Is all writing art?

I’ve been busy recently. My darling husband is home, finally. And I am overjoyed. But a stroke is a serious thing and it takes a lot of work and care to recover. It’s a team effort. So it’s been a little hard for me to spend time on my writing.

We all go through these times. It’s nothing new. Right now I’m spending a lot less time writing and a lot more time cleaning and caretaking. Since my time is limited, I’m focusing on things that have actual deadlines. Sometimes, that means that all the writing I’m doing is reviews, blog posts and my daily freewriting.

That’s, um, not a lot. At least not compared to what I’m used to. And the writing I’m doing isn’t what I consider super artistic.

At least, it’s not the sort of writing most people would consider to be particularly artistic.

When you think of artistic writing, what do you think of? Everyone’s going to have a different list, but here’s mine.

Poetry

Songwriting

Short stories of all lengths

Novels and novellas

Now, I don’t write music. But I usually write all those other things. Even if I don’t always share the poetry, this is the writing that makes me feel like a real writer. A real artist!

But of course, there’s lots of writing that is, in fact, artistic writing. Let me give you a list of writing that counts as art.

All writing. All writing can be art.

No, I don’t think there’s an exception. I’ve written ad copy that is art. I’ve ghostwritten blog posts that were art. Everything I post here is art. Even my reviews of horror content on Haunted MTL are art.

If you’re creating something new, you’re making art.

If you’re writing something that gives you joy to write, you’re making art.

If you’re pouring your heart into your writing, you’re making art.

I believe that a lot of the rules some people have about art are bullshit. It tends to be quite elitist, relying on having the approval of the right people. But that has many issues. First off, art is subjective. What I consider art and what you consider art is going to be completely different. Visual artists have been poking fun at this forever. Consider the banana taped to a wall that sold for just so, so much money. I consider this art, not because the banana itself is somehow valuable. It’s art because its existence says something. Thought went into that piece. Intention went into that piece.

You get to decide what counts as art for you. Don’t worry about if anyone else agrees with you. People have also been misinterpreting art forever. Consider the heartbreaking story behind Portrait of Ross in LA, by Felix Gonzalez-Torres. If you haven’t heard of this piece, it looks different every time. It’s a pile of candy. People are invited to take a piece of candy, or even a few.

This piece represents the life and death of a man named Ross, who was the artist’s lover. He wasted away and died due to AIDS. This art piece represents the sweetness of his life wasting away. It’s beautiful and sad and meaningful. It captures the honest and raw emotion of a man who lost his person. We are gifted a glimpse of that pain in the pile of sweets that slowly diminishes. It is art.

What is art to you? To me, it’s a piece of work that’s created with joy. It’s something that is crafted with care. It’s creative work that we make to share with others, or just to take our own emotions and memories out of ourselves and into ink or paint or scraps of paper put together in a collage. Take this post. I wrote this for you, and I wrote it for me. I wrote it to share something with you that’s been making me feel better. I took care with the words I used, bringing some poetry to my prose. I put thought into it. It brought me joy to write. I hope that it brings you joy to read. My reviews of slasher flicks and gory anthology TV shows are also a joy to write. I hope that they’re a joy to read and that they help you find good stories about things that slither in the night.

Art is subjective. But don’t let yourself think that you’re not creating art. It’s a big tent, and all kinds of writing are welcome.

My thoughts on the TikTok ban

Bonus post because I’m sad.

I didn’t talk about this for a while because, if we’re being honest, I didn’t think it would happen. And, if I’m being honest, it wasn’t hugely on my radar until this past week. The darling husband is still in rehab from his stroke. LA is on fire and that has me scared in a deep extensential way that makes me fear for the future of our planet. The worst president in the history of America is seating his fat ass behind the honored Resolute Desk on the same day we honor one of the best men America has ever known.

Then, there’s the fact that I don’t use the TikTok. I’m 38, I use Instagram like an adult. I don’t post there or consume the content. I’ve never once installed or looked at the app. The only time I see any content from TikTok is if the iconic Loey Lane is doing a video about it.

So, why do I care? Because, despite everything I just said, I care deeply. And I wish to God that it wasn’t happening.

To start, so many amazing creators I love got started on TikTok. And I will be honest, I didn’t realize how many until they all started posting about how this app gave them their start. Jordan and McKay started on TikTok. A lot of progressive pastors I admire started there. B Mo The Prince, Professor Neil and Pastor Sarah, just to name a very few. While they eventually transitioned onto other platforms, they got started on TikTok. And I wouldn’t get to enjoy their content if they hadn’t started there.

I’m glad that these amazing creators are not going away. I hope that if you have content creators you love on TikTok you follow them onto other platforms. But the truth is that not everyone who follows someone on one platform is going to follow them on other platforms. So yes, every creator involved in TikTok is going to have to rebuild. They’re going to lose money in an economy that is already struggling. And while I don’t create that sort of content, I am still a content creator. I don’t want any content creator to suffer.

I have two pieces of advice for content creators of any sort. Writers, comedians, activists, video essayists. Do not put your hopes in one app. Don’t wait until your app of choice is going away before you encourage your followers to follow you on other platforms. Do it now.

Create for multiple platforms if you can at all. I write blog posts here. I review horror content on Haunted MTL. I post silly pictures of the pets and my life and microfiction on Instagram and Threads. I also get mouthy and political on Threads. I post and repost writing and reading content on Pinterest. And, of course, my books are available on multiple platforms. (Woven is going wide soon. Stay tuned.) If one of these platforms goes down, I can rely on others until I find an alternative. Remember, I used to post a lot on Twitter and Facebook. When those turned to Hell, I left. I didn’t lose that many followers.

Platforms come and go. Do not wait to diversify where your people can find you.

Speaking of apps coming and going, do not think that your favorite platform is safe. Because it’s not. That’s the scariest thing about this incident. The reasons why TikTok was banned were nebulous at best. And if they took it down, they can take any app down.

Any site down, if I’m being honest. I worry that this has opened the floodgates. I mean, I don’t know if anyone would want to ban Pinterest, as it’s about as dangerous as your sweet auntie who collects ceramic birds. But I didn’t think the silly dancing app was all that dangerous either.

That isn’t the only way an app can die. They can get taken over by terrible and dangerous people. They can become so full of toxicity that anything beautiful or worthy gets choked out. I’m concerned about some things I’m hearing about Meta, so Threads and Instagram might be next to go.

Everything we lose gives space for something new to grow. New apps will come to take the place of TikTok and hopefully give new creatives a place to find their tribe. I want that for them. I want creatives who just lost their platforms to find their people all over again. And I don’t want anyone to take this lightly. Losing the TikTok platform is a blow to creatives, some of which will not recover. It’s a blow to freedom of speech and freedom of creativity. And I dearly hope that I’m wrong when I see this as just the first of many platform losses.

Protect your art, my friends. Vote every election. Diversify your platform. And above all, do not stop creating. Do not stop posting comedy skits, creepy horror content, microfiction, progressive Bible knowledge, new music, book reviews, pictures of your pets, cleaning tips, and witchy aesthetic content. Don’t stop putting your good stuff out there.

We need it.

New Year, pretty much same me

I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. I think they set up an unrealistic expectation that we’re going to become completly different people and somehow be able to make different health and productivity decisions just because we’ve just cracked open a new planner.

