...This is it. This is Goodbye.

I had debated within myself over whether I ought to post the death scene of The Character. I thought not, and then I decided I would. I decided I wouldn't, and then I made up my mind over again to go ahead with it. So girls, you are now the privileged readers of a piece of writing very new to me. It spun itself out of my head only two nights ago, so it is fresh and young to the ways of the world--deal gently with it, but please tell me what you think of this pivotal scene. Oh, and I realize that it begins in a strange spot--it was difficult to know what to give you to lead up to the real piece. :P Please tell me your reaction to it initially, and whether it is too melodramatic. Actually, let me just describe Frank for you real quickly so you can get acquainted with the victim. :P

Frank Williams--28 years old, wife to Maggie, and father to Tucker and Dot. Ever since Cora came to live with his family, Frank has been father, brother, and friend to her. He's cheered her when she's down, given her courage when she's afraid, teased her just a little, loved her a lot, and generally has been the glue that's kept Cora together. Ever impulsive, Frank moves his family to Puddleby Lane so he can work on the railroad, but Cora only loves him the more for his boyish enthusiasm. He's charming and roguish, loving and tender. And when he's gone, it hurts. Deeply.

(Scene begins inside coffee-shop in Leastone) 

          Their voices faded as Cora’s attention focused on the mass of townspeople milling around a group of begrimed, wild-eyed—and bloody—men. “Ann Company!” Cora knocked the table behind her over in her haste. Ann Company, Nat, white cloth napkins and pocket-book sequins blurred in one massive obstacle between her and that group of people. She tore herself from Nat’s gentle touch and dashed out of the coffee-shop. Cold air struck her full in the face like a slap from an unseen hand. Cora stumbled over a frozen rut in the muddy road as fear swept her forward toward the crowd. She could see into the mob now, and what she saw sent fingers of terror winging across her skin.

Those men—those in the center of the group—wore the same denim cover-alls Frank wore when he worked on the rail-way bridge crew. He was there today, Cora knew. Whatever fate had befallen those workers, Frank must be a part of. Her body did not feel like her own as she neared the mob.

“What happened?” She heard a woman say—the voice was icy, immobilized, and fearing. Then Cora realized it was herself that had spoken. She repeated the question, hardly recognizing the sound of her voice, yet feeling her lips move. The crowd parted briefly and she caught sight of the crude stretcher, borne by four of the grimy, muddied men. Instinct told her to turn back, to shelter herself from the truth, but Cora could not take her eyes off the stretcher and the man’s form crumpled upon it. The mob swallowed the vignette as hastily as it had flashed it, and Cora was left on the edge of the crowd again.

Fainter than her own heart-beat, Cora heard Ann Company’s call for her to come away, and Nat’s deep voice seconding the command, but it was no use. Fear spurred Cora to action.

“Let me through!” she yelled, and stamped her foot with hysteric impatience as the teeming mass before her paid no heed. “I will look! I will!” she cried, and as she reached up to brush her hair out of her face, she felt her tears, warm and wet against her chilled hands. It was the cry of a stubborn child, thwarted in his purpose, but Cora had to know.  By some miracle she passed through the spheres of the crowd—first the interested, chaotic hum of the outer ring, then the pinched, sorrowful faces of the middle ring, and finally to the stunned core. Some hands strived to hold her back, others pushed her forward, but through it all Cora was of a single purpose:

To find Frank, to know he was well and whole, was her whole world. She stumbled into the center, directly in front of the stretcher-bearing men, and she searched each face hungrily, longing for a familiar feature in any of them.

A man with a red-stained bandana tied around his head and a deep gash on his cheek seemed to be the leader of the group. His eyes stared dully ahead as he bore his sad burden.

“Please, sir, where’s Frank Williams?” The voice that spoke now was hoarse as a raven’s and twice as foreboding. Frightened, Cora put a hand to her throat and tried again. “Tell me he’s okay. Just tell me!”

The man shook his head, jaw clenched. The gash deepened.

“He’s fine. I know he is. He’s gotta be okay.” Cora was reaching hysteria. The red on the man’s bandana flowed a vibrant, ghastly crimson against the white of the cloth. Cora’s stomach knotted and twisted till she thought she’d be sick. “Just tell me he’s okay,” she whimpered. A heavy, heavy hand descended on her shoulder, and a voice echoed dully the agonizing cry in her own heart:

“Dead. Wouldn’t leave th’bridge till th’last man was out of th’way…I’m sorry, Miss.”

 Dead. Dead. Dead. Cora pushed past the well-meaning but clumsy man and approached the crumpled figure on the stretcher. Knotted around his head was the handkerchief she herself had marked. How they had laughed over the little daisy she’d stitched in the corner. It had been so white—every petal dainty and pure—and now stained with the crimson tide that would not stop. Trembling in every fiber of her being, Cora touched Frank’s dark hair, caked with mud, and traced the noble lines of his forehead. The noise of the crowd—the weeping, the questions, the chaos—faded in the face of this great sorrow to a distant hum, no more threatening than the far-away traffic at that old stop-sign on Beaumont Street.

