted.

Have you ever thought about writing something completely different from what you’re known to write as? Or maybe you’re already or have done that under another pen name. Has it ever crossed your mind or has anyone suggested you try another genre all together different?

AMELIA GREY: I love romance. It’s all I want to write. Last year I published a nonfiction book called Fall In Love Like A Romance Writer as Amelia Grey. I asked well-known authors to tell me their own true love stories and then I made a collection of their responses. It turned out to be a wonderful book. So I enjoyed doing that but I don’t have the desire to write anything that isn’t a romance book.

OK, enough about your “multiple personalities” and book re-issues …I know we need to talk about your latest book today. So let’s make the 4th question be about that.

A Gentleman Says “I Do” comes out this month and it’s the 5th novel in The Rogues’ Dynasty series – Tell us about this particular story in the series and how you came up with the plot (I know. typical question that I’m sure you’ve answered hundreds of times…but it still has to be asked.:-)) If I was a publisher, what would your pitch be to get me excited about your novel?

AMELIA GREY: I think the best way to do that is to give you the blurb synopsis I gave to my editor. It sold her on the book and hopefully your readers will be just as excited and ready to read the book as she was:

A Gentleman Says “I Do”

Iverson Brentwood has finally met his match. Catalina Crisp heats his blood like no other in his history as a confirmed bachelor. She is the most beautiful and alluring young lady he’s ever encountered, and her lovely countenance has stopped him dead in his tracks. But no matter how attracted he is to the intriguing Catalina, he can’t give into his desire to possess her in every way… for she is the daughter of the man he’s sworn to destroy.

Catalina’s father is a well-known poet and a writer, but wastrel whose disappearances continuously put their household one step away from destitution. Something drastic must change, so it is with quill in hand, that Catalina completes her father’s latest parody of the twins Iverson and Matson Brentwood’s spectacular arrival in London. When the writing hit the streets and parlors of London , it’s not long before a darkly handsome man is at her door, looking for her father.

Seeing the dashing rogue in the flesh, Catalina wishes she could write her way out of Iverson Brentwood’s life. And yet, for a bewildering moment as her heartbeat races and her throat goes dry, dallying with the rake seems like the perfect fictional escape—and it’s all she can do not to throw her arms around him and give into the madness of the intriguing man.

And before we close…a bonus question…What’s the most unique question you’ve been asked by an interviewer? (I promise, I won’t get upset if it’s none of mine. Promise.)

AMELIA GREY: It has to be when it was a series of questions that I could give short answers about me. Let me find the interview and I’ll copy and paste some of it here. It was just a lot of fun and nothing serious about them.

My favorite book is:

Charlotte’s Web. I know not a romance but a favorite carried over from childhood.

My favorite movie is:

“Enemy At The Gates, Braveheart, Gladiators, Dances With Wolves, Last of the Mohicans, and too many more to list here.

The author who influences me the most is:

Amanda Quick’s

If I received a free trip to anywhere in the world where would I visit:

London, England!

My favorite historical time period is:

Regency!

Mr. Darcy or Mr. Rochester:

Mr. Darcy

Chocolate or Strawberry

Strawberry

There were a few others but you get the picture. It was fun to answer 20 quick questions about me. And as you can see sometimes with movies you can’t settle on just one. Since I answered this interview a few years ago, there are movies I could add to it. For instance, I saw Hugo over the Christmas holidays and absolutely LOVED it!

Thank you so much for taking the time out of your day chatting with us! It’s always a delight to have you here and I look forward to future books and re-issues I’ve not yet read. Come back soon!

AMELIA GREY: Thank you, thank you! I so enjoy being here and your questions were great!

I love to hear from readers. Please contact me at ameliagrey.com, ameliagrey@comcast.net, or find me on www.Facebook.com/AmeliaGreyBooks

Take a Fresh Look to Make Life Easier {Guest Author: Judy Christie} + #Book #Giveaway

The Book Faery — Tue, 01 May 2012 13:45:14 +0000

A frequent visitor to our Louisiana backyard bird feeders is a persistent squirrel, who I watch with a blend of awe and aggravation.

He spends an amazing amount of effort to get to one particular feeder, stretching, hanging upside down, falling off and getting back on. While I admire his tenacity, he isn’t very smart: The same food is laid out plentifully on two easily accessible feeders nearby.

He makes this much harder than it should be.

If you’ve ever found yourself doing this, too, your busy schedule keeping you from enjoying each day, consider these tips:

Slow down. You can’t do everything. When you say “no” to one thing, you say “yes” to something else.
Identify what gives you energy and what drains your energy. Look for ways to do more things you enjoy and to trim the drainers.
Be clear about What’s Most Important in your life. Schedule time for family and friends, to take a trip, learn something new or enjoy a hobby. If time with children or grandchildren is a priority, put it on your calendar, so that it doesn’t slip away.
Don’t panic when you get swamped. Allow yourself a “get-it-done-hour” and focus on your to-do list, checking off as many things as you can.
Be aware of how much time you spend on distractions, such as online wandering. We waste a lot of time on things that don’t matter, neglecting more important or enjoyable activities.
Deal with nagging problems. Often you can take care of small hassles more simply than you realize. Make a list of issues you deal with again and again. Pick the one that slows you down the most and find a solution.

Have lots of fun along the way, and don’t make life harder than it needs to be. I’d love to hear your tips on how to slow down and enjoy each day more.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Author Judy Christie loves to help busy people slow down and enjoy each day more – in her series of novels about Green, Louisiana, and her Hurry Less Worry Less nonfiction books. Judy started her writing career as the editor of The Barret Banner in elementary school and has kept a journal since she was nine (and still has all of them). She likes wandering around flea markets, walking in the park near her North Louisiana home and visiting friends and family on her vintage green Kitchen Couch. Her most recent books are Downtown Green, fifth in the Green series, and Hurry Less Worry Less for Moms.

For Judy’s free tips on how busy moms can hurry less and worry less, listen to her weekly podcast: http://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/hurry-less-worry-less/id435253514.

Visit her website at www.judychristie.com, Twitter and the Official Tour Page.

Busy moms know the feeling. They’re constantly trying to fit everything – work, laundry, family fun, shuttle service, you name it – into 24-hours. They want to enjoy each day with their family but sometimes feel like they’re in quicksand and don’t know how to get started on a new path.

Author Judy Christie offers hope, inspiration, practical ideas and reminders of how important it is to step back and take a fresh look at your life in Hurry Less, Worry Less for Moms. The book includes a study guide for group or individual use.

Take a deep breath and refresh your life or that of a busy mom you know with chapters such as: A Map for Mom: Being the person you are meant to be; Organization versus Procrastination; Prayerful Not Fretful; and Making Choices, Facing Changes.

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Kindle Store | Barnes & Noble

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS… We’re giving away ONE copy of HURRY LESS WORRY LESS FOR MOMS by Judy Christie to a lucky reader of this post. This giveaway is open to those with a US/Canadian mailing address and runs through the month of May. Winners will be notified as a reply to their post comment (email does go out when there is a reply on their original comment), on The Book Faery Reviews Facebook Page, and within the RSS feed email that goes out Monday-Friday. Winners are typically announced within a couple of days after the end of the month.

…the MANDATORY question to answer below is…

Any thoughts on the authors tips
or anything you’d like to add and share with others?

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Garden of Madness {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Tue, 01 May 2012 07:19:43 +0000

The Untold Story of King Nebuchadnezzar’s Daughter.

For seven years the Babylonian princess Tiamat has waited for the mad king Nebuchadnezzar to return to his family and to his kingdom. Driven from his throne to live as a beast, he prowls his luxurious Hanging Gardens, secreted away from the world.

Since her treaty marriage at a young age, Tia has lived an opulent but oppressive life in the palace. But her husband has since died and she relishes her newfound independence. When a nobleman is found murdered in the palace, Tia must discover who is responsible for the macabre death, even if her own is freedom threatened.