This isn’t to say that I don’t believe we can make changes in our lives. I think we’re all imperfect works in progress and we can choose something different for ourselves every day. I’m just saying we try to do too much too fast and at an arbitrary time. You can start something new any day. For instance, I’m already 25 days into a Dulingo streak.

What I do believe in is setting SMART goals at the start of the year. Just in case you don’t remember what that acronym stands for, it’s a goal that is Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevent, and Time Bound.

I do have some slightly ambitious writing goals this year. But I should let you know off the bat that there will be no major launches. At some point Woven will be going wide, so you don’t have to rely on Amazon to get it. But other than that, you will see no novel launches from me in 2025.

I did launch four books in 2024, after all.

My writing goals for 2025 are pretty simple.

– I want to officially join SFWA.

– I want to join another local writing guild.

– I want to write the rough draft and second draft of Aurora, the final Station 86 book.

– I want to write the third and fourth drafts of a secret novel that I’m hoping to tell you more about later.

– Finally, I do want to launch Woven on all platforms.

That sounds like a lot, and maybe it is. But I think I can reasonably do all of those things. And being reasonable with my goals this year was very important.

Many of you, like me, have a word of the year. My word for 2025 is Heal. I decided on this word in early November. I realized that I’ve been putting off dealing with some heavy emotional stuff. I’m also suffering from burnout, and not taking care of my health. I needed to dedicate some time, yes a whole year, to healing myself first.

Then, on December 8th, my husband had a stroke. I don’t just mean a little stroke. I mean a brain bleed stroke. And he’s still in the hospital.

I’m sharing this for two reasons. One, if you see less of me around you know why. I’m not planning on taking any time off, but you never know. And two, to remind you of what I said in the beginning.

January first is a nice day to make changes. But so are the other 364 days of the year. Just because everyone else is making these grand plans right now doesn’t mean you have to if now isn’t the time for that shit.

You can decide next week that you want to start working out and just do it. You can decide in April that you want to start drawing and just do it. You can decide today, right now, that you want to start writing a novel, and just do it.

Or you can decide that what you’re going to do is just your best. And you know what? That’s valid too. Just do that.

However, if you’re stuck on this and you want to make some sort of positive change, may I suggest drinking more water? You’re probably dehydrated.

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Falling From Grace, Chapter three

Chapter Three

A few days later Grace woke alone in her bed with a feeling that she was late for something. There was a pressure, a certainty that she had a crucial, important thing to do, and that it must be done at once. She got out of bed in a flash, and pulled her clothes on. It took only moments to tug a tan dress over her shift and lace it up, but it seemed an eternity. Brushing out her hair and setting it in a bun to keep it out of her face took years. She brewed a cup of tea, and then sat down with a scrap of paper and a rough piece of charcoal to consider what she needed to do. What could weigh on her so desperately that she felt in such a rush?

She wrote down everything she could think of, everything that might need done. Clean the house, weed the garden, do the washing. It was a small enough list, but it seemed to press on her. With another quick sip of her tea, she headed to the river to collect a bucket of water and get started.

She was on her knees in the fireplace, scrubbing the soot away with a wire brush and heavy soap when she heard a gentle knock on her door. Grace winced as she got up, and opened the door to find Nikita standing there.

“Oh, you look a mess,” Nikita said. “What have you got soot all over you for?”

“I was scrubbing out the fireplace, what do you think?” Grace asked.

Nikita looked around the room, which had all been thoroughly scoured in the last few hours. “I was worried when I did not see you in the square. May and June said they had not seen you since supper last night.”

“I just needed to get some cleaning done before I came down,” Grace said. She ducked her wash rag into the water and started wiping away the soap. “It was such a mess, disgusting. What would Victor have thought if he had come home to that?”

Nikita shrugged. “Well, it looks fine now. Will you come back with me?”

“Suppose I should. The quiet cannot be good for me.”

“It is not good for me, either. I wonder, could I come and sleep here until the men get back? I would feel better if I was not alone at night.”

So she was not to have any peace, even in the evening.

“That would be fine,” Grace said. She used a dry cloth to wipe down her face and hands, then the front of her dress. “Come on, I guess.”

Nikita nodded, and all but pulled Grace to the square. June and May were there, busy with their needles. “There you are. What, were you sleeping in?” June asked.

“Oh, shut up,” Grace said. She had her own sewing to do, working over scraps from some old clothes for a blanket. She pulled her things out of her bag, taking a seat next to May. “Is Morgan off hunting again?”

“Yes,” June snorted. “For all the good it will do him.”

“He caught that nice pheasant the first day,” Grace said. “What happened to him?”

“Dunno, but Olga’s little boy has brought more game out of those woods than Morgan,” May sighed. “It is a shame, too. I would love to have some meat tonight.”

“He had better get himself together, in case Da-,” June began. She pursed her lips together and didn’t say anything more. Not as though she needed to.

May glance up from her work, as though to comfort her sister. But her face darkened. “What is she doing here?” she asked.

Grace followed her gaze and saw Yeva, creeping towards the collection of women. Traditionally, women and daughters of men who died didn’t come near the gathering in the square. It was a kindness, to keep away. To not remind women of the men lost before.

“She looks lost,” May said. “Should we invite her to sit with us?”

“I will leave if you do,” Grace said flatly.

“Be kind. She lost all of her family,” May said. “You know what that is like.”

Grace thought of Yulia, running from her house with Grace’s ma’s book. She thought of the silence, days later, when Grace had hammered on the door to beg for her book back. Yulia had forever acted as though the book had never belonged to Grace, as though her ma and grandma’s writing wasn’t on every page. “Aye, I do. And I earned a spot at someone else’s table, looking after you. She can find a way to be useful, or look after herself. A handout will just make her weak.”

“Grace, look,” Nikita said.

Outside of the circle of women and children stalked a thin man with thinner hair. He leered at the women, giving Grace a filthy smile when she looked his way.

“Yurick,” Grace muttered. “Can Timur not keep him under control?”

“He does this every mission, everyone knows he is too weak to be sent out himself,” June said.

“Worthless old fool,” Grace said.

“It is sick, what he is doing,” May hissed. “Sneaking about trying to get a woman alone while her man is gone. This is exactly why Morgan should have stayed here instead of going out to hunt.”

The day passed slowly. Once the sewing was done the girls weeded the garden and dug up some potatoes for supper. They went to the river and trapped a few fish, tiny things. Grace baked some bread, from her share of the flour that the men had gotten during their last raid. Nikita had some carrots. The food was cooking when Morgan returned, carrying a few dead squirrels by their tails.

“Well,” he grinned, holding up the animals. “Had better luck today.”

“Oh yes,” June crooned, looking over the animals. “That will be such a meal for five people.”

“You know what you are?” Morgan snapped, gesturing wildly with the dead squirrels still in his hand. “You are a thankless khu’i. I do not see you out there, trying to find anything to kill in those woods.”

“Um, excuse me, Grace?”

Yeva was standing near their cook fire. To Grace’s fury, she was holding her ma’s book in her hands.

“What do you want?” Grace asked.

“I, well I wondered if I could ask you a question. Lada gets these headaches, and she said my grandma used to make her a tea for them. Something stronger than willow bark, she said. But I cannot find the recipe anywhere. Do you have any idea what it might be, or where I might find it?”