A pair of hands tried to remove her from the scene.

“Leave me be!” she screamed, tears coursing down her cheeks and dropping on Frank’s clay-streaked face. The stretcher-bearers stood in respectful silence, and the crowd ceased talking. Silence, like the heaviest of sentences descended on the scene. Cora laid herself over Frank’s poor body and buried her face in the homespun cotton of his shirt. His denim coveralls scratched her cheek, and the brass buttons pressed, cold against her hot tears. Her soul keened with murdered joy as a longing for one of Frank’s bear-hugs overwhelmed her senses. The faint scent of Bay Rum after-shave still clung to his neck, and Cora breathed it in. This was it then. This was goodbye.

“Goodbye, Frank…I love you,” she whispered, stroking his cheek with a trembling hand.

Heart screaming for the familiar reply, the jaunty, “Back at ya’ Corie,” Cora kissed him with quivering lips and spread the coffee-shop napkin over his still face.

 She dropped, then, into Nat Dartmore’s waiting arms and wept as she had never wept before.

...The Spanish Inquisition Pt. 2

My very helpful [ahem!] editor, Henry B. Baxter gave me the next batch of questions today. He neglected to  categorize the questions and thus left that to me. So bear with me if this is a bit of a whirlwind answer session! :D
I guess I'll address the pre-writing, mid-writing, post-writing questions. Ready?
Ashley asked, "Does she handwrite any of her novels before transferring them to the computer/ a word document?" Once upon a time she did. But then she discovered her pen was not capable of keeping up with her brain, and her fingers were, so she switched medias. But in all seriousness, now and then I do find solace in the scratching of a pen's tip against a sheet of lined paper. That is my favorite way to write, I just don't find it practical.
Ashley also asked, "Has she ever tried to write mystery or Sci-fi?" :D  Don't mention this to my sister, Sarah. It makes her go mad with rage. But yes, I started a mystery set in the Great Depression...and got myself so entwined in the mystery I never did find my way out. I abandoned ship after 100 pages. :D Okay. Don't blame me. Who can keep track of details when your villain has an alias inside an alias, maybe even inside an alias? It just doesn't work so well. :P

Katie S. dived right in with a bing-bang-boom sort of Spanish Inquisition: 
1. Do you keep a daily writing schedule? How long, or how much, do you write a day?
2. How extensively do you plot-n-plan your stories before you begin writing them?
3. Do you edit while writing, or keep the writing and editing processes completely separate?

Answer 1. HAH! Oh. Ummm...sorry about that. I amused me that you thought I could be that good. ;) I write something every day, but I have no schedule. I ought to have a schedule. In a distant day in the past I did have a schedule. But I am currently flying by the seat of my skirt. It's a pretty wild ride. I have actually been seriously contemplating getting up an hour earlier to write.
Answer 2: My plot-n-plan varies from novel-to-novel. For The Seasonings I did not research, bare-bones plotting, and found myself missing that important element in the writing process. For Puddleby Lane I started on a whim, kept on on a whim, and never stopped to rethink it...until now. :P But we're overcoming our differences and moving on on a whim. Maybe that's why it's such a whimsical story. I did, however, write a little blurb to keep me going. For this newest novel I am doing a great deal of research, and thus a good deal of pre-plotting. Plus the plot, not the characters, came to me first this time.
Answer 3. I prefer keeping the writing and editing completely separate. I find that my brain and emotions don't work well with constantly back-tracking. I need to work the story out and give myself permission to write things I know I'll cut out. It's just the way I work.

Abigail Hartman asked me about my preparation and whether I did character sketches, researching, and all that fun jazz. :) Yes and no. It depends. Generally I just start writing with a vague idea of a plot and give the story a chance. It either sprouts wings and flies, or flops by chapter 5 or so and I know it wasn't To Be. But this time around I am indulging in "All that jazz" and finding it much to my liking.

And last but not least, Abigail also asked me, "What did happen to Puddleby Lane?" I distanced myself from it for two months and decided I would lay it aside and focus on researching and plotting my French Rev. novel. I did that for awhile and decided to take a good-bye peep at P.L.....and you know what? I discovered it was not so terrifying as I thought. We began our reconciliation by my killing off The Character. Now that's what I call good relationships. :P

Now girls, my editor is still available for questioning. Go ahead and ask whatever's on your mind and I'll finish up with a third Answer Post soon! :)

At Long Last...