As the queen plans to wed Tia to yet another prince, the powerful mage Shadir plots to expose the family’s secret and set his own man on the throne. Tia enlists the help of a reluctant Jewish captive, her late husband’s brother Pedaiah, who challenges her notions of the gods even as he opens her heart to both truth and love.

Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Thomas Nelson; 1 edition (May 1, 2012)
ISBN-10: 140168680X
ISBN-13: 978-1401686802

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Christianbook | Barnes & Noble

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Tracy started her first novel at the age of eight and has been hooked on writing ever since. After earning a B.A. in English Literature at Rowan University, she spent ten years writing drama presentations for church ministry before beginning to write fiction. A lifelong interest in history and mythology has led Tracy to extensive research into ancient Greece, Egypt, Rome and Persia, and shaped her desire to shine the light of the gospel into the cultures of the past.

She has traveled through Greece, Turkey, Egypt, Israel, Jordan and Italy, researching her novels and falling into adventures.

Visit the author’s website.

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…A little slow at first but excellent once I got over some confusion and had to re-read parts. Lots of secrets within the palace are exposed as Tiamat learns more about her father, the King and about God. I really liked princess Tiamat and doubt any wouldn’t. She was so open, honest, kind-hearted, simplistic, and truly genuine. Even the reading group questions at the end were good to read through and think about afterwards. For those who enjoy reading Christian historical fiction, I’m sure you will enjoy reading about the Tiamat.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Prologue

Babylon, 570 BC

My name is Nebuchadnezzar. Let the nations hear it!

I am ruler of Babylon, greatest empire on earth. Here in its capital city, I am like a god.

Tonight, as the sun falls to its death in the western desert, I walk along the balconies I have built, overlooking the city I have built, and know there is none like me.

I inhale the twilight air and catch the scent of a dozen sacrifices. Across the city, the smoke and flames lift from Etemenanki, the House of the Platform of Heaven and Earth. The priests sacrifice tonight in honor of Tiamat, for tomorrow she will be wed. Though I have questioned the wisdom of a marriage with the captive Judaeans, tomorrow will not be a day for questions. It will be a day of celebration, such as befits a princess.

Tiamat comes to me now on the balcony, those dark eyes wide with entreaty. “Please, Father.”

I encircle her shoulders in a warm embrace and turn her to the city.

“There, Tia. There is our glorious Babylon. Do you not wish to serve her?”

She leans her head against my chest, her voice thick. “Yes, of course. But I do not wish to marry.”

I pat her shoulder, kiss the top of her head. My sweet Tia. Who would have foretold that she would become such a part me?

“Have no fear, dear one. Nothing shall change. Husband or not, I shall always love you. Always protect you.”

She clutches me, a desperate grip around my waist.

I release her arms and look into her eyes. “Go now. Your mother will be searching for you. Tomorrow will be a grand day, for you are the daughter of the greatest king Babylon has ever seen.”

I use my thumb to rub a tear from her eye, give her a gentle push, and she is gone with a last look of grief that breaks my heart.

The greatest king Babylon has ever seen. The words echo like raindrops plunking on stones. I try to ignore a tickling at the back of my thoughts. Something Belteshazzar told me, many months ago. A dream.

I shake my head, willing my mind to be free of the memory. My longtime Jewish advisor, part of my kingdom since we were both youths, often troubles me with his advice. I keep him close because he has become a friend. I keep him close because he is too often right.

But I do not want to think of Belteshazzar. Tonight is for me alone. For my pleasure, as I gaze across all that I have built, all that I have accomplished. This great Babylon, this royal residence with its Gardens to rival those created by the gods. Built by my mighty power. For the glory of my majesty. I grip the balcony wall, inhale the smoky sweetness again, and smile. It is good.

I hear a voice and think perhaps Belteshazzar has found me after all, for the words sound like something he would say, and yet the voice . . . The voice is of another.

“There is a decree gone out for you, Nebuchadnezzar. Your kingship has been stripped from you.”

I turn to the traitorous words, but no one is there. And yet the voice continues, rumbling in my own chest, echoing in my head.

“You will be driven from men to dwell with beasts. You will eat the herbs of oxen and seven times will pass over you, until you know that the Most High is ruler in the kingdom of men. To whom He wills power, He gives power.”

The tickling is there again, in my mind. I roll my shoulders to ease the discomfort, but it grows. It grows to a scratching, a clawing at the inside of my head, until I fear I shall bleed within.

The fear swells in me and I am frantic now. I rub my eyes, swat my ears, and still the scratching and scraping goes on, digging away at my memories, at my sense of self, of who I am and what I have done, and I stare at the sky above and the stones below and bend my waist and fall upon the ground where it is better, better to be on the ground, and I want only to find food, food, food. And a two-legged one comes and makes noises with her mouth and clutches at me but I understand none of it and even this knowledge that I do not understand is slipping, slipping from me as the sun slips into the desert.

And in the darkness, I am no more.

Chapter 1

Seven years later

The night her husband died, Tia ran with abandon.

The city wall, wide enough for chariots to race upon its baked bricks, absorbed the slap of her bare feet and cooled her skin. She flew past the Ishtar Gate as though chased by demons, knowing the night guard in his stone tower would be watching. Leering. Tia ignored his attention.

Tonight, this night, she wanted only to run.

A lone trickle of sweat chased down her backbone. The desert chill soaked into her bones and somewhere in the vast sands beyond the city walls, a jackal shrieked over its kill. Her exhalation clouded the air and the quiet huffs of her breath kept time with her feet.

Breathe, slap, slap, slap.

They would be waiting. Expecting her. A tremor disturbed her rhythm. Her tears for Shealtiel were long spent, stolen by the desert air before they fell.

Flames surged from the Tower and snagged her attention. Priests and their nightly sacrifices, promising to ensure the health of the city. For all of Babylon’s riches, the districts encircled by the double city walls smelled of poverty, disease, and hopelessness. But the palace was an oasis in a desert.

She would not run the entire three bêru around the city. Not tonight. Only to the Marduk Gate and back to the Southern Palace, where her mother would be glaring her displeasure at both her absence and her choice of pastime. Tia had spent long days at Shealtiel’s bedside, waiting for the end. Could her mother not wait an hour?

Too soon, the Marduk Gate loomed and Tia slowed. The guard leaned over the waist-high crenellation, thrust a torch above his head, and hailed the trespasser.

“Only Tiamat.” She panted and lifted a hand. “Running.”

He shrugged and shook his head, then turned back to his post, as though a princess running the city wall at night in the trousers of a Persian were a curiosity, nothing more. Perhaps he’d already seen her run. More likely, her reputation ran ahead of her. The night hid her flush of shame.

But she could delay no longer. The guilt had solidified, a stone in her belly she could not ignore.

She pivoted, sucked in a deep breath, and shot forward, legs and arms pounding for home.

Home. Do I still call it such? When all that was precious had been taken? Married at fourteen. A widow by twenty-one. And every year a lie.

“I shall always love you, always protect you.”

He had spoken the words on the night he had been lost to her. And where was love? Where was protection? Not with Shealtiel.

The night sky deepened above her head, and a crescent moon hung crooked against the blackness. Sataran and Aya rose in the east, overlapping in false union.

“The brightest light in your lifetime’s sky,” an elderly mage had said of the merged stars. The scholar’s lessons on the workings of the cosmos interested her, and she paid attention. As a princess already married for treaty, she was fortunate to retain tutors.

Ahead, the Ishtar Gate’s blue-glazed mosaics, splashed with yellow lions, surged against the purpling sky, and to its left, the false wooded mountain built atop the palace for her mother, Amytis, equaled its height. Tia chose the east wall of the gate for a focal point and ignored the Gardens. Tonight the palace had already seen death. She needn’t also dwell on madness.