“Why would you think I would tell you anything?” Grace asked. “You have the book, look it up yourself.”

“This book is too complicated for me. I mean, the medicine recipes are all intermixed with these strange symbols and I cannot make any sense of it. Besides, I am no healer. I only ever learned about midwifery,” Yeva said. “Grandma said you used to apprentice under her, I just thought-.”

“Your grandma was a dirty liar,” Grace said. “Now get away from here, you are not wanted. Go on, go home.”

“I need help. What is anyone going to do in this village if we have a healer who does not know what she is doing?” Yeva asked.

“I guess we will have to sort it out, since that is the situation we are in,” May replied.

Yeva turned away, her shoulders drooping. Grace felt her conscious pinch, but just for a moment. She wanted to snatch the book away from the girl, but what good would it do? She was no healer either.

***

Everyone dithered around the fires after supper. The women were hesitant to go home to empty beds. The children, unaccustomed to the mysteries and magic of the night, were just happy to be sitting around a fire and listening to stories from their mas and sisters. Thus it was late when the women started heading for their homes. Some carried little ones on their hips, others led sleepy ones too big to be carried anymore.

Grace, Nikita, Morgan and the girls left in a group. They were moving a little slow, acting a little silly. Morgan had a bottle of vodka, and they’d been passing the spirit around.

“Those wee little squirrels,” June laughed. “I suppose they were better than nothing with some potatoes, but they were so tiny!”

“A small animal is harder to catch than a bigger one,” Morgan said, shaking his finger at his sister.

“Then you should have spared yourself the trouble, and gotten bigger ones,” May chuckled.

“Oh, stop fussing at your brother,” Grace said. “He is trying, that is important. You keep right on hunting, Morgan, and you will get better someday.”

“The woods are half hunted out. That is what Boris says,” Nikita said.

“Da never fails to bring something home,” June responded, mulish.

“I am going to bed,” Morgan snapped and headed for the door. His hands were glowing blue. It wasn’t the shield magic of his uncle, or the destructive force his da had. It was just light. But on a dark night like that one, light was enough.

Morgan and the girls headed for their house, while Grace led Nikita to hers. “I will set a cot out in front of the fire for you,” Grace said. She shut the door, and secured it with the solid brace Victor had put in before he left. She tried not to think, before he left for good. It was just left, and he would be back. He had to come back.

Grace turned from the door, and nearly tripped over Nikita. She was frozen in place, staring at a shadow in the corner of the room.

Yurick emerged from the shadow, calmly. “It is about time you girls got home,” he said. He breathed deep, as though casting for their scents like a hunting hound. “I have been anxious, waiting for you.”

“You have no reason to be here, Yurick. Get gone,” Grace said, pushing Nikita behind her.

“Ah, but I do have a reason to be here,” Yurick said. He walked slowly towards them. “Nothing gets me harder than a woman with child.”

“Nikita, go,” Grace said, shoving the other woman toward the door. Nikita pulled the brace free, and ran. Yurick was at the door in a moment, slamming it shut behind her and trapping Grace in with him. He hit her, sending her sprawling on the ground next to the table.

“Are you so eager for a man?” he chortled, as Grace shook her head, trying to clear it. “Alright, then. I can have little Nikita later and you now.”

He fell on Grace, pulling up her skirts. Grace grabbed for the closest thing to her, a stool at the table. She hit Yurick hard in the side of the head, and shoved him off of her.

“You bitch!” he yelled, but Grace didn’t waste time. She brought the stool down on his head again, and again.

“Stop, stop it!” he cried. “I will leave, I will!”

“To do what, rape some other woman?” Grace snarled, and hit him again.

Just then the door slammed open. Morgan came in with a sword in his hand, June just behind him.

“Oh, Land and Sky,” Morgan snorted, looking at the puddle of Yurick on the floor. “You worthless old man, what did you think you were going to do?”

Grace stopped hitting him, allowing Morgan to grab the sobbing man by the back of his shirt. “Get out of here. I catch you sniffing around my aunt again and I will run your hide through.”

Morgan shoved him out of the house, laughing when Yurick stumbled and fell.

“Grace, are you alright?” June asked.

“He did not get what he wanted,” Grace said, setting the stool down with shaking hands. “I might have banged my head on the floor when he hit me, that is all.”

“Grace!” May called, running to the front door. “Grace, Nikita is going into labor!”

“What?” June gasped.

“She just collapsed on the floor as soon as Morgan and June ran out, and water started pouring out of her. What do we do?”

“There is no experienced midwife,” June said numbly. “What can we do for her?”

The three of them looked to Grace, as though she would have some sort of an answer. She had to have one.

“Damn it, someone go and fetch Yeva,” Grace said finally.

“She is a girl,” May said.

“She is an apprentice midwife, which is more than any of us,” Grace replied. “Go May. June, start boiling water. Let us get the new ma in a bed. Morgan come on.”

Falling From Grace is available today! You can get it right now on Amazon.

2024 Holiday Pep Talk

It’s the day after Thanksgiving as you’re reading this. It’s the Monday before Thanksgiving as I’m writing this. And it’s time, finally, to start celebrating the most wonderful time of the year.

In theory.

I have never felt less holiday spirit than I do this year, you guys. I cannot begin to tell you. I feel like Charlie Brown. There must be something wrong with me. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.

Of fucking course I don’t. It’s November 25th and the high for today is 51 degrees. No fault divorce is under attack in America, safe and legal abortions are in jeopardy. It’s about to cost more to buy literally everything and a wrestling promoter is about to be in charge of our country’s education. So yeah, deck those halls or whatever.

Frankly, I don’t think it’s fair to say things are about to get bad. Things have been bad, my friends. They’re about to get worse.

Now, as far as I see it, we have two choices going into the holiday season. We can say fuck it, drink our way through the holidays, and half-ass everything. Or, we can do whatever we can to bring ourselves and the people we care for joy.

Despite my bitching and (more than usual) swearing in this post, I plan to do the latter. Because this is not the first hard holiday season I have faced. And I have learned a crucial lesson from the losses and crises that I’ve survived.

Multiple things can be true at once. I can be sad and thankful. I can be scared and hopeful.

I’m worried about the future of my library. And I’m excited about all the events they have planned for the holidays. I’m afraid our grocery bill is going to balloon, and thankful that we have food in our house. I’m afraid for all of my friends in the LGBTQ+ community, and thankful to have them in my life. I’m worried about my husband and grandmother’s health, and happy I get to share the holidays with them.

This has been a hard year, personally and globally. But it hasn’t been all bad. I have lots of things to be grateful for.

My husband went to the hospital several times and we had some scary moments. But he is still here with me.

I relaunched Woven and published book five of Station 86.

I’ve experienced growth in my faith and have a better relationship with God than I ever have.

I have had a hundred beautiful, wonderful, wildly unexpected moments of joy this year. People have been kind to me, or I’ve had the opportunity to be kind to them in a way that enriched my soul.

My little hometown is becoming vibrant and alive. Rather than stores closing down, stores are opening up.

My witchy community is growing, and I am meeting sisters and brothers to share magic with.

We can hold both of these things at the same time, our sorrow and our joy. It is the only way any people have ever survived dark times. Being happy for the holidays doesn’t mean we don’t care about people suffering or that we aren’t suffering ourselves. Being sad about the state of things doesn’t mean we don’t feel gratitude for the good things and beloved people in our lives.