I have overcome my terror of my W.I.P. Yes, after a long absence--too long--from Puddleby Lane, I summoned my courage to write a little. I was determined, come Cora's reticence or Ann Company's dreaded cliches, I would thrash out a bit, however small, of the story. Here's what I came up with. Not the worst thing ever for having been silent on the subject for over two months. :P Don't judge it too harshly, as this is entirely first-draft work here. :)

“Y’wanna walk from here? Might be a bit more distinguished,” Ann Company said. Cora winked at her friend as they clambered down from the cart and landed on the slatted sidewalk in front of a blue-painted house. Ann Company’s skirt swished around her legs with a fine rustling, and the sunlight played on her hair till it looked like dancing firelight. They had worked for an hour that morning replicating the elaborate style Maggie designed. It would be worth it, though, when they walked down Main Street.

“Ready?” Cora’s chest felt tight with excitement. Ann Company nodded, lifted her chin, and set off down the board-walk with her smooth, even pace. Cora ran her gloved fingers along the tops of the fence, bumping up and over each picket. She hung back on purpose, wanting to savor this moment of victory for her protégé.

Ann Company paused for a moment before the door of the chandler’s shop, then threw a faint smile in Cora’s direction. Cora hastened to join her, and together they ducked through the low doorway into the nautical shop. The interior was dim and cool and smelled of tar and brass. Cora shivered at the change from sunlight to cellar-light.

A thin, sharp little man perched on his stool, frail yet grounded as if he were a twig grafted to a stump. His lifted his eyes to the pair and his thick brows, like twin caterpillars, worked their way up the twig.

“Can I help you ladies?”

Ann Company threw back her head and laughed her Puddleby-laugh. “Don’t y’recognize me, Zeb?”

A glimmer of recognition flared in the man’s pale eyes and his mouth worked as if he chewed on a lump of tobacco. His Adam’s apple bobbed once or twice before a thin, husky voice forced itself between his slit of a mouth. “Ann Company, that you?”

“It’s me, Zeb.”

“Don’t hardly look like ye’self with all them doo-dads on ye.” The caterpillars worked harder and slid down the twig, hiding the pale eyes from view.

“It’s Miz Cora’s doin’.” Ann Company stepped to the counter and tossed her pocket-book on the wooden countertop. “But I can assure you it’s me. I’m here t’get that rope Pa ordered, and them fishin’ hooks.”

Zeb brushed the palms of his hands against his leather britches and sighed. The caterpillars wriggled up and down now in a worried sort of fashion. “If’n this here De-pression don’t start lookin’ up real soon there won’t be no chandlery for your Pa t’buy his ropes and fishin’ hooks from.”

Ann Company put her hands on her hips and stared at the man. Cora dropped her eyes and studied her gloves, brushing flecks of white paint from the wooden fence to the floor. All was quiet in the chandler’s shop for a moment. Then Ann Company spoke in a voice brisk as a breeze off the bay.

“And what makes you think this Depression won’t start lookin’ up? You ain’t lost yer faith, have you?”

Cora lifted her head, invigorated by the quiet strength in her friend’s tones.

 Zeb’s caterpillars slumped, chastened for the moment. “Now Miz Comp’ny, don’t you be ridin’ my back. Feller can’t be blamed fer feelin’ the e-ffects of this De-pression, can he? I’m only bein’ the mouth fer what all them hidin’ behind their religion are thinkin’.

Ann Company removed her gloves, and pulled each finger right-side out, keeping her eyes fastened on the chandlery-owner. “Then you’re a coward, Zeb. At least some of th’folks are tryin’ to be brave and not complain. Like Miz Cora’s family here. They lost their house and ever’thing they owned back in Illinois and moved all th’way out here, but I don’t hear Mr. or Miz Williams pulin’ about it.”

Cora felt the blood mounting to her cheeks as Zeb’s caterpillars pleated themselves in disconsolate puckers and his pale eyes took stock of her. His mouth worked again, and a stream of amber-colored juice sang into a brass pot on the floor at the corner of the counter. Cora drew herself up to her full height and looked Zeb in the eye. He grunted and un-grafted himself from the stump of a stool. With stiff motion, almost wooden in its creaking gait, he jerked over to a wall covered in skeins of rope and yanked one from its hook. “How much did ‘e want, Ann?”

“Twenty-five yards of th’ three-inch, and eleven of th’one-inch.” Ann Company grabbed Cora’s hand and squeezed it.

Grousing under his breath, Zeb measured the rope yard by yard, pulling pieces the length of his arm, doubling the rope, and repeating the motion. The caterpillars had returned to their “at-ease” positions, and Zeb stared at Ann Company as his hands fed lengths of rope to the growing coil looped over his arm.

“How long’d it take t’get ye cleaned up?”

“Then y’like it?” Ann Company’s green eyes flashed triumph.

Zeb’s caterpillars zipped up the twig and hung, suspended by invisible threads, at the fringe of hair capping his head. “Didn’t say I didn’t. But ye’re lookin oncommon tidy t’day. Tell me true now. How long’d it take?”