Breathe, slap, slap, slap. Chest on fire, almost there.

She reached the palace’s northeast corner, where it nearly brushed the city wall, slowed to a stop, and bent at the waist. Hands braced against her knees, she sucked in cold air. Her heartbeat quieted.

When she turned back toward the palace, she saw what her mother had done.

A distance of one kanû separated the wide inner city wall from the lip of the palace roof, slightly lower. Tia kept a length of cedar wood there on the roof, a plank narrow enough to discourage most, and braced it across the chasm for her nightly runs. When she returned, she would pull it back to the roof, where anyone who might venture past the guards on the wall would not gain access. Only during her run did this plank bridge the gap, awaiting her return.

Amytis had removed it.

Something like heat lightning snapped across Tia’s vision and left a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth. Her mother thought to teach her a lesson. Punish her for her manifold breaches of etiquette by forcing her to take the long way down, humiliate herself to the sentinel guard.

She would not succeed.

With a practiced eye, Tia measured the distance from the ledge to the palace roof. She would have the advantage of going from a higher to a lower level. A controlled fall, really. Nothing more.

But she made the mistake of looking over, to the street level far below. Her senses spun and she gripped the wall.

She scrambled onto the ledge, wide enough to take the stance needed for a long jump, and bent into position, one leg extended behind. The palace rooftop garden held only a small temple in its center, lit with three torches. Nothing to break her fall, or her legs, when she hit. She counted, steadying mind and body.

The wind caught her hair, loosened during her run, and blew it across her eyes. She flicked her head to sweep it away, rocked twice on the balls of her feet, and leaped.

The night air whooshed against her ears, and her legs cycled through the void as though she ran on air itself. The flimsy trousers whipped against her skin, and for one exhilarating moment Tia flew like an egret wheeling above the city and knew sweet freedom.

This was how it should always be. My life. My choice. I alone control my destiny.

She hit the stone roof grinning like a trick monkey, and it took five running steps to capture her balance.

Glorious.

Across the rooftop, a whisper of white fluttered. A swish of silk and a pinched expression disappeared through the opening to the stairs. Amytis had been waiting to see her stranded on the city wall and Tia had soured her pleasure. The moment of victory faded, and Tia straightened her hair, smoothed her clothing.

“Your skill is improving.” The eerie voice drifted to Tia across the dark roof and she flinched. A chill rippled through her skin.

Shadir stood at the far end of the roof wall, where the platform ended and the palace wall rose higher to support the Gardens. His attention was pinned to the stars, and a scroll lay on the ledge before him, weighted with amulets.

“You startled me, Shadir. Lurking there in the shadows.”

The mage turned, slid his gaze the length of her in sharp appraisal. “It would seem I am not the only one who prefers the night.”

Long ago, Shadir had been one of her father’s chief advisors. Before—before the day of which they never spoke. Since that monstrous day, he held amorphous power over court and kingdom, power that few questioned and even fewer defied. His oiled hair hung in tight curls to his shoulders and the full beard and mustache concealed too much of his face, leaving hollow eyes that seemed to follow even when he did not turn his head.

Tia shifted on her feet and eyed the door. “It is cooler to run at night.”

The mage held himself unnaturally still. Did he even breathe?

As a child, Tia had believed Shadir could scan her thoughts like the night sky and read her secrets. Little relief had come with age. Another shudder ran its cold finger down her back.

Tia lowered her chin, all the obeisance she would give, and escaped the rooftop. Behind her, he spoke in a tone more hiss than speech. “The night holds many dangers.”

She shook off the unpleasant encounter. Better to ready herself for the unpleasantness she yet faced tonight.

Her husband’s family would have arrived by this time, but sweating like a soldier and dressed like a Persian, she was in no state to make an appearance in the death chamber. Instead, she went to her own rooms, where her two slave women, Omarsa and Gula, sat vigil as though they were the grieving widows. They both jumped when Tia entered and busied themselves with lighting more oil lamps and fetching bathwater.

In spite of her marriage to the eldest son of the captive Judaean king, Tia’s chambers were her own. She had gone to Shealtiel when it was required, and only then. The other nights she spent here among her own possessions—silk fabrics purchased from merchants who traveled east of Babylon, copper bowls hammered smooth by city jewelers, golden statues of the gods, rare carved woods from fertile lands in the west. A room of luxury. One that Shealtiel disdained and she adored. She was born a Babylonian princess. Let him have his austerity, his righteous self-denial. It had done him little good.

One of her women stripped her trousers, then unwound the damp sash that bound her lean upper body. Tia stood in the center of the bath chamber, its slight floor depression poked with drainage holes under her feet, and tried to be still as they doused her with tepid water and scrubbed with a scented paste of plant ash and animal fat until her skin stung.

When they had dressed her appropriately, her ladies escorted her through the palace corridors to the chamber where her husband of nearly seven years lay cold.

Seven years since she lost herself and her father on the same day. Neither of them had met death, but all the same, they were lost. Seven years of emptiness where shelter had been, of longing instead of love.

But much had ended today—Shealtiel’s long illness and Tia’s long imprisonment.

She paused outside the chamber door. Could she harden herself for the inevitable? The wails of women’s laments drifted under the door and wrapped around her heart, squeezing pity from her. A wave of sorrow, for the evil that took those who are loved, tightened her throat. But her grief was more for his family than herself. He had been harsh and unloving and narrow-minded, and now she was free. Tia would enter, give the family her respect, and escape to peace.

She nodded to one of her women, and Gula tapped the door twice and pushed it open.

Shealtiel’s body lay across a pallet, skin already graying. The chamber smelled of death and frankincense. Three women attended her husband—Shealtiel’s sister, his mother, and Tia’s own. His mother, Marta, sat in a chair close to the body. Her mourning clothes, donned over her large frame, were ashy and torn. She lifted her head briefly, saw that it was only Tia, and returned to her keening. Her shoulders rocked and her hands clutched at a knot of clothing, perhaps belonging to Shealtiel. His sister, Rachel, stood against the wall and gave her a shy smile, a smile that melded sorrow and admiration. She was younger than Tia by five years, still unmarried, a sweet girl.

“Good of you to join us, Tia.” Her mother’s eyes slitted and traveled the length of Tia’s robes. Tia expected some comment about her earlier dress, but Amytis held her tongue.

“I was . . . detained.” Their gazes clashed over Shealtiel’s body and Tia challenged her with a silent smile. The tension held for a moment, then Tia bent her head.

She was exquisite, Amytis. No amount of resentment on Tia’s part could blind her to this truth. Though Amytis had made it clear that Tia’s sisters held her affections, and though Tia had long ago given up calling her Mother in her heart, she could not deny that her charms still held sway in Babylon. From old men to children, Amytis was adored. Her lustrous hair fell to her waist, still black though she was nearly fifty, and her obsidian eyes over marble cheekbones were a favorite of the city’s best sculptors. Some said Tia favored her, but if she did, the likeness did nothing to stir a motherly affection.

Tia went to Shealtiel’s mother and whispered over her, “May the gods show kindness to you today, Marta. It is a difficult day for us all.” The woman’s grief broke Tia’s heart, and she placed a hand on Marta’s wide shoulder to share in it.

Marta sniffed and pulled away. “Do not call upon your false gods for me, girl.”

Amytis sucked in a breath, her lips taut.

Tia’s jaw tightened. “He was a good man, Marta. He will be missed.” Both of these statements Tia made without falsehood. Shealtiel was the most pious man she had ever known, fully committed to following the exacting requirements of his God.

Marta seemed to soften. She reached a plump hand to pat Tia’s own, still on her shoulder. “But how could the Holy One have taken him before he saw any children born?”

Tia stiffened and brought her hand to her side, forcing the fingers to relax. Marta rocked and moaned on, muttering about Tia’s inhospitable womb. Tia dared not point out that perhaps her son was to blame.