Be kind to each other, but more than that be kind to yourself. And don’t waste a second of your time on anyone who is trying to take your joy away from you.

Merry and Blessed and Happy everything. Find joy and solace in all the good things you can and all the good people around you.

The power of finishing

As we near the start of 2025, I’m coming to two major endings in my writing career. I’m about to relaunch the prequel and final book in my Woven series (On December 7th). And, I’m working on the very last Station 86 book.

It’s going to be a while before I finish it. I’m still rough drafting it, and will probably be until at least January. But when it’s done, the series is done. And I’ve been writing this series for close to a decade.

Finishing a project this large is something else. I’m not even sure what kind of writer I am if I’m not writing Station 86. I’m not sure what I’ll do.

Actually, that’s a lie. I have another novel I’ve been working on for a few years and an idea for at least one other book. Don’t worry, I’m not shutting up or shutting down anytime soon.

As much as I’ll be sad to finish Station 86, it’s really for the best. Not just because the story has come to a satisfactory ending. But because it’s best for me, as a writer, to finish it.

Here’s why.

The endorphins

When I get to the point where I’m hitting publish on the presale for the current book, I cannot tell you what that’s going to feel like. The endorphin rush is always good, this one is going to be amazing! Why do I know that? It was amazing when I got to the first launch day for Falling From Grace, and it was amazing when I set up the presale this time too.

Finishing a project is the best. It feels so good. I feel so proud of myself. I kind of just want to run around and show everyone who even kind of knows me. The satisfaction, and even the relief that I made it this far. It is unsurpassed.

You prove you can do it

This speaks to the relief aspect I was talking about in the last paragraph. I’m not talking about proving that you can finish a project to anyone else. Not your mom, your eighth-grade English teacher, your judgemental coworker, or weird friend who loves to point out when you’ve failed. Stop being friends with them.

No, you need to prove to yourself that you can finish a project. And I speak from experience. When I wrote Broken Patterns, it was after years and years of starting novels and never finishing them. Getting distracted, getting too busy, getting bored with the story, getting discouraged. Basically, getting to a point where I didn’t believe I could do it, so I didn’t. This was a barrier that I needed desperately to break before I was going anywhere.

You’ve learned about every stage of writing

Writing a rough draft will not teach you how to rewrite. Only rewriting will teach you that. Rewriting a novel will not teach you how to do line edits or polishes. Only doing line edits and polishes will teach you that.

Spoiler, reading about doing those things won’t teach you much either. I mean, if you have no idea where to begin then reading about it will give you a starting point. But, like with most things, you learn by doing.

Getting a project from rough draft to completion will teach you every point of writing. More importantly, it will teach you how you process every point of writing. Writing is an art, not a science. How I revise my books will look different than how any other author does it. How you do it will look different too. You need to learn how your brain works during these different steps in the novel writing process. And you only learn that by, you guessed it, doing it.

You get to write something else

Please don’t get me wrong. I loved writing Woven. And I love writing Station 86. But I want to write other things. I have other stories within me. And I have faith that other stories will come to me.

Art is ever-evolving. If artists don’t try new things, they become stagnate. There’s a reason why series that run too long start getting dull. We stop becoming artists and start becoming producers. All the passion goes out.

I don’t ever want to lose the passion I have for writing. I am an artist, I want to make art. I can’t do that if I don’t finish the art I’m currently making.

You evolve

Every new project will teach you new things. You’ll learn new ways to tell stories, new povs, and new techniques. You will become a better writer, or at least a different writer, just by the practice of telling new stories.

This is what you want, as an artist. You don’t want to hit a certain level of competency and plateau. You want to keep learning new things and growing. You want your art to evolve.

At least, I hope you do.

I know we’re still in November, but I have a suggestion for a 2025 New Year’s Goal. If you’ve never done it before, finish a project. It doesn’t need to be a whole series or a novel. It can be a short story or even a poem. But get one project either submission or publication ready. You will not believe how much that will help you grow. Because it wasn’t Broken Patterns that proved to me I could finish a project. It was writing blog posts here, on a schedule. That’s how I proved to myself that I could do what I said I was going to do. And that is the real power of finishing a project.

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Falling From Grace is available now for preorder! You can get it now on Amazon.

After the election

If you’ve come here for answers, I don’t have them. Wiser people than me will have them.

I’m writing this on a dark rainy morning with too little sleep. I am depressed, sad, defeated. So please forgive me if this post isn’t as peppy as usual. I don’t need to tell you what it’s about. People all over the world are mourning with us.

I can’t believe we’re here again. We’re facing four years of a Trump presidency. Four years of fighting against a tide of hatred.

First of all, I want to say that if you’re not okay right now, that makes perfect sense. I will not be the one to tell you to buck up and get ready for a fight. I will not tell you that we can’t take our foot off the gas, that we have to act and act now. Because today, that’s too hard for some of us. Today I’m not leaving the house. Today I’m not pushing my book. Today I’m not doing anything except caring for me and the people around me.

If you need to sit in it, that’s alright. Sit in it. Come to terms with it. Go through all the stages of grief. Take the time you need.

Because eventually, we are going to have to fight.

We have to fight to protect our planet, trans people, drag queens, women, school children, libraries, education, the CDC, LGBTQ+ people, immigrants, Muslims, Jewish people, Pagan people, educated people, the post office, books and literacy, the incarcerated, the homeless, veterans, unions and the fucking National Weather Service. I am sure I’ve forgotten some, so please feel free to let me know in the comments. I don’t forget because I don’t care, but because there are just so many things that are now in danger. My God, we aren’t all going to make it through the next four years.

I have limited power. I am not a politician. I am not a thought leader. I’m not even an influencer. I am a writer. I write my little stories about ghosts, dragons and spaceships. Sometimes I write about the horrors of the world. I imagine that’s going to become a little more common.

But let me tell you something I’ve noticed today. A trend on social media that you might have noticed as well. Maybe it’s just because I follow a lot of writers and speculative fiction fans. But over and over, I see the same comments.

We are the resistance. We are District 13. We are the Handmaids who rebel. We are the VFD. We are the kids in Hogwarts during Deathly Hollows. We are the rebellion.

In our darkest hours, we reach for stories for comfort. So I’m going to write my little stories and read my little stories. I am going to let them inspire me.

I’m going to light a candle for protection and say spells for those who are now in danger. I’m going to continue to do this for as long as I can. I’m also going to write more, both for myself and to help others in the best way I know how. I’m going to wear my PRIDE gear and my pentagram. I’m going to speak up every time I can and show up to protect the people in my community who need me. I am going to use my privilege as a white woman in a straight-appearing relationship to help who I can. I’m going to donate to food pantries because people need to eat. I’m going to do what I can to lighten others’ burdens. I’m going to write to the politicians who might still listen to us. I’m going to pray. I’m going to show up to protests. I’m going to show up to vote every time I have the opportunity to do so. I’m going to listen to marginalized people and do what I can to help them based on what they tell me they need.

And my God, I am going to make fun of Trump every time I can. Because I can’t do much, but I know it pisses him off when people, especially women, laugh at him.

I’m going to close this with some witchcraft book recommendations. Please feel free to add your favorite in the comments.