Cora couldn’t stand it any longer. “I think Ann Company looks simply lovely whatever she wears. Why, we hardly did anything to her except give her a bath.” Cora put her hand to her cheek and quailed inwardly. Clumsy, clumsy tongue! Why had she mentioned a bath in front of this stranger…and a man at that? Hot blood coursed through her cheeks.

Zeb’s mouth worked again, but this time Cora suspected he was trying to keep from laughing. She wrung her hands and contemplated ducking into the huge round of rope coiled next to a case of Captain Livvy’s Deck Soap.

“And I s’pect ye’re one a’thems that never complain ‘bout this De-pression? One a’them Williamses.”

Cora shook her head. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, not truly. I’m Mrs. Williams’ sister. And I do complain more than I ought.”

One of Zeb’s caterpillars disengaged itself and slid back into place. He leaned forward and Cora heard his knees creak like an aged tree in the forest twisted by a perverse wind. “You and I’d probably get along real well if ye’re th’ complainin’ type. Ain’t that right, Miz Comp’ny?”

Ann Company slapped Zeb with the back of her hand. “Quit yer bedevilin’ and finish up with m’rope. We’ve got a sight of errands t’run and I cain’t be bothered with you.”

Zeb’s second caterpillar settled in place beside the first, and his arms continued with their pulling, doubling, and wrapping. The rope was soon cut and hoisted onto the countertop beside a packet of deep-sea fishing hooks.

“That be all?”

Ann Company nodded. “And if’n you’d get Nat t’haul it over to Eulalie and th’wagon I’d ‘preciate it. I’d not be wantin’ t’get Miz Williams’ fancy dress smirched with grease from those ropes.” She smoothed the blue skirt and smiled in spite of herself.

“Wait a spell till Nat gets here. I know he’d be a’wantin’ t’see ye all purtied up.”

Cora smiled at the rich color that flooded Ann Company’s face. So that was it! Ann Company tossed a few silver dollars into Zeb’s waxy palm and tossed her head. “I ain’t waitin’ fer anyone. Me an’ Miz Cora are goin’ winder-shoppin’. Good bye.”

Ann Company swept out of the chandler’s shop, tugging Cora behind her. The bells of the door jangled behind them as if the shop were begging for one last look at this new Ann Company.

“Where are we going next, Ann Company?” Cora asked, having to trot to keep up with the hearty pace her friend set.

“We’re goin’ straight to t’the hat-shop and I’m a’buyin’ myself a real hat like this’un I’m wearin’. Can’t be lookin’ shabby now they’ve seen me like this.”

Cora laughed. “Come off it, Ann Company. You’ll always be the same beautiful woman, fancy clothes or not.”

“For sure, Miz Cora?”

“Undeniably. Come on. Let’s get some coffee.” Cora pushed Ann Company into the coffee-shop, having set eyes on a young man who was gazing in awe at Ann Company from the opposite side of the window. A young man who, if she were not very much mistaken, must be the Nat whom Zeb had mentioned.

By Hook or Crook...

I'll pin you down, Cora Lesley! You with your bright smile and winsome ways! You who looked so innocent smiling across the page at me! You who promised me smooth sailing, for after all you are fourteen years old and ought to know how to behave!
But I'll tell you one thing, Little Missy: you are giving me more trouble than all of the Seasoning children put together! [Dill and Angelica included] What is it about you that is so hard for me to write? Why do I feel that as soon as you arrived at Puddleby Lane you shut me out and ran away from me across the smooth yellow sands, free and swift as a sandpiper? I can't understand you right now. I write you into a scene and make you say and feel things I know you never saw nor felt, but you aren't helping a bit. You smile at me with that sweet complacency and look over my shoulder at these fictional actions. When I ask you what you think of it you shake your head and say, "It may be like me and then again it may not. You decide."
But I don't want to decide! I want you to let me in on that secret of yours. I find I understand Ann Company with all her eccentricities far more than I do you. Cora Lesley, I brought you into being and I find you are an enigma. So simple and yet so complex. What in tarnation did I write you for?
And yet for all this I love you. I love you for your complex simplicity, even when I'm foundering in misunderstanding. I love you for your quiet strength that is so foreign to me. I love you for being bold when I'd be frightened, and for being weak when I'd be strong. I'm sorry I'm not able to read what's behind those soft brown eyes. You are the sweetest character [despite your prejudices against being written] that I've created thus far. But, dear Cora, couldn't you be a little more forthcoming? I'd appreciate it.
                                          Your Befuddled Admirer,
                                                            Rachel Heffington

I said that I would do it and indeed I did!

(Pardon my breaking into My Fair Lady music. :) It has been far too long since I have given my mind to seriously writing Puddleby Lane. I got busy (though that's no excuse) and though I can write in spurts and snippets, I find it makes for choppy inspiration, so sometimes I'd rather not write at all. It's rather like trying to draw in pen-and-ink with a leaky pen.
ANYway, last night I thought I would beard the lion in its den, so to speak and try to make some progress of some sort on P.L.