“But there is still a chance.” Marta looked to Amytis, then to Tia. “It is our way. When the husband dies without an heir, his brother—”

“No.”

The single word came from both her mother’s and her own lips as one. Marta blinked and looked between them.

“It is our way.” Marta glanced at Rachel against the wall, as though seeking an ally. “My second son Pedaiah is unmarried yet. Perhaps Tia could still bear a son for Shealtiel—”

“You have had your treaty marriage with Babylon.” Amytis drew herself up, accentuating her lean height. “There will not be another.”

Tia remained silent. Her mother and she, in agreement? Had Amytis watched her languish these seven years and regretted flinging her like day-old meat to the Judaean dogs? Did she also hope for a life with more purpose for Tia now that she had been released? Tia lifted a smile, ever hopeful that Amytis’s heart had somehow softened toward her youngest daughter.

“Jeconiah shall hear of your refusal!” Marta stood, her chin puckering.

Amytis huffed. “Take the news to your imprisoned husband, then. I shall not wait for his retribution.” She seemed to sense the unfairness of the moment and regret her calloused words. “Come, Tia. Let us leave these women to grieve.” She meant it kindly but it was yet another insult, the implication that Tia need not remain for any personal grief.

Tia followed Amytis from the chamber into the hall, her strong perfume trailing. Amytis spun on her, and her heavy red robe whirled and settled. Her nostrils flared and she spoke through clenched teeth.

“By all the gods, Tiamat! For how long will you make our family a mockery?”

***Special thanks to Ruthie Dean of Thomas Nelson for sending me a review copy.***

The Angel Chronicles: Until Next Time {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 17:07:53 +0000

How does a girl choose between the one who steals her heart and the one who owns her soul?

Matt and Emily were created for a specific job. Raised and trained as the ultimate angel/warrior team, they are sent down to save, defend, judge and forgive, depending on the ‘life’ they’ve been assigned. What they don’t realize is that the power of human emotions, such as love, anger, passion and fear can take over even the best of souls, causing them to make mistakes and follow paths that lead to confusion and heartache.

When the reason for their training is finally revealed, the angel/warrior team find themselves thrust into a world they know nothing about. Matt takes over the life of Daniel, a young man with a great deal of baggage. Emily becomes Liz, a girl living in a remote village who relies on nothing more than her own strength to survive. A violent storm erupts one night, and framed in the window of Liz’s establishment is a frightening face. Let in by the soul of a Good Samaritan, the two visitors bring with them a past full of secrets that could literally change an angel’s path and a warrior’s plans.

From murder to redemption, this angel/warrior team must find a way to keep the faith they have in each other in a world that’s ripping them apart.

ISBN: 9780983741855 (eBook)
ISBN: 9781465992697 (eBook)
Pages: 295
Release: February 1, 2012

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Smashwords | PDF via Payloadz (through PayPal)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Amy Lignor began her career at Grey House Publishing in northwest Connecticut where she was the Editor-in-Chief of numerous educational and business directories.

Now she is a published author of several works of fiction. The Billy the Kid historical The Heart of a Legend; the thriller, Mind Made;and the adventure novel, Tallent & Lowery 13.

She is also the owner of The Write Companion, a company that offers help and support to writers through a full range of editorial services from proofreading and copyediting to ghostwriting and research. As the daughter of a research librarian, she is also an active book reviewer.

Currently, she lives with her daughter, mother and a rambunctious German Shepherd named Reuben, in the beautiful state of New Mexico.

The Angel Chronicles: Website | Facebook

Until Next Time: GoodReads

Amy Lignor: Facebook | Twitter | Website | Blog | GoodReads

FROM ONE OF THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS REVIEWER, EVA…Well Matt and Emily have sure had their workout between earth and heaven. The training they have had to endure before even being able to occupy a body, then of course the learning curve of the human life they have chosen. It confused me a little bit as they kept bouncing in between their human and heavenly lives and who was who, but I kept up pretty good. I really liked this book and hope the author comes out with a sequel to it. It made me think if our current life on earth, and what is going to happen when its our turn to die. Does anybody else believe in reincarnation? For anybody else reading this book, I hope you all enjoy it.

An e-copy was received in exchnage for an honest review as part of Tribute Books blog tour.

A Darkly Hidden Truth {#Book Trailer}

The Book Faery — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 04:44:22 +0000

A Darkly Hidden Truth, The Monastery Murders Book 2 by Donna Fletcher Crow. Felicity Howard, a young American studying for the Anglican priesthood at the College of the Transfiguration in Yorkshire, has to learn more about church history if she and Father Antony are going to unravel their second mystery. Past and present mix as the words of Julian of Norwich and the arcane rights of the Knights of St. John of Malta lead to a present-day killer. And as the friendship grows between Antony and Felicity, will Felicity choose a life dedicated to God as a nun or one with Antony? – FROM YOUTUBE

Pump Up Your Book Promotion is currently running a virtual book blog tour with the author. You can find out more information here.

The Summer Garden {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 19:37:17 +0000

Falling for “Maddening Moira” O’Malley was the unexpected highlight of Luke O’Brien’s Dublin holiday. So when she pays a surprise visit to Chesapeake Shores, Luke is thrilled…at first. A fling with this wild Irish rose is one thing, but forever? Maybe someday, but not when he’s totally focused on establishing a business that will prove his mettle to his overachieving family.

Given Luke’s reaction, Moira has some soul-searching of her own to do. Scarred by her father’s abandonment, she wonders if Luke, with his playboy past, is truly the family man she longs for. Adding to her dilemma, she’s offered an amazing chance at a dream career of her own.

Deep down, though, Moira knows home is the real prize, and that love can be every bit as enchanted as a summer garden.

Mass Market Paperback: 384 pages
Publisher: Mira (January 31, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0778313093
ISBN-13: 978-0778313090

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Books A Million

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…With her roots firmly planted in the South, Sherryl Woods has written many of her more than 100 books in that distinctive setting, whether her home state of Virginia, her adopted state, Florida, or her much-adored South Carolina. She’s also especially partial to small towns wherever they may be. In Amazing Gracie, as in her later Trinity Harbor series, Woods creates a fictional version of the town where she spends summers on the shores of the Potomac River. “This town just lends itself to fascinating characters and a charming locale,” she says.

A member of Novelists Inc., Sisters in Crime and Romance Writers of America, Sherryl divides her time between her childhood summer home overlooking the Potomac River in Colonial Beach, Virginia, and her oceanfront home with its lighthouse view, in Key Biscayne, Florida. “Wherever I am, if there’s no water in sight, I get a little antsy,” she says.

Sherryl also loves hearing from readers. You can join her at her blog, www.justbetweenfriendsblog.com, visit her Web site at www.sherrylwoods.com, visit her on Facebook, www.facebook.com/pages/Sherryl-Woods/157107747648506, or contact her directly at Sherryl703@gmail.com.

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…It is always a delight to read another story of the O’Brien family from Chesapeake Shores. I’ve yet to be disappointed. The way Woods portrays the family and scenes make you feel like you’re one of the family or a very close friend. In this story (#9 of the Chesapeake Shores series), Luke O’Brien is in the works of opening an Irish Pub in the US and is attracted to the “Maddening Moira” O’Malley. Will they be able to work it out together while pursuing their own ambitions? Well you know by typical romance formula, someone follows their ambition, gets the other person, and the other will have to decide which is more important to them. Wonderful series that will warm your heart and fill you with joy.

I received a copy in exchange for an honest review.