Lazy Witchcraft for Crazy, Shitty Days, by Andrea Samayoa if you need some help existing.

Light Magic for Dark Times, by Lisa Marie Basile if you need spells and rituals for healing.

Witchcraft Activism, by David Salisbury for when you’re ready to fight back.

Utterly Wicked, by Dorothy Morrison if you’re not opposed to hexing people.

Finally, let me leave you with some quotes from people smarter than me.

When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

– Mr. Rogers

Right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.”

-Martin Luther King Jr.

Leave something nice in the comments. I think we all need it.

Missing Stitches, Chapter Two

Devon leaned over the railing of his ship, the StarS Cobra, watching as the afternoon sun and the Great Gate of Septa drew closer. The wind blew through his dark curly hair, chilling his face. He’d forgotten how cold it could be outside of the desert. The skies were cloudy, and the waters of the Dragon Tears River were choppy.

It had been raining when he’d left Septa, too.

In Calistar, where everything was still new and foreign, it had been easier to set aside his grief for his older brother, Octavian. It hadn’t gone away, not by any means. But there hadn’t been painful memories waiting around every corner.

He and Octavian had come out to the bay to fish when the weather was good. Sometimes they’d caught enough for the whole family to eat dinner. Or, if they didn’t, the servants had slipped a few extra in.

He was relieved when his wife, Sultiana, joined him. She put her arms around him from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. She was only a bit shorter than him, with dark brown skin and a thick black braid that she coiled around her head like a crown. They both wore white silk, the mark of Calistar nobility.

“You look weary, Honored Husband,” she said. “I thought you’d be happy. We’re going to see your family, our new nieces.”

“I am happy, for the most part,” Devon said. “I’m excited to see my mother and Lenore. Even Victor.”

“And your father?” she asked.

Devon grimaced. “That’s another matter. How did you know?”

“It’s my job to know such things. I’ve never understood your relationship with your father,” Sultiana said.

“Of course not,” Devon said. “Your father was perfect. He accepted my weaving, taught me everything he could. His life obviously revolved around you and your sisters. My own father, well. He’s always been a nobleman first.”

“Your father loves you,” Sultiana said.

“I know he does,” Devon said. He turned around to pull Sultiana against him. Around them, sailors and soldiers from each of the five tribes grinned at their king and queen’s obvious affection for each other.

“What about you, though?” he asked, “You look like you’ve been crying.”

She gave him a sad smile. “My courses came,” she said.

“Oh,” Devon said. “Well, I mean, you couldn’t have been pregnant again.”

“No, I know,” she said, nodding. “It’s just a reminder. I’d have been showing by now.”

“We’ll get a baby,” Devon said. He set his forehead on hers and smiled. “I imagine it’ll be lots of fun trying, too.”

“Lots, yes,” Sultiana said, chuckling. She looked toward the gate. “Do you think Chrissie will be all right back home?”

“She’ll do great,” Devon said, thinking of his assertive and strong-minded sister-in-law. “She’s got Kadar, Gia, Shilom, and Sabre to help her.”

Thinking of the people they’d left behind brought his thoughts to the friends that had come with them.

Saja, Sultiana’s chief adviser, was coaxing her falcon down from a piece of the rigging. She was dressed in Smith Tribe red with newly cropped hair, holding a bit of flatbread for him.

Devon couldn’t see Butrus, the bulking Farmers Tribesman who was to be their new ambassador to Septa. But this wasn’t uncommon. Butrus had spent most of the trip keeping to himself.

Sultiana’s assistant, Mergin, was talking with an uncomfortable looking sailor. She wore Smith red as well, a long skirt and tunic. Her skin was honey colored, her eyes heavy with kohl.

“Will you change into Septan clothing while we’re here?” Sultiana asked.

Devon considered his clothes. He wore a pair of white silk pants and a loose-fitting tunic with a vest over it. A cloth belt wrapped around his waist, into which, he’d tucked his ornate dagger. His leather boots were laced over his pants, reaching halfway to his knees. “I don’t know,” he said. “It might be a little cold, wearing this.”

Mergin, apparently done with the sailor, came to join them. “Sire, I wonder if I could ask you some questions about Septa. I’ve never been there. Actually, I’ve never been outside of Calistar.”

Devon almost laughed. It had taken fighting in a war together for Mergin to feel comfortable talking to him. Even so, she did so only when she thought it necessary.

“I wish our people would travel more,” Devon said. “Not just the Scholars and Traders Tribes. Everyone should see more of the world.”

“Do Septans travel often?” Mergin asked.

“No, as a matter of fact, they don’t,” Devon said. “I wish they did, too. I think we’d all be a lot better off if we saw more of the world than where we were born.”

Trumpets started to blare at the Great Gate, announcing their arrival.

The ship pulled into the dock. Waiting for them were the Lords Monroe and James. They were accompanied by a handful of guards, who were keeping a close eye on the crowds on the boardwalk.

Sultiana shivered. “Something feels strange,” she said, looking up at Devon.

“What in The Creator’s name is this?” Devon whispered, looking around the surrounding docks. They were crowded with people shouting at the Calistarians as they left the ship.

“Prince,” Monroe called, waving for him. Devon walked down the plank to meet him. “No,” he corrected himself. “You’re a king now.”

“It’s still just Devon, please,” he replied, reaching out to shake his hand. He and Monroe had faced the Dragon Plague together. He couldn’t bear such formality from him.

“Of course,” Monroe said, grinning. “My friend, I am so happy to see you.”

“Gladder than the city might be,” James said, clapping Devon on the shoulder. “Keep your bow close, Devon. Ah, Queen Sultiana. It is good to see you again, Your Majesty.”

James bowed to her, and she inclined her head politely. “Where is my Honored Father-in-law? Is he unwell?” she asked.

James grimaced. “I’m afraid he is dealing with a situation that couldn’t wait. He asked me to escort you to the palace.”

“What was so important that he couldn’t come himself?” Devon asked.

“We should talk at the palace,” Monroe said, glancing around.

Two gondolas were waiting for them. Devon, Sultiana and Mergin joined James in the first, while the others climbed aboard the second with Monroe.

“I was only making a suggestion,” Devon heard Butrus say to Saja. “You don’t need to scratch my eyes out, Woman.”

“You are not my father, brother, uncle, or even a member of my tribe,” Saja snapped. “You’ve got no right to speak to me about my veil, Herdsman.”

Devon turned back, intending to chide them. As he did, someone in the crowd threw something at Saja. She jumped sideways into the gondola just in time to avoid a rotten egg. “Go home, sand whore!” the thrower yelled.

Devon was on his feet, his bow in his hand. He shot toward the man, catching his jacket sleeve and pinning him to the wall behind. He looked back at the other gondola in time to see Butrus raise an eyebrow at Saja.

“Oh don’t say a word. They’d have thrown that whether I’d had my veil on or not,” Saja snapped.

Devon remained standing as the gondola starting moving, his bow in his hand. James did the same. People along the boardwalks shouted obscenities at the Calistarians. He heard a few Sapphic slurs as well, causing him to glance toward Monroe when their gondolas pulled next to each other.

“My secret’s out, yes,” Monroe said. “My dear mother let it slip before she left the court.”

“Your mother?” Devon asked.