Enter me, armed for battle with a cup of black currant tea and some Scottish shortbread, fortified with a pound of butter. My attempts did not begin under the most auspicious of occasions. I sloshed my tea by accident and it wet the shortbread through. Anyone who's anyone knows soggy shortbread is a calamity. I ate it anyway and flumped down onto the stool in the office and opened up the Puddleby Lane document. Oh joy. I had left Cora in a rather hum-drum conversation that did have a point but was not the most enlightening scene I'd written. Well, I had to get her out of there by hook or crook. It might be painful, but it had to be done. (Oh, and I think I ought to change the color of Ann Company's hair...the feisty red-head is WAY overused in literature.)
I took a deep breath, poised my fingers over the keys, and wrote. I didn't write much. I can't say it was brilliancy, but I think it was a start, and certainly a pardonable attempt for one who has Been Away from her story for several weeks. Would you like to read the very little bit I managed to scribbled last night? I will pretend you do:

She flipped the page and sighed, content.

The minutes tip-toed past on swift wings and it hardly seemed any time at all before Ann Company pushed Cora’s book out of her face and, laughing, announced she was finished.

“Then let’s hurry. It looks horridly cold out there.” Cora shivered, reluctant to leave the warmth of the pot-bellied stove. She warmed her hands one last time, placed her book back on the rack and followed Ann Company onto the establishment’s plank porch. Ann Company turned the key in the lock and dropped it into one of her cavernous pockets. Then, arm in arm, the two girls began their walk toward home.

A salt-scented Wandering Jew of a breeze whisked up the bluffs to meet them. Cora leapt down the twisting embankment behind Ann Company. She was becoming proficient in the art of leaping from hillock to hillock like a deer—she’d gotten her Puddleby legs, as Ann Company had called them.

They stepped through the Needle’s Eye into November dusk, beautiful as anything Cora had ever seen. The fading light hung suspended above the beach like an airy, amethyst wine. It purpled the red clay of the bluffs and bewitched the roar of the breakers to a hushed sigh like a weary child lulled to sleep. The sand stretched before them, an undulating tapestry—silver where the ripples crested and ebony in between. A sliver of white moon winked at the girls where it rose from the regions beyond the reach of the eye. Cora squeezed Ann Company’s hand and they stood in silence, the utter peace of the shore seeping into her very soul.

“For the beauty of the earth, for the glory of the skies,” Cora began the song and Ann Company joined her rich alto to the melody. “For the love which from our birth over and around us lies, Lord of all, to Thee we raise this, our hymn of grateful praise.”

A lone sandpiper, the last of the birds to go to bed, scuttled across the tapestry and broke the reverie with a sleepy twitter. Ann Company drew Cora’s hand through her arm and they walked on.

Cora sighed. The perfection could not last, and she had known it. But oh, what a sweet glimpse of perfection it was!

There you have it. The fruits of a tardy mind attempting to drop from the tree of....It's Been A Long Time. But I think I'll keep it for now. What say you? :) ~Rachel

Puddleby Lane Excerpt: Chapt. 15: Forbidden

After many pleadings not to leave you ...where I left you...in the last excerpt I posted, I am giving in and sharing another excerpt of Puddleby Lane. I ought not to, and increase your suspense so that in that all-elusive Someday you will still want to buy a copy...however, I am much too tender-hearted and I have little will-power when my dear friends beg. ;) Cora and Tucker have found even more mystery in the Other House, as well as a strange portrait.

The woman’s face was noble and soft, reminding one of cherry-blossoms and dew-wet grass. Her eyes were deep and blue as…well, bluer than anything Cora had ever seen. They commanded her to look at their marine depths and be caught in their undulating beauty. The age of the portrait seemed to be in keeping with everything else in the room. The subject of the painting wore a soft, white evening gown and a cluster of forget-me-nots at her breast. Her shape curved in and out in lines of perfect grace, and she leaned slightly forward, a laughing smile on her rosy lips. Her auburn hair was swept up in soft, elegant waves, and fastened with a comb set with stones the color of her eyes.

Cora thought she could stand gazing at the portrait forever. Time passed unhindered, and Cora’s eyes took in every detail of the painting again and again. It was such a life-like portrait. She could almost hear the woman’s laughter, and feel the soft touch of her white hand. This woman could explain the mystery, Cora knew. If only she was real. If only she could help solve the story of the strange light.

Chapter Fifteen: Forbidden

Cora and Tucker banged inside dripping and gasping for air. The umbrellas were nowhere to be found so the water streamed in rivulets down their bodies freely.

“Mercy on us,” Maggie exclaimed. “To the tub, both of you and don’t come out until you are completely thawed.”