Love Thy Neighbor {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 14:02:42 +0000

Clark Hayden is a graduate student trying to help his mother navigate through the loss of his father while she continues to live in their house near Washington DC. With his mother’s diminishing mental capacity becoming the norm, Clark expects a certain amount of craziness as he heads home for the holidays. What he couldn’t possibly anticipate, though, is that he would find himself catapulted into the middle of a terrorist operation. As the holiday festivities reach a crescendo, a terrorist cell – which happens to be across the street – is activated. Suddenly Clark is discovering things he never knew about deadly chemicals, secret government operations, suspiciously missing neighbors, and the intentions of a gorgeous IRS auditor. Clark’s quiet suburban neighborhood is about to become o! ne of the most deadly places on the planet, and it’s up to Clark to prevent the loss of hundreds of thousands of innocent lives in the nation’s capital.

Paperback: 438 pages
Publisher: Story Plant, The (March 27, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1611880343
ISBN-13: 978-1611880342

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Barnes & Noble

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Mark Gilleo holds a graduate degree in international business from the University of South Carolina and an undergraduate degree in business from George Mason University. He enjoys traveling, has lived and worked in Asia, and speaks fluent Japanese. A fourth-generation Washingtonian, he currently resides in the D.C. area. His two most recent novels were recognized as finalist and semifinalist, respectively, in the William Faulkner-Wisdom Creative writing competition. The Story Plant will publish his next novel, SWEAT in 2012.

AUTHOR SITES: Love Thy Neighbor page www.thestoryplant.com

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…Love Thy Neighbor was a fairly fast paced read once I got into the novel. Gilleo kept me in suspense throughout with multiple characters that give me little bits of detail from their point of view making me constantly wonder and realizing that it could potentially happen anywhere. His writing is so detailed it was easy to feel as if I was a fly on the wall listening and watching the scenes. I recommend Love Thy Neighbor to those who enjoy a good thriller suspense that will have your mind going the whole time.

We received a copy as part of the Partners In Crime Book Tour in exchange for an honest review.

Dublin Destiny {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 14:32:06 +0000

Can an introverted ugly duckling be God’s perfect match for the most eligible bachelor in town?

Running from imminent danger back home, shy, awkward Irishwoman Rylee Shannon flees to small town, USA, forced to live under the protection of unfamiliar family friends.

Prompted to protect her, the McLellans arrange the marriage of Rylee and their son, Patrick, one of Georgia’s most prominent and handsome doctors.

Willing yet hesitant, the two marry. But bound by her wallflower personality and unruly looks, she fails to make any connection with Patrick.

While Patrick is away on a long-term medical mission trip, crossing off days until the annulment, Rylee is determined to change—both inwardly and outwardly—to win the affections of her husband. Battling rumors and echoes of her past, she wins over Patrick’s family and friends with her amiable personality and perpetual state of embarrassment.

Patrick returns home to find his wife transformed into a beautiful, confident woman. When he realizes that God’s arrangement of the marriage was intentional and permanent, Patrick begins to see his wife in a different light.

But as their feelings develop, their relationship is continually derailed by Rylee’s unusual habits and stubborn pride. As Rylee’s good-natured presence begins to change the lives of the McLellans, they are also determined to conquer Rylee’s inhibitions and alter her eternity.

Patrick’s protection turns to affection, but Rylee’s past threatens to collide with her future. You won’t want to miss Patrick and Rylee McLellan fight to discover The Dublin Destiny in this captivating tale of secrets, romance, forgiveness, and divine love.

List Price: $17.99
Perfect Paperback: 232 pages
Publisher: Tate Publishing (January 10, 2012)
ISBN-10: 1613465610
ISBN-13: 978-1613465615

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Barnes and Noble | Tate Publishing

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…With the encouragement of family and friends, Jill Twigg pursued her lifelong dream of becoming a Christian author into reality. She is the mother of four daughters and nina to five grandchildren. She resides in Houma, Louisiana with her husband.

Visit the author’s website.

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Prologue

The panting sounds she heard were getting stronger. Rylee looked behind her to see who was coming. There was no one. She quickly continued her quest to get home. Only a hundred more yards, she could make it. Still hearing panting sounds, she stopped and leaned against the building to confirm no one was coming. She didn’t understand. The sounds were so loud and persistent. She held her breath a second longer to take notice then sighed, realizing the sounds were coming from her own mouth. Rylee breathed a little easier knowing that possibly she wasn’t being followed just yet. In hurrying to get home to see her mother, Rylee knew one thing for sure: the need for calling bluffs had to stop. One day it wasn’t going to work. And she was thinking that it was the day. She was utterly unsure of her future now.

The flight plans were set, and she was to leave to catch the bus in a little less than an hour. That bus would take her to the airport in Dublin, which was at least an hour from her house. Rylee would then catch a plane and a connecting flight to her destination in America—Georgia, to be exact. Where that was? Rylee had no clue. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. How can someone threaten the life of someone else and get away with it? Never mind that, how can one take the life of another and get away with it? Why was this happening to her? She hadn’t hurt anyone to deserve this warning.

Rylee certainly had her reasons for threatening to cause problems. So now she had to leave her home and her country. Where was the justice in that? With the deadline for her departure almost expired, she wasn’t wasting any time. Prolonging the inevitable only made the impending

matter worse. She knew she had to go. There was more at stake than just her life, and she wasn’t going to put her mother at risk because of her momentary inclination to stir up trouble.

Her mother was waiting with the luggage just inside the front door. A large tote bag consisting of a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, and a license were all Rylee had to take on her journey. She was not sure why she bothered. That wasn’t much to start a new life, but she knew she’d get by with what she had. She received from her mother a quick kiss and one hundred dollars. They tried to stay strong, neither one wanting to show too much emotion, for fear they would not follow through with their plan. However, when the time drew near, their watering eyes displayed the melancholy they were both trying to avoid. They each had no indication as to when they would see each other again. Sometimes life was just so unfair. Hurrying back out the door, Rylee headed around the building to the bus stop and her uncertain

future. There was no bluffing her way out of this one.

Chapter One

Rylee Shannon was embarking on a new and scary adventure. A journey, if you wanted to call it that. Or vice versa. And as far as she knew, it could have been a journey right to hell. But anywhere was better than where she’d been. Scary or not, she had to trust that her mother was doing the right thing. Those demons would eventually need conquering, even if it took her last dying breath to do so. But for now, she would suffer in silence until she figured how the next part of her life was going to play out in the scheme of things. The midnight flight from Dublin, Ireland, was scary enough considering the fact she had never been on a plane. Except for her therapy training and the occasional visits to the Wicklow Mountains, Rylee didn’t venture too far from her town of Glendalough.

The flight attendant was not looking very cordial this evening as she monitored the seatbelts down the aisles. Her making sure everyone buckled his or her seatbelts before takeoff brought no comfort to Rylee at this point. She assumed the flight attendant had picked the short end of the stick and received the late night flight as punishment. Rylee also noticed the deep set of dark circles under the attendant’s eyes. She had probably had a long and hard day. Haven’t we all? Rylee added to her thought process.

With eyes wandering about, Rylee noticed there were thirty-five rows of two seats on each side of a middle aisle, A and C on one side and D and F on the other.

What happened to B and E? she wondered. She needed to stop thinking so much. She was getting very anxious for the flight to be over, and the plane hadn’t even gotten into the air yet. The Fasten Your Seatbelt sign came on, and the flight attendant made her announcements. She proceeded to show the routine demonstrations of putting on the seatbelt as the airplane taxied to the runway.

The safety demonstration is a joke, Rylee thought.

Flotation device—were they serious? Did they really expect her to believe that if this big bus in the sky was to have a water landing, she would actually be able to utilize the flotation device? Would she even be able to get over the panic to grab her seat cushion? Nonetheless, when she stood, she would almost certainly knock herself out because the ceiling was so low. And flipping the seat over to attach the straps around her shoulders? Just give me a gun! She laughed at herself.

The realization that a tranquilizer would have been appropriate for this trip approached her thought process as well. All that thinking was going to make her insane. She just needed to relax. Right!

Rylee could hear her mother beyond her doom-and-gloom thoughts.