“Yes,” Monroe said with a sigh. “I suppose now that Larissa has made such a fine marriage, she no longer saw a reason to hide me away. It’s made getting around town problematic.”

“Honored Husband,” Sultiana said, “I don’t understand this welcome. It’s dishonorable of your father not to meet us himself. And even more so to greet us with a city in such uproar.”

“I agree,” Devon said.

“You haven’t seen the worst of it,” James said, softly. When Devon gave him a questioning look, he added, “You’ll see when we arrive. But Devon, I think Lenore is going to need your help.”

Suddenly a crossbow bolt shot across the front of the gondola, nearly cutting Sultiana’s face. James turned, bow in hand, but Sultiana was already on her feet. She pulled a throwing knife from her sleeve and, with a flick of her wrist, buried it into the forehead of the shooter. “Can a guard retrieve that for me?” she asked. “It was a gift from a friend.”

***

Devon was thankful that they reached the palace with no more incidents. The public lawn was sparsely populated with minor nobility and palace guards.

At the foot of the stairs waited Lady Hannah and Devon’s brother-in-law, Victor. Hannah was dressed all in black. The sight of her was a knife in Devon’s heart. She should have been his sister-in-law. Octavian should be there, meeting them at the dock and furious at the angry crowds.

“Devon,” Victor said. “I am glad to see you. And, um, is it permitted that I speak with the Calistar queen now?”

“It is,” Sultiana said. “We’re working to change our laws back home. Even if we weren’t, you’re family now.”

“Then I am happy to see you as well, Sister,” Victor said. “It is good for Lenore that you are here, I think.” His Montelarian accent was thicker since his visit.

“Victor, what’s happening here?” Devon asked.

“I only know what Lenore tells me,” Victor said, as they headed up the stairs into the palace. “I have been spending much of my time with Queen Lorna, learning how to keep the palace. It is a lot more work than I realized, keeping house. Lenore is with the king right now. We’ll take you to your rooms so that you can settle in. Then, would you like to see the girls?”

Devon realized with a jolt that he wasn’t heading toward the suit of rooms that he’d grown up in. They were going, instead, to the rooms designed for Calistar dignitaries. He was also surprised the first time a guard bowed to Victor in the hall. It was just another reminder that he wasn’t a Septa prince anymore, Victor was. It was a strange thing, he thought, being a guest in what had been his home.

The Calistar rooms were designed to be as close to their own palace as possible. The carpets were made of red, green, orange, yellow, and blue for the five tribes. An altar to the gods and goddesses was tucked into one corner. When Devon went into the bedroom, he found a mattress on the floor, rather than one that was propped up on a stand as was customary in Septa.

“I will let you settle yourselves in,” Victor said.

“Thanks,” Devon said, looking around.

Victor turned to leave but stopped. “Devon,” he said, “are you all right?”

“I feel strange,” he said.

Victor nodded. “I think I may understand. When I went home to Montelair, I felt as though everything I had known, everything I remembered, was different. Places I’d known my whole childhood were alien to me.”

“That sounds just like how I feel,” Devon said.

***

Once Devon and Sultiana had gotten their things put away and changed, they left the others to settle into their rooms and headed to the family sitting room.

“I didn’t realize this would be so hard on you,” Sultiana said.

“I don’t think it’s just coming home, and everything being strange the way Victor was describing,” Devon said. “There’s something strange here, something wrong. I feel like there’s a shadow over everything.”

“You feel it, too?” Sultiana asked, “I thought I was imagining it. Devon, I feel the same as I did when I stood next to the Black.”

“It does feel that way, now that you mention it,” Devon said.

They entered the sitting room to find Victor sitting with Queen Lorna. An air of uncomfortable silence permeated the air.

“Oh, Devon!” Lorna cried. She stood, rustling her great silk gown. She looked just as she ever had, her thick hair coiled in a neat bun, her clothes impeccable.

“And, Sultiana. I’m so sorry I wasn’t at the dock to meet you.”

“Yes, why weren’t you there?” Sultiana asked, coolly. “It almost felt like a snub. I understand that my brother-in-law is a prince and a great noble, but even he only met us at the door.”

“I am sorry, Dear, but there was quite a lot of activity in the streets today,” Lorna said.

“We did notice that. Someone took a shot at us on the way here,” Sultiana said, “It seems that, if my honored father-in-law knew that this was going on, he should have warned us. We still would have come.”

Lorna looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Sultiana, dear. You’ll have to speak to Samuel about that. He and Lenore are in a meeting right now with the city guards.”

At that moment, the sound of porcelain shattering came from the room next to them. It was followed almost instantly by Lenore’s screaming.

“Oh, already?” Devon cried. He hurried next door, Sultiana right behind him.

When they entered the meeting hall, they saw Robert Carr, the general of army recruiting, was holding his hands up to protect himself. A puddle of porcelain and tea was on the floor next to him. Lenore was on her feet, facing him.

“I have had it to the top with your condescending tone, Sir! I’m not some girl in two tails who’s never seen a battle before. And if you don’t watch yourself, I’ll show you some things I learned in Montelair!”

Samuel sat back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’s best that we leave it there for now. In fact, I think a good rule should be that once cups start flying the meeting is over. Can I trust you to stop by tomorrow, General?”

“Of…of course,” Robert said, giving Lenore a wary look. Carr, a man who had been involved in every altercation Septa had taken part in since he’d come of age, nearly ran from the room in his haste to get away from Lenore. From the look on her face, Devon didn’t blame him.

“Devon,” Samuel said, getting to his feet and coming to greet them. “It’s so good to see you, Son.”

“It’s good to see you too, Papa,” Devon said. “Seems like things are a little tense.”

“A temporary nonsense,” Samuel said.

“Bosh,” Lenore said. “We can’t get through the damned streets without someone spitting on my children. Devon, Sultiana, I’m happy to see you. I’ve missed you horribly. Go home tomorrow.”

“Why?” Sultiana asked.

“Because Septa is one misstep away from being a war zone,” she replied. “And the last thing we need right now is more noble targets.”

“It isn’t as bad as all that, Bug,” Samuel said.

Victor snorted. “Sire, I am well aware what an angry populace looks like. In Montelair, they were just hungry. These people think that you’re endangering their immortal souls.”

“Let’s go into the sitting room, and have something to eat,” Samuel said, “Devon and Sultiana just got here. They don’t need to hear all of this now.”

“I’m all right,” Sultiana said. “I’m feeling very alert, actually. Someone tried to kill me on the way here, after all.”

“Which is why I want you to go home,” Lenore said.

“Nonsense,” Sultiana said. She pulled out a chair from the table and sat down.

“Sultiana, please understand that it’s highly improper for us to discuss matters of state with a foreign noblewoman,” Samuel said. “Even if you are my daughter-in-law.”

“Bullshit,” Lenore muttered. “Sultiana, our noblemen are in near open rebellion.”

The king gave Lenore a stern look that she either didn’t notice or ignored. “Lords Constantine and David left for Uncle Joseph’s country estate. Since then, we believe that they’ve been encouraging rebellion within the city.”

“They didn’t leave quietly, either,” Victor said, “David tried to force Hannah to come with him. She scratched up his face.”

“Hannah is David’s daughter?” Sultiana asked.