She herded the dripping pair up the stairs where they each soaked in steaming water until their toes were pruny and their cheeks glowed pink. Cora didn’t mind soaking in the tub in Maggie’s bathroom with the bubbles frothing around her. She let her mind wander to insignificant thoughts. Thoughts about the little things she never took time to ponder. Bubbles, for instance, were such delicate, fairy-like things. Little more than a crystalline ball with a shred of rainbow twisted inside. She scooped a handful of the bubbles and blew them across the room. Bet the woman in the painting took her baths in a gold-plated tub with diamond-studded feet.

Cora leaned back against the cool, porcelain wall and closed her eyes. Mysteries were a nuisance. She would have to tell Maggie the whole story and she knew what the result would be—they would be forbidden to step foot in the Other House without express permission from Captain Boniface. It was just, of course. The Other House did not belong to her and they had entered and rummaged in the chest without asking.

The water in the tub had cooled and Cora stepped out and dried herself with a plush towel, then wrapped up well in her pink bathrobe with the roses embroidered on the hem. The Woman probably wore a silk robe with an ermine ruff when she got out of the tub. Cora laughed at her fancy and rubbed a circle out of the fogged mirror.

“Shall we ever get this mystery out of our mind?” she asked her reflection. Of course not. Though I don’t know how we’ll solve it.

She met Tucker, equally shiny and warm in the kitchen. Maggie bustled from stove to table with cups of hot tea and warm ginger-cookies.

“You two will die of pneumonia and whose fault will it be? Mine. Not because I thought it a good idea, but because I was fool enough to give into your insistence.”

“But—”

“No buts about it, Cora. I was irresponsible and if you get ill and—” Maggie shuddered and turned her back to the pair.

“Maggie!”

Maggie put her hands on the table and her lip trembled. “It can happen, Cora. Pneumonia is a serious thing. And in such an out of the way place as this… And what were you so intent on exploring anyway, miss?”

Maggie always added the little prefix to the end of anything she wished to make especially accusatory.

Cora dropped a lump of sugar into her tea and tried not to look at Maggie. “We were exploring the Other House.”

All was quiet in the kitchen. Tucker slurped his tea and Maggie hushed him. The white-faced clock on the wall ticked like a sentinel treading out the last watch before a dawn execution.

Cora squirmed. “I know we shouldn’t have gone in without permission, but I had to see what that light was, and it was the only way.”

“What light?” Maggie’s voice was laden with grave displeasure. Her feathers had been ruffled and no mistake.

It would all have to come out. “The first night we were here, as I went to bed I saw a light shining out of a window in the Other House. It was strange, Ann Company having assured us that nobody went in the house except once a year at the New Year when the Captain goes in to make repairs and tidy up a little.”

Maggie’s face was pale, except for a spot on either cheek glowing an indignant red. “And you just walked into that house. There could be robbers or thieves in there. Murderers! Anything.” She covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head.

“Maggie,” Cora reached out a hand and stroked her sister’s hair. “I don’t think anything of a villainous nature has ever found its way to Puddleby Lane. Everyone here is good and kind—you know that as well as I.”

Maggie pulled away and crossed her arms. Tears stood in her eyes. “You are your own girl, Cora, and I’m only your sister. I can’t dictate what you can and can’t do. But you took a little boy, my son, into that house without knowing who or—or what was in there. It was a poor choice on your part.”

Why was Maggie so high-strung? A shutter banged in the wind and they all jumped. Cora shrunk into her seat. She hated disapproval of any kind, but Maggie’s was always worse for its womanly emotion. “Sorry, Maggie.”

“I forgive you. But that still doesn’t mend the matter. You and Tucker could be hovering on the verge of illness and we won’t know it for a day or two at the very least.”

Tucker sniffed and Cora and Maggie fastened their eyes on him.

“The tea’s too strong,” he said, by way of an explanation.

Maggie pushed her chair away from the table and stood. She tied the strings of her apron again and put her hands on her hips. Cora felt that each action was a death-blow to her chance of ever unraveling the mystery.

“You two are not to leave this house, not even to go on a walk for three days. And you are never ever to set foot in that other house without permission. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Yes Mama.”

“Good. And perhaps you’ll bypass pneumonia altogether. Let’s pray for the best.” Maggie returned to the stove and stirred a pot of something.

“What about pneumonia?” Frank’s jolly voice sailed into the kitchen on a cold blast of wind.

“Oh, Frank!” Maggie ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. “You’re soaked through.”

He put her from him gently and touched her cheek with a finger. “What’s this, my lady—tears?”

“Cora and Tuck went out in this gale and—oh, Frank! You’ve been out in it too. You’re in more danger than all of them with such a long walk from the station.” Maggie stripped his woolen overcoat from his back and pushed him down in a chair. She knelt on the floor and removed his soaked shoes.

Cora poured a cup of the black tea and stirred two lumps of sugar and a splash of cream into it. She passed the cup to Frank and kissed his cheek.