Always the pessimist, Rylee girl. Someday, you are going to have to learn to trust the Lord. Negative thoughts will bring you negative actions! You mind my words. Nothing good will come of it, ever.

Rylee’s mother, Bonnie, was always the optimist. Rylee couldn’t fathom anything positive coming from this journey to the unknown. Her life at home was bleak at best, according to her, but at least she knew it. How was it to become any better, running for her life, basically to an unknown country?

The plan was for her to stay with a childhood pen pal of her mother’s. A pen pal, for Pete’s sake! Not even a friend her mother had actually met.

How could her mother do this to her? She could be sending her to a place worse than which she came from. How could Bonnie be that trusting? However, Rylee had no place else to go. She was as desperate as desperate could get. Again, always the pessimist, she thought.

She needed sleep. If the ride was as traumatic as the takeoff, she didn’t know how she was going to get through it. Not only that, but she was scheduled to change planes in New York, so she would get to do it all over again. It was a good thing she brought her inhaler, because even though the passenger in the next seat explained the bumps from the plane were just “air pockets in the clouds,” she wanted off, and she wanted off now. The stress that manifested her wheezing finally subsided after several minutes, and she was able to breathe normally. However, it wasn’t long until the next bout of bumpy clouds came again. It was amazing to her how a bunch of fluff could make an enormous airplane dip like a roller coaster. The feeling of her heart leaving her chest and moving into her throat was not making a good first impression for this airline. She was quite sure she never wanted to go through the experience of an airplane ride ever again. Next time she would think about traveling by boat. But, then again, she couldn’t swim. She was in a pickle. Either way, she was in a predicament in which she needed to trust, and that was difficult for her.

The last couple of days had been hectic, to say the least—scrambling for a plan of escape, then putting it into action. She was literally running a race of her life. Her mother, bless her heart, had really stepped up to the plate for her. Rylee always told her mother that God had a special place waiting for her, and that was never truer than now. Bonnie managed to pawn some family relics to add to her measly savings to purchase Rylee a bus ticket. It also funded part of the plane ticket from Dublin to Georgia. Her mother’s pen pal fronted the rest with no questions asked, knowing she would not be able to pay it back anytime in the near future. She had to give the McLellans credit for coming to the aid, an expensive aid at that, especially for someone whom they had never met.

She wondered what she would have to do to compensate.

The roller coaster ride through the clouds was not helping Rylee’s nerves or the queasiness of her stomach. It was either due to the stress of the trip or the constant altitude changes; she didn’t know which. Probably both. At this point, she really needed the plane to stop. Rylee figured the pilot drew the short end of the stick as well. Between him and the stewardess, or the flight attendant or whatever they are calling them these days, Rylee didn’t have a chance on this flight.

“Oh my!” She exclaimed aloud, her thought process interrupted by another cloud dip. Luckily, she hadn’t eaten anything in a while, because that last dip would have caused her to lose it all. And it would not have been pretty. If Rylee wasn’t so shy, she’d go ask the pilot if he needed help driving the plane. She assumed he was a novice. She could at least alert him when the clouds were coming.

The woman seated next to her could see her distress and patted her clenched hand on the armrest.

“It’s okay. The plane is built to manage these clouds.”

“I’m not handling this very well, am I?” Rylee stated back to her.

“Don’t you know about the reconnaissance planes that fly into hurricanes to see how strong they are?” she asked. “This is nothing.”

She couldn’t fathom why anyone would want that job. She nodded, appreciating the woman’s attempt to comfort.

The pilot came on the loudspeaker to announce that the turbulence should be over and the rest of the flight would be smooth sailing. He even tried to downplay it and make light of the situation by asking the children to refrain from bouncing in their seats, while the passengers laughed. However, Rylee’s nerves did not dissipate. The woman patted Rylee’s hand again. Rylee smiled at her and then closed her eyes, silently praying that the pilot was true to his word. Her thoughts meandered to a picture of Rylee kissing the ground if she ever got to it.

The Hartfield-Jackson International airport in Atlanta was starting to come alive with the hustle and bustle of family, friends, and patrons waiting to board their flight. The vendors were opening up their gates for business as the early scheduled flights brought patrons yearning for nourishment or reading material before they headed to their destinations.

One of these patrons, Lucy McLellan, was there on a mission. In all her fifty-three years, she had never turned down someone needing help, and she wasn’t going to start now. About a week ago, she had received a disturbing phone call from her childhood pen pal in Ireland asking—more like begging—for her to accept her daughter for a visit. She added that Rylee was in need of protection. Lucy, never one to leave someone in a bind, agreed, knowing that her trusted friend would not have come to her in desperation without probable cause.

“Okay, here’s gate C33,” Lucy said, as she looked back and waved for her son to come over to where she was. Her pen pal’s daughter, Rylee, had gotten herself into some trouble. She was able to get a temporary visa to visit. How she got it in a week’s time was only by the grace of God, for she needed to be out of Ireland—and fast. Bonnie assured her there were no drugs involved; for that reason, she did not have to worry about the headache of not being able to trust someone in her own home. She didn’t want to go through the trouble of having to hide anything that could be pawned for drugs or what not.

Patrick, Lucy’s only child and driver to the airport for this meeting, lagged behind with much trepidation, verifying the gate from the monitor. After much pleading, Patrick agreed to the offering of himself in marriage for Rylee’s protection, at least until he got back from a mission abroad. The offer was made sight unseen and without revealing the motive for the visit. Then when he returned, he could annul the marriage. By that time, things would have settled down at the home front, and Rylee could return to her mother in Ireland.

Patrick agreed with much protest but knew his mother would not have asked without a great deal of praying. She had enough faith for the both of them; however, neither was lacking in that area.

“An arranged marriage? Mom, this is the twenty-first century,” he argued. With her arguing back that the Bible did not stop teaching and providing nourishment just because it was past the death of Christ, he smiled at her, knowing that any argument with his mom was never a winning situation on his part, and she knew he was teasing. And knowing Lucy, there would be more to it than a simple marriage of convenience.

However, Patrick had other concerns. He had to get ready for his trip abroad, which was in ten days. Patrick was a physician working at the county hospital’s emergency room clinic when he was home. On this assignment, he was heading to Guatemala for his church mission field project. He made the trip every two years to help with whatever medical issues were going on at the time. There was usually quite a load. He enjoyed his job immensely, believing the Lord gave him this job for a good reason. He didn’t believe it was for the money, nor the prestige, but for the gratification he got when he could truly help those that couldn’t help themselves—more specifically, the little children who needed medical attention and vaccinations. That brought him more joy than his paycheck from the hospital.

The loudspeaker announced the arrival of Rylee’s flight. Although there were many years of correspondence, Lucy had not received a recent enough photo of Rylee. So consequently, she did not know exactly what she looked like. In that case, they would just have to wait for someone to look lost. Lucy didn’t think to bring a sign to hold up; however, she didn’t want to cause any unwanted attention to her either. Lucy wasn’t quite aware of all the actual circumstances Rylee was really in but enough to elude unnecessary interest.

After witnessing the hugs, screams, and kisses of the patrons coming in contact with their loved ones, out moseyed a pitiful-looking thing with a mess of curly hair, big-rimmed glasses and a “boy, was-she- lost” look. This girl’s weight was by far over the insurance limit for her

height. Patrick watched as she bumped against a chair, thinking she would miss it.

“Ouch.” He winced. “That’s gonna leave a nice bruise,” he said, commenting under his breath.

He continued to watch the opening where the passengers were coming through the Jetway. However, his eyes kept taking him back to the tousled-haired girl.