“Yes, and Daniel is his son,” Samuel said, apparently giving up. “They’ve stayed to serve the court. But they, Lewis, Howard, and Harper are all that we have left.”

“And Joan,” Lenore said. “Which surprised me, to tell you the truth.”

“Our cousin, Joan?” Devon asked, “Joseph’s own daughter stayed?”

“Yes, but Hank and Larissa left,” Samuel said.

Victor took a seat at the table, sighing. “If it were only some nobles in a huff, this would not be a bad situation. But it is more than that. The people are angry, as I’m sure you saw.”

“What are they so angry about?” Devon asked.

“Sapphic’s rights,” Lenore said, glaring at her father. “Most of the city seems to think that being Sapphic is a sin. Of course, it didn’t help that Papa made it illegal for them to be married.”

“They’re mad about more than just Sapphics,” Samuel said. “They’re mad about the way the war ended. They’re mad about the inheritance laws changing.”

“They’re mad about me,” Lenore said.

Want to read the rest of the story? Missing Stitches goes live on Friday! You can preorder it now on Amazon.

Missing Stitches, Chapter One

If you live in America, go vote! If you’ve already voted, get a nice coffee.

Prologue

Since, the moment that these creeping things started to crawl upon their earth, I have hated them. Slow, stupid, bumbling things. Always at war with each other, always hating their own kind for the shallowest of reasons. Even the ones directly touched by their Creator are gray, drab things.

My own children would have shined, would have dominated the universe.

But, as they’re already bent on self-destruction, I’ll make use of them.

Possessing these creatures turned out to be a far simpler task than I ever anticipated, which opened my mind to all sorts of new possibilities. If I can possess one, perhaps I can gift one, the way their Creator does.

I’ve watched this one for a while. The third brother, not gifted like the two that came before him. His pride has been hurt, and he’s angry. He’s angry that his brother died, angry that his country was invaded. There are more selfish angers. And, of course, there is fear. I can always rely on fear. And so, when I began to whisper to him, he was ready to listen.

“If Samuel had no male heir, you should have been the one to inherit. Instead, he snubbed you and chose his daughter. What right does Samuel have to pass you up? It’s only because she is a mage. She and her common born, Montelarian husband, are more worthy in Samuel’s eyes than you. And now, they’re going to outrank you. That filth, the brother of the man who killed Issac, will be your king. You’ll be expected to bow to him, and his daughters.”

“This is the way of things,” I told him, “in a world run by mages.”

He’s been good enough to remove himself from his family. He’s gone to his country estate on his own lands. This is where I want him, sitting by the fire, sipping brandy, and going over financial records for his lands. Brooding, telling himself what a good landlord he is.

I slipped inside of him. It caused him some pain, I suppose, enough that he dropped his glass and cried out.

“Hush,” I whispered, “you’ll be glad I’m here.”

“What?” he cried.

“I’m going to help you. All of your life you’ve been neglected. Your brothers have always been favored because they were mages.”

“What’s happening?” he screamed.

“I’m helping you,” I said. “They were gifted, not because they’re better, or more worthy than you, but because the one you call your Creator is cruel. Picking and choosing people to bless at random, setting them above His other creations. You’re going to help me fix all of that. And in return, you’ll have power above all, more than you could possibly imagine.”

“Power,” he whispered. He was calm, then. He rose to his feet and nodded. Like a good little puppet.

“Yes,” I answered him. “We must start by killing your brother, and his daughter.”

Chapter One

Lenore Mestonie stood at the prow of her Uncle Lewis’s ship, the SOS Albatross. It was the flagship of her country, made of dark stained wood with billowing blue sails. It was a fantastic ship, the pride of her uncle. But she wasn’t interested in it.

She was looking for the silver gate, the Great Gate. The gate that led to her city, Septa. She felt as though she was starving, so desperate was she for the sight of it.

In her arms was her firstborn daughter, Eleanor. They shared the same blue eyes and cream-colored skin. But while Lenore had the dark curly hair that was a recognizable Mestonie trait, Eleanor had the light blonde hair of her father.

“Keep looking, little princess,” Lenore said, pointing toward the horizon. “We’ll be home soon. Not soon enough, but soon.”

A chorus of yipping alerted her to the arrival of her hound, Shepard, and her puppies. The baby dogs had inherited much from their wolf father and bore no resemblance to their mother’s brown fur and floppy ears. Instead, their gray coat was darker but not by much. Their ears would likely perk up over time, but for now, they flopped down comically as they bounced around in play with each other.

Shepard came to her master’s side and leaned against her. “Oh, are the babies tiring you out?” Lenore asked, scratching her ear.

“They are certainly tiring me out,” said her husband, Victor, as he joined her. “Worse than our two, these dogs.” He was holding Eleanor’s twin sister, Loralie, upside down to make her giggle. She looked even smaller than she was when her father held her. He was a large man, taller than any other on the ship. He’d allowed his blond hair to grow while they’d visited Montelair, and even now it flopped over his face. Loralie more closely resembled Lenore, with the same curly hair and button nose.

On Victor’s shoulder was a brown rat they called Korzhik. He had recently suffered a bath from Ramona, the family nurse. He looked much fluffier but seemed obsessed with washing the scent of soap out of his fur.

“You have been standing here all morning,” Victor chuckled. “You know you can’t get us there any faster by staring.”

“I know,” Lenore replied, “I’m just eager to be home.” She set a hand on her belly. She hadn’t yet started showing, but she knew it wouldn’t be long. “I can’t wait to tell everyone that we’re expecting another baby.”

Victor grinned. He pulled her and Eleanor close with one arm and kissed her. “And we won’t be on the run, with this pregnancy. We have peace with Montelair, and we will be home. I won’t have to worry every second that you’re in danger, for once.” He glanced around the deck, and added, “I do notice, however, that Anthony seems to have abandoned you.”

“I sent him below deck to pack,” Lenore replied. “I can’t imagine I need to be guarded while aboard the ship.”

A flash of silver caught her attention in the distance. “There it is,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. In the crow’s nest, a sailor was shouting the news. Soon Captain Lewis and his daughter, Lady Harper, were on the deck.

Lewis, Lenore’s uncle on her mother’s side, was a barrel-chested man who looked more like an old sea captain than a nobleman. His beard was trimmed but longer than Septan fashion. He wore cotton to keep him warm at sea. His face showed the wear of years in the ocean winds. His daughter, Harper, was taller than him by a hand, with a messy bun and a thick wool coat over her shoulders. She wore breeches, unlike any of the other women aboard. She seemed to be in the process of scolding her father.

“No, I don’t think it was warranted at all,” she said. “That woman devoted her life to The Creator, and you bloody well made her cry.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if she’d listened when I asked her to stop fussing over me,” Lewis said. “Daughter Coriander looked over me, and she didn’t fuss.”

“That’s Elder Sister Coriander now. I’m sure she’s going to have something to say to you when she finds out about your behavior. In fact, I imagine she’s going to kick your bum up beside your ears.”

“I am your papa!” Lewis said, “And you’ll not be telling the Elder anything. Unless you want your mama to hear about your pants wearing ways.”

“Uncle,” Lenore said, “we’re nearly home. Are you excited?”

“Not particularly,” Lewis said. “I’ve come home to the Great Gate hundreds of times, Niece. Mostly what I do when I get there is find a new reason to get back on my ship.”