Frank grinned through a wreath of the fragrant steam. “I trudge all the way home through a gale like a shabby pilgrim on a trip to the Holy Lands, but I come home to be treated with the purplest Orientalism. Ah, my Scheherazade, will not thou rise and tell me this strange tale?” He touched Maggie’s chin and tilted it upwards, then kissed her.

Maggie laughed in spite of herself and perched on his lap. “Apparently there was some light shining in the window of the house next door the first night we were here. Cora saw it and never told me. This afternoon she asked if she and Tuck could go exploring. I didn’t want to let them go, but it seemed to storm had died down a little. But immediately after they left it picked back up and they were gone for an hour at least while I—”

“Now, now little woman,” Frank hugged her. “They’re home and they don’t look in the throes of death.”

“Yes, but they came home cold and wet and having traipsed through a house that they had no right to be in.”

“Find anything, Cora?”

“Frank!” Maggie pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “You aren’t helping things.”

“My apologies, Mag. But I’d better get out of these clothes if you don’t want me to catch pew-mony too.” Frank winked, gulped the rest of his tea and strode out of the kitchen.

Maggie tsked and shook her head, but Cora noted with relief that her color was back. “Maggie?”

“What?”

“Can I help with dinner?”

* * * * * *

The weeks flew by on the chill wings of early winter. Life at Puddleby Lane settled into a sort of rhythm set by the dance of the days. The first rays of sunlight curtsied to the dark of night and began the dance. Cora would take the children out to walk along the barren shore searching for treasures of the sea. In her moments alone Cora was content to walk for hours on the sand, watching the gulls winging over the white-frothed waves in utter abandon, reckless of the salt spray and strong winds. Her spirit seemed to soar with them, and her heart to mount on wings of prayer. It was so easy to be good when one had nothing but the sea, the sky, and God to speak to. If only life could always be so—nothing to vex and everything to build strength.

The air agreed with Dorothy too. She had only grown rounder and rosier from the daily walks. Cora delighted to hold Dot in her arms and show her off to Captain Boniface whom they often met pacing the sands in front of the three cottages. They were good friends now—the children and the captain. Cora laughed at the idea that she had been scared of him. Her ease in Captain Boniface’s presence would be complete if only—.But the persistent thought that the Other House and Captain Boniface were wrapped up in each other plagued Cora’s mind. She could not tell why she felt that way. But if she could get a few clues as to his youth, perhaps it would help solve the mystery.

For, though Cora had not been back to the Other House and the beautiful guardian of the chest since that stormy afternoon, she had thought of it constantly. If only Maggie hadn’t forbidden them to go back.

They had not caught pneumonia, and there had been nothing terrifying in the house anyway. It seemed a desperate measure to forbid any visiting in the Other House. Maggie had said it was only the unauthorized visiting that was a problem. Still…Cora didn’t want to ask Captain Boniface outright. For starters she’d have to admit she had been prowling in a house that didn’t belong to her. Secondly, mysteries never seemed so mysterious when one talked them over aloud as if they were of no more consequence than the price of eggs—and that was another thing. Even Piper’s Corner could not entirely disentangle itself from the hard times in America. The stock market was still down, and people—so many, many people—were desperate. Prices, rates and politics weaseled their way into discussions at dinner, over tea, and even on walks to town. How could such a national calamity find its way this obscure little town that was so cut off from the world in every other way?

“Captain Boniface,” Cora said as he escorted her to town on an errand one afternoon. The Captain and she walked on either side of the sandy road where the footing was less slippery.

“Aye?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of money?” Cora swung her pail with Frank’s lunch in it until the lid rattled. Dry oak leaves crackled underfoot, murmuring at her passing.

The Captain laughed and stroked his chin. “Can’t say that I’ve had th’problem of havin’ so much money I could get overly tired of it.”

Cora laughed too and plucked a sprig of holly from a tree near the road. “What I mean is, don’t you get tired of speaking of money and thinking of money and slaving away for money all the time?”

“Do you?”

“Oh, I do. If one could live without money I should do so in an instant. It’s such a necessary evil, though.” She plucked the holly berries from the spray one by one and sent them rolling into the road.

Captain Boniface puffed out his cheeks and blew on his hands. “Aye. So ‘tis.”

Cora pulled her coat closer. The early December wind keened around them. “I don’t need to be rich, but I should like just enough money that I didn’t have to be working every minute to keep the shabby ends of life meeting.”

Captain Boniface jammed his hands in his pocket and swung his long legs. Cora had to trot to keep up. “Are you speakin’ of yer own experience or just thinkin’ aloud?” he asked.

“I don’t know… Frank works so hard to keep our family together and if…if something came up and he couldn’t, I’ve been thinking of what I could do to make any money.”