He wondered who was meeting her. Patrick watched her as she looked through the crowd as if trying to spot someone in particular and caught Patrick’s eye. He smiled a hello, which caused the girl’s eyes immediately to avert to the ground. The compassion he was feeling for this stranger was overwhelming. He continued to watch her as she tugged at the bottom of her too-short top, then crossed her arms in front of her exposed skin. His thoughts took him to a paper Patrick had written for college on the benefits of smiling. He remembered the studies of smiling being contagious and making one feel better even when it seemed impossible, but this girl wasn’t having it. She didn’t look as if she had smiled in a while. Patrick wondered what made her so downtrodden and what her story might be. She might just be feeling alone and didn’t need some stranger smiling at her. He chuckled to himself. The scruffiness of her attire foretold her class, unless it was a disguise, which he sincerely doubted, for that would have only brought more attention to her situation. In addition, Patrick could not figure out if she looked that bad on purpose to make a statement or if she truly did not know how to present herself in public. Either way, he would pray for her. They needed to get on with the task at hand, which was to find Rylee and get going. He and Lucy continued to watch people exiting the plane until there was no one left but the crew coming from the Jetway. The only patron left in the wait area was the lost looking girl who had decided to sit and wait for her party.

“Mom, are you sure she was even on this flight?” Patrick asked, feeling apprehensive, since Lucy was not very forthcoming in giving him information about the situation. Not that he minded being out of the loop, but he was cautious for his mother’s sake. His mother looked at him smiling and then headed toward the seated girl. Patrick stared after her in disbelief, thinking he may be able to help that girl after all. Lord, I don’t suppose Rylee missed her plane, and this girl was sent to us for help instead?

Patrick was wishing he had done a little investigational work himself before Lucy took on this charitable feat. He was beginning to feel a little leery of leaving his mother alone while on his mission, not knowing what the circumstances might promote. The information given about Rylee was not sufficient enough to satisfy his curiosity. Patrick wasn’t sure if it was for his own sake or for Lucy’s. Either way, he wasn’t going to leave his mother in a situation she may not be able to get out of until he saw Rylee and felt it was safe enough to leave. That would be seven months of alone time with each other. A lot could happen in seven months, and sometimes his mother’s charitableness scared him. However, Lucy always prayed before jumping into things; therefore, she would have said no if she thought it wasn’t in the Lord’s plan. He would just have to trust that fact.

“Rylee?” Lucy asked.

The young girl looked up from the floor into Lucy’s eyes. Nodding her head, she stood.

Lucy grabbed Rylee’s arms and then threw her own around her.

“God love ya, girl! Welcome to America!” Lucy exclaimed.

Rylee was startled at the sight of the woman coming at her. Lucy could come on a bit strong at first, and Patrick wanted to warn her, but he was too late.

“How was the flight?” Patrick asked.

Rylee just nodded. He held out his hand for her to shake.

“Hi, I’m Patrick.”

Nodding again, she took his hand without making eye contact. With her free hand, Rylee pushed her glasses toward the bridge of her nose, for fear they would fall. Her glasses had seen better days, but they were her only pair. And until she had other resources, they would make do. Rylee felt that as long as she was able to see the two people before her, she did not need to worry about a new pair just yet.

“We’ve kind of followed you throughout the years but never actually met. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he continued. Patrick, getting a little lost himself, not really knowing how to handle the shyness, just shrugged. He wasn’t used to that. He didn’t feel it was snobbery by her actions, but time would tell, and then they would deal with it.

Oh, Lord, what did we get ourselves into?

Patrick shrugged his shoulders at his mother.

Lucy rubbed Rylee’s arms.

“That’s okay, baby. You’re gonna feel right at home in no time. Let’s get your bags and we’ll scoot on,” Lucy said sweetly.

Rylee shook her head, and then stated, “No bags.”

Patrick pointed to her tote bag hanging off her shoulder.

“Is this it?” he asked, reaching to take it from her so that he could carry it for her. Rylee looked up at him, but she held tight to the bag so that he was unable to take it. He shrugged.

“Okay, let’s go.”

This is going to be a challenge, he thought. Either there’s something in the bag she doesn’t want anyone to see, or maybe she just needs something to hold on to for comfort. For all he knew, her whole life could be in that bag. Patrick started toward the exit with Lucy trying to keep up and Rylee treading several yards.

“Patrick!” Lucy shouted, before he reached the escalator that led to the parking garage. She was a little out of breath. “I know you’re in a hurry, baby. But I’m getting an aerobic workout here trying to keep up with you, and we’re going to lose Rylee in the crowd.”

He looked back to see Rylee lollygagging along without a care in the world. She had her hands in her hoodie pocket and her head down, as if she were counting the cracks in the floor.

Her tennis shoes, which he suspected were once white, bled gray and nearly tripped Rylee as she sauntered toward him without picking up her feet. Her appearance belied her age, given that he knew she had graduated from college but appeared to be only about seventeen, maybe. I can’t believe I let my mother talk me into this debacle, he thought, as he watched Rylee before taking action.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick said. He walked back several yards and waited for Rylee to catch up to them. When she finally looked his way, he pointed to the escalator and then gestured for her to lead. She quickly left her daydream state, pushed her glasses back toward her nose again, and picked up speed to accommodate Patrick’s direction to her. The hour-long ride home was going to be interesting.

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…Grab your tissues when you read this. Was I surprised while reading this novel? Absolutely. Did it keep me engaged from beginning to end? Absolutely. Did it bring out multiple emotions within me? Oh ABSOLUTELY! It will warm your heart, make you protective and proud of Rylee and all she overcomes, and have you rooting Rylee and Patrick on to the place God wanted them to be. I highly recommend this book to someone looking for an inspiring story of self-discovery and the rediscovery of faith.

***Special thanks to Jill Twigg for sending me a review copy.***

Six Tips to Writing A Novel From Beginning to End {Guest #Author: Susanna Kearsley}

The Book Faery — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 14:11:20 +0000

Just as there’s no one right way to write a book, there are also no true rules for writing. Ask a group of writers how they start a book and work through to the end of it, and all of us will tell you something different. But for what it’s worth, here are my own Six Steps for writing novels:

1. Start a binder. This is a habit I’ve freely borrowed from Phyllis A. Whitney’s wonderful Guide to Fiction Writing, though over the years I’ve adapted her own “notebook method” to suit my own needs. Before I read her writing guide I was forever losing track of all the little bits of paper on which I’d taken notes, and forgetting ideas that came to me at odd times, but now whenever I get the first germ of an idea for a book I start a 3-ring binder for it. I label the binder, section it off with dividers like I used to do for schoolwork, and fill it with lots of lined paper. And on the first page I write the date I got the idea for the book, and what the idea was. My standard sections are always “Work Calendar”, in which I keep track of my writing progress day by day; “Plotting”, in which I write down any and all ideas that come to me (and paste in those messy little jotted notes I make while in the bathtub); “Outline”, in which I occasionally (but only occasionally) try to guess what might happen in the next few chapters; “Characters”, which I use mainly for writing down names and keeping notes on any real-life historical characters, and “Revisions”, in which I keep track of all the things I know I’m going to need to go back and change in the second draft (especially helpful if I decide to change someone’s name or age, which has happened). The rest of the binder is divided into a heap of “Research” sub-sections, depending on the book. In my binder for my book The Winter Sea, I have “Research” sub-sections for the 1708 invasion attempt, Jacobite spies, Scottish clothing for 1700-1710, English and French clothing for the same period, the Scots and Royal navies, Cruden Bay, James VIII of Scotland, Union Politics, The Irish Brigades, and several other things that would likely bore the average person but were fascinating to me and essential to the story.