“He’s not allowed fatty meat anymore,” Harper said. “He’s replacing it with being a prat at everyone.”

Lenore stifled a laugh. “I’m going to go check on Tabitha and Lucy,” she said. Leaving Eleanor with Harper, she headed below deck.

Her room on the ship was small, but space on board was always at a premium. The bed was made already, with a thick blue comforter and white satin pillows. Tabitha and Lucy were packing Victor and Lenore’s belongings from the built-in drawers into a trunk.

Tabitha quick eyes darted over to Lenore when she entered the room, not bothering to bow. Years of friendship had put an end to such things. Her wife, Lucy, was a good head taller than her, with a sharp nose. She as well didn’t bow but gave Lenore a quick nod.

Sitting with them was the Montelarian Princess, Victor’s niece, Anna. Several weeks of good meals and good care had been enough to put some weight on the child. It hadn’t yet taken away the haunted look in her eyes. After the childhood the girl had, Lenore wasn’t sure it would ever go away.

From the open doorway, leading into the next room, Lenore could see Anthony, her bodyguard. His long, curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail, leaving his scarred neck exposed. He was going over his bags and gave her a brief nod when he saw her.

“I didn’t think we had that much to pack,” Lenore said. “Didn’t most of our things burn up in the explosion?”

“We’ve only just started,” Tabitha said.

“I’m packed,” Anna said.

“Good,” Lenore said. “Thank you, Anna.”

Ramona, the royal nurse, came bustling in just then. She was a portly woman, dressed plainly in a cotton gown and simple shoes. “Where are the babies?” she asked.

“On deck with Victor,” Lenore said.

Ramona threw her hands up. “I’ve got to get them dressed!” she cried. “Does no one think to tell me these things?”

She hurried out of the room again.

“We’re about to go through the Great Gate,” Lenore said. “Anna, would you like to come see?”

“Are we?” Lucy asked, getting to her feet. “Great, I can’t wait to get off this ship.”

“Oh no, you’re staying here,” Lenore said, “Anna’s already packed.”

Lenore took Anna’s hand and led her upstairs, leaving Tabitha and Lucy to mutter over the packing.

Back on deck, Ramona was fussing over the cotton dresses the girls were wearing. “I can’t believe this is how we’re presenting them to their grandparents,” she said. “Lenore, you and your brothers never wore cotton.”

“We were in a war in Montelair,” Lenore said. “I think Mama and Papa will understand.”

“Well, maybe the king will,” Victor said, “Her Grace might not be as understanding when she sees her granddaughters in common cotton.”

Anna looked startled. “Is cotton not all right? What about wool?” She was dressed in a dark red wool gown, with silver buttons down the front. Her boots were Montelarian leather with fur lining. She wore a rabbit furred hat now that they were out on the deck.

“You look perfect, Dear,” Lenore said, putting a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder. “You’re a princess. Anything you do is noble.”

Monroe, the chief of Septa’s ambassadors, joined them on deck. He looked flustered, which turned to irritation when he caught sight of Anna. “Princess,” Monroe said. “Your brother and uncle tasked me with looking after you. How am I to do that if you don’t stay where you tell me you’re going to be?”

Anna put her hands behind her back. “But I was with Mistress Tabitha,” she said.

“Yes, but I didn’t know that, did I,” Monroe stated. He sighed and looked up at Lenore. “How will you ever look after three of these?”

Victor, who was wiping dirt from Eleanor’s nose, said, “We employ a nursemaid. We also live in a palace full of servants, with my in-laws. I am sure we will manage as many babies as Lenore and I can have.”

As they pulled into Septan waters, the naval fleet came into view. Uncle Lewis, as commander of the navy, moved to the prow of the ship to greet them. Lenore stood beside him after setting Eleanor on her hip.

Lewis gave her a proud smile. “Look at you. The first female heir to the throne, coming home to the city that loves her.”

“I don’t know if my city loves me,” Lenore said, “but I sure love her.”

“I have missed Septa as well,” Victor said, pulling her close.

“Really? You didn’t want to stay in Montelair?” Lenore asked.

“No,” Victor replied, “It was good to visit my motherland, but this is my home.”

The ship pulled into the dock. Sailors hurried to set up a plank for them to disembark. Lenore’s father, King Samuel Mestonie, waited for them. He was a tall man, with no more than a dusting of gray in his dark hair. He was dressed plainly, in black breeches and a blue jacket with embroidery at the hems. But for the silver crown on his head, he might have been any Septan man.

Lenore wanted desperately to run to her father and throw her arms around his shoulders. Since the last time she’d seen him, she’d fought in a war, commanded a military hospital and nearly been blown to pieces several times. She wanted to be a child again, with her father there to watch after her.

Too much time had passed since she was a little girl though. Too many things had been said, and not said between them, for her to run to him like that again.

Instead, she walked to the end of the plank and bowed to him.

“What’s this?” Samuel asked, “Bug, I haven’t seen you in months! Come here.” He reached out for her and pulled her into a tight hug. “I was starting to get worried I wasn’t ever going to see you again,” he whispered.

“I’m fine,” Lenore said, a little stiffer than she meant to. “I’ve missed you too, Papa.”

Eleanor, caught between the two of them, started fussing. This caught Samuel’s attention. “I have missed you as well, my tiny darling,” he said, taking her.

Victor came to the end of the plank with Loralie. “There’s little Lori,” Samuel said, reaching out for her. “Victor, you look well, son. Come, let’s get home so that we can catch up.”

They boarded the waiting gondola. Lord James, the founder of the Dead Eye archers, stood next to the poler. His broad shoulders fit strangely over an otherwise narrow frame. He gave Lenore and Victor a nod, but then returned to scanning the crowd with wary eyes.

It was common practice for commoners to collect to see members of the royal family return home. Lenore had expected it.

What she hadn’t expected was for the people to be angry to see her.

All along the boardwalks, people jostled to see the gondolas and shouted insults. Some people waved greetings, but this seemed to infuriate the others. Several fights broke out as Lenore watched.

“What is this?” Lenore asked.

“There’s been a bit of trouble,” Samuel said. “We’ll talk at the palace.”

“I thought you said things had calmed down,” Victor said. Someone threw something at the gondola. Victor clenched his fist, bringing up a magical shield. A rotten egg hit it, breaking and falling into the canal waters.

“This is calmer,” Samuel said, grimacing.

Their gondola pulled up to the front of the palace. Anthony stepped onto the dock to assist Lenore. Just then, a young man ran from the crowd toward him. His hair was a mess, and his clothes were stained and rumpled as though he’d been wearing them for days. A guard grabbed his arm, but Anthony yelled, “Let him go, I know him.”

The boy stumbled toward him. Lenore had hopped from the gondola herself. “Anthony, who is this?” she asked.

“Princess, this is Heath. He is my son’s lover,” Anthony said.

“I tried to get a letter to you,” Heath sobbed, “but I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Anthony, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Boy?” Anthony asked. “Stand up straight and stop babbling in front of the nobility. What’s going on?”

“It’s Adam,” Heath sobbed. “The Underground Path got him!” He broke into sobs and fell to his knees in front of them. “They tore out his guts in the middle of the square!”

Want to read the rest of the story? Missing Stitches goes live on Friday! You can preorder it now on Amazon.

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