Wallaby-Wise

You have probably heard via my Facebook page or Twitter, I finished editing Anon, Sir, Anon on Thursday morning. There is one scene yet to finish (the fencing scene. I have my "terminologist" looking it over.) but for the purpose of saying it, Anon, Sir, Anon is thoroughly edited. Thursday afternoon, swept into the glory of having finished the actual book, I sat down and finished my map of Whistlecreig. I am making attempts to get the map into the print copies of the book, but if it turns out too complex to shrink to size, I will content myself with giving it space on a page on The Inkpen Authoress for those readers who want a closer look at Whistlecreig Manor & Environs.

In other news about Anon, Sir, Anon, I am pleased to announce that the official cover-reveal date will be released this week and there are at least

Two new reviews: 

My Lady Bibliophile

The climax is spectacular. Surprising, deliciously suspenseful, and avoiding the common pitfalls that authors fall into. Rachel held just enough secrets from me so I could enjoy the suspense--and then, when the moment came for boldness, carried it off with aplomb. Bravo; well done!

(WARNING: one advanced reader left quite a lot of spoilers in the comments section so don't read comments unless you want to know everything about the book.

Vintage Novels

This little murder mystery bears all the things I've come to expect from Rachel's books: crackling wit, gloriously well-crafted prose, and quirky, lovable characters. On top of that, the plot was more tightly woven and credible, the character interactions flowed better, and the writing--though I was reading a version which had not yet been polished by an editor--is patently more colourful and compelling than in her other works. In addition, there's a streak of something a little darker in this book. From the plight of the victim, to the identity of the killer, Rachel Heffington proves herself ready to make hard authorial decisions.

Think you'd be interested in my mystery? Add the book on Goodreads and "Remember, remember the Fifth of November." I can't get over how helpful my subconscious was in choosing a release-date so memorable. ^.^ Thank you, latent brain of mine. And, because I'm nice that way and want to tempt you with bits of my "patently more colourful" writing, here are some of those snippets I promised an age ago:

Skirts and bicycles were certainly an invention of the devil’s wife. If it wasn’t the questionable modesty of hitching one’s skirt up to one’s thigh, it was the constant peril of being flipped stockings-over-collar off the front of the thing.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“Bad things happen in bad weather.” Mr. Owens turned the hat he’d removed round and round and round in his hands and the mist dropped off in pewter slips.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

She took him in, studied him, turned him in her mind like a wooden doll to be examined at leisure.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“The luggage...” Vivi pressed her fingers onto her eyelids to ease the headache that had advanced on her with the dusk. “Where on earth is it? It must be in the murderer’s possession.”

“High marks for effort, Harriet Vane, but you’re wrong.” He cast his still powerful frame into a chair and knocked on the table with his knuckles. “She left it at the station and said she’d send for it later. The police have it now.”

-Anon, Sir, Anon

Farnham drew his head back into the dining room and squinted at the pale moon-face of the grandfather clock. Eight thirty-ish. No, wait. Half-seven. He rubbed his eyes and glared at the stiff black hands. The last thing he wanted was spectacles.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

On the Kettering side of the road, the stream flowed their direction in blue kinks and ripples; on the left, it ran a few merry paces before hitting the mill-wheel and resigning itself with a peaceful sigh to a rest in the mill pond. Farnham felt a bit of that peace balm his soul. He could think. He could smoke. He would be all right, presently.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

Genevieve Langley, paragon of all things mannerly, was late.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“Such a gorgeous morning for a ride.” Vivi’s smile was bright, hurried. “Weather so obliging. Barely needed my tweeds at all, which is nice because in London I’m always tweeding and one does get tired of looking like a graham biscuit.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

She drew the word out wallaby-wise and gestured with her little hand.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

Down the curve of her cheek strode a deep shade of rose. Girls could still blush! Fascinating. He’d thought it died out with modesty some years back.

-Anon, Sir, Anon