2. Do the preliminary research. Research, for me, is an ongoing exercise. Throughout the writing of a book I’ll be continually reading sources, searching out material, and checking facts, and this will fuel my writing which in turn will raise more questions that I need to find the answers to…and on and on it goes. I don’t expect to track down everything I’ll need at the beginning, but I like to make a start. I scout out my locations and visit the ones I can visit (though sometimes for various reasons I’m midway through the writing before I can actually manage the travel). I talk to people who work in the same fields as my characters. And I start reading what books, articles, and original documents I can, always with an eye to finding more. But I don’t let this stage stop me from the next step, which is…

3. Start writing. Don’t wait for inspiration to strike, just sit down and start putting words on the blank page, that’s the only way I know to start a story. Again, I tend to defer to Phyllis A. Whitney’s advice that “Probably the best way to start any story, long or short, is to show a character with a problem doing something interesting”, but I realize the first line—or even the first page—of my first draft won’t necessarily be the first line or first page of the finished book. I don’t look for perfection at this stage, I just want to feel my way into the book and start “hearing” my characters, getting to know them. Often for the first few chapters this is a very slow process for me, but at some point there’s almost a “click” I can feel and the book comes to life for me.

4. Keep going forward. Which sounds basic, but I’ve learned not to go back and tinker with what I’ve written while I’m working on the first draft. When I sit down to start work each day, I read over what I wrote the day before, just to get back in the rhythm of the story, and then I go forward from there. If I feel the urge to change something that’s already happened, I simply make a note in the “Revisions” section of my binder and ignore it till the second draft, instead of wasting a lot of time polishing a scene that might not even make it into that second draft, let alone the final book. This lure to go back and rework what I’ve already written instead of pushing on with something new is what used to keep me from finishing my books when I was a teenager, only now I’ve got wise to it. Giving in would, for me, be like trying to drive from New York to L.A. if every morning I had to get up and start back in New York again. I’d never make it to the west coast doing that, just as I’d never write “The End” if I kept “polishing” instead of pushing on.

5. Ignore the urge to throw it out and start again. With every book I reach a point when I’m convinced the story’s going nowhere; that it’s rubbish, can’t be salvaged, and not nearly as compelling as the NEW idea I’ve just had for this OTHER book… I’m writing my eleventh book, just now, and I’ve been writing books and finishing them for two decades, but I still run up against this wall in every one of them. I’ve learned to just ignore it. All it means is that I’ve reached the Dreaded Middle of the novel. It will pass. The thing is, when I start a book I have a lovely, perfect vision of it, and by the time I reach the middle, what I’ve written doesn’t look at all like that first vision. As a teenager, I used to think this meant I’d done it wrong, but now I know it always works like that. I only have to soldier on and make it to the end, and then I’ll get to re-work everything in second draft, and things will look much better. Never like that perfect vision that I had at the beginning, but that’s fine. There’s always the next book, I promise myself…

6. Reward yourself. To keep myself going through the Dreaded Middle, I give myself little rewards. These change, according to the novel and my mood. Sometimes it’s a glass of wine every 50 pages. Sometimes it’s a night out at the movies every 100 pages. Right now, because I’m in a bit of a difficult part, I’m letting myself watch one episode of Scarecrow and Mrs. King on DVD every time I finish a chapter. The thing is to find whatever works as a treat for you, and use it to help yourself through to the end. And your end reward should be BIG. Something wonderful. A whole day in your pajamas with a pot of tea, and other people’s books to read. Or dinner at a fancy restaurant. What you choose is up to you—the challenge is to finish what you’re working on, so you can write “The End” and claim your prize.

So there you have it: The Susanna Kearsley method. If there’s any part of it that you can use, I hope it helps. If not, at least you’ll have a little insight into how I spend my days. And if you’re sitting down to write your novel, just remember the important thing is simply to keep at it. Best of luck!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Susanna Kearsley’s writing has been compared to Mary Stewart, Daphne Du Maurier, and Diana Gabaldon. Her books have been translated into several languages, selected for the Mystery Guild, condensed for Reader’s Digest, and optioned for film. She lives in Canada near the shores of Lake Ontario.

FOLLOW THE AUTHOR… Website | Facebook | Twitter

The first time Julia Beckett saw Greywethers she was only five, but she knew that it was her house. And now that she’s at last become its owner, she suspects that she was drawn there for a reason.

As if Greywethers were a portal between worlds, she finds herself transported into seventeenth-century England, becoming Mariana, a young woman struggling against danger and treachery, and battling a forbidden love.

Each time Julia travels back, she becomes more enthralled with the past…until she realizes Mariana’s life is threatening to eclipse her own, and she must find a way to lay the past to rest or lose the chance for happiness in her own time.

Read the first chapter here.

Paperback: 384 pages

Publisher: Sourcebooks Landmark (April 1, 2012)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1402258674

ISBN-13: 978-1402258671

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | IndieBound | Barnes & Noble | Other Stores

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…Review to be posted VERY soon. I can tell you though that it’s a good one!

I received a copy in exchange for an honest review from Sourcebooks.

A Grand Murder {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 04:07:53 +0000

Prominent businessman, and friend of the chief of police, Nathan Stanley is stabbed on the frontsteps of his Grand Avenue Hill home. Catherine O’Brien and her partner Louise Montgomery are tasked with figuring out who-done-it, in two days or less.

The investigation is complicated by the fact that Stanley wasn’t a nice guy. His assistant, Tracy, provides a list of people who had reason to kill him. The list includes a fashion designer ex-wife, a business partner, his mistress’s husband, an assistant, and their very own boss the Chief of Police.

The only evidence they have to go on is a missing cell phone, a stolen book, the victim’s letter opener, and an ugly pair of Alpaca wool mittens.

Join Catherine and Louise as they sort out the clues in A Grand Murder.

Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Before The Fall Books (August 9, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0983713707
ISBN-13: 978-0983713708

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Stacy Verdick Case was born in Willmar, Minnesota. After a brief stint as a military brat, where she lived in Fort Sill Oklahoma and Fort Campbell, Kentucky, her family moved back to Minnesota.

Stacy currently lives in a suburb of St. Paul with her husband and her daughter. Her Catherine O’Brien mystery, A Grand Murder, is available from Before the Fall Books. Her second Catherine O’Brien mystery Murder is a Family Affair, will be released shortly. Stacy is hard at work on her third book in the series.

FOLLOW THE AUTHOR… Website | Twitter | Blog | Facebook | Goodreads

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS MOM…Very fun and enjoyable thriller to read. A great quick one day read that will have you sleuthing along with Catherine to figure out who did it. {Big smiles from mom.}

If you haven’t read it yet, be sure to read the author’s interview with her the one and only Catherine O’Brien. You should read it and see what types of things an author likes to talk about with their characters.

A book was ONLY provided in exchange for an honest review as part of the Partners In Crime tours.

» Book Tours

Feather Stone {Guest #Author: Feather Stone} + #Book #Giveaway

Good Luck!

The Story Behind My Book WAKING UP HAPPY {Guest #Author: Jill Muehrcke} + #Book #Giveaway

Why a Pen Name? {Guest Author: A.K. Alexander} + #Book #Giveaway

…the MANDATORY question to answer below is…

Answer the author’s question above down below.

Assassins In Love: Assassins Guild {#Book Review}

When one killer falls for another

Love becomes a matter of life and death

READ AN EXCERPT

The Courtesan’s Lover {#Book Review}

READ THE EXCERPT

Amelia Grey {#Author Interview}

Take a Fresh Look to Make Life Easier {Guest Author: Judy Christie} + #Book #Giveaway

…the MANDATORY question to answer below is…

Any thoughts on the authors tips or anything you’d like to add and share with others?

Garden of Madness {#Book Review}

The Angel Chronicles: Until Next Time {#Book Review}

A Darkly Hidden Truth {#Book Trailer}

The Summer Garden {#Book Review}

Love Thy Neighbor {#Book Review}

Dublin Destiny {#Book Review}

Can an introverted ugly duckling be God’s perfect match for the most eligible bachelor in town?

Six Tips to Writing A Novel From Beginning to End {Guest #Author: Susanna Kearsley}

A Grand Murder {#Book Review}

Any thoughts on the authors tips
or anything you’d like to add and share with others?