“Now, Miss Cora. You needn’t worry your pretty head about that.” The Captain inclined his head toward the distant Piper’s Corner. “You’ve got friends here, and—God forbid—if anythin’ did happen to one of you, we’d not be leavin’ you in the lurch.”

Cora dashed across the sand-road and put her arm into the Captain’s. “Thank you. I know you are too good and kind to do anything of the sort.”

Captain Boniface chuckled and pulled his hat down over his eyes. Cora ventured a study of his profile. Strong features—cut from stone, yet supple and changing as the wind over the ocean waves. Kind features—as capable of tenderness as any woman’s. Noble features—if any man could be trusted to treat a woman with gentleness and respect, it was Captain Boniface.

The character sketch being finished, Cora turned away. All this she knew, and yet Cora would not, could not force the question from her lips. She wished it was easy to ask such a strange question:

So, Captain Boniface, who is that woman?

And what right had she to suspect the captain knew anything? Cora’s face flamed and she settled her tam tighter on her head. It was no use. She could not out and out ask the captain about the Other House. She would have to be content with simpler information.

“Captain Boniface?”

“Aye?”

“Have you always lived on Puddleby Lane?”

The Captain pushed his cap up on his head at a jaunty angle and set his chin. “Pretty near. My father and I moved here and took over the care of th’cottages when I was seven. ‘Bout Tucker’s age.” He chuckled softly.

“You say you take care of the cottages…do you own them?”

“Not all of them.” The Captain pulled the collar of his coat higher. “The Bonnie Addie’s mine, of course…”

And the Other House? But Cora kept the thought silent. “Who owns our cottage?”

“A Mr. Beaumont from back near your old home. He was the one that suggested th’plan to Frank.”

Cora froze in the middle of the path. “Mr. Beaumont?!”

“Aye. I would think you’d have heard all about it from Frank.”

“No.” Cora dragged her feet in the sand and shook her head to clear the bewilderment. “Mr. Beaumont’s daughter and I were not the best of friends…perhaps Frank realized I would not like Puddleby Lane so well as I do if I knew her father owned our house. It was probably the wisest decision.”

The Captain nodded, and bumped Cora playfully with his elbow. “So y’do like Puddleby Lane?”

“I think it’s the dearest place on earth. Even if Dorie-Ann’s dad does own my home.” She smiled ruefully.

“Ah. Well, you needn’t worry ‘bout seeing the Beaumont family if y’don’t like them. The elder Mr. Beaumont—your friend’s grandfather—bought the house. I saw him th’day of the purchase when he arranged for me to take care of it. The only other thing I ever heard was that he’d died and the deed had passed to ‘is son. Your friend’s daddy. So I wouldn’t fret yerself on that account.”

Mr. Beaumont owned their cottage. Cora’s stomach knotted. Their hard-earned money was going to the rent which was going to Mr. Beaumont which was probably going into manicures and beauty-shop appointments, candy and movie-tickets for Dorie-Ann’s benefit. The idea turned Cora’s stomach. Frank worked long and hard at the railway. He had the three-mile walks to the station morning and night, and the strenuous day of work in between. Especially the weeks he worked on the construction of the railway bridge. Some nights he came home happy but so tired that he kissed Maggie, dropped into a chair and fell asleep over his cup of coffee.

At least Frank had a job and the price of living at Puddleby Lane was minimal. Still, most of the money went to the rent. The remainder Maggie threw her heart into piecing together to make a beautiful tapestry for their home. Candles and coal were dear, as were sugar and tea. Yet nothing seemed to be lacking under Maggie’s expert management.

All the effort and work that went into keeping the family afloat, Cora realized, was being painfully extracted and thrown to the capricious winds of the Beaumonts. The idea sent a pathetic shiver through Cora’s body, and she felt sick. Suddenly Piper’s Corner resumed that queer habit it had of morphing between a bright existence and a shabby ghost-town.

The Captain and Cora stood at the cross-roads. Cora swallowed and grabbed one of Captain Boniface’s hands. “Promise you’ll always be here?” Why had that come out? She hadn’t known that was what was coming, but she needed the assurance of a friend when the prospect of Mr. Beaumont for a landlord loomed on the horizon. “Will you promise you’ll always live in the Bonnie Addie and be near us?”

Captain Boniface shrugged his outer coat off and draped it around Cora’s shoulders. His rough hand passed lightly over her hair and he lifted her chin “I’ll be here when you need me, Miss Cora. I promise.”

Tears sprang to Cora’s eyes and she wrapped her arms around the Captain. Here was something strong and reliable; someone that had weathered storms and come through them. Here was a friend who she could depend on.

15-day Challenge Day 6 and 7: Favorite Genres and Current Project

I am agreeing with Abigail Hartman when she says that picking one genre to write in can be "damaging to the mind and doom the author's writing to tedious repetition." Like any other thing in life, you ought to use moderation in your favorites. One can not survive on one kind of food only. One cannot have a well-formed mind if the mind is only fed on one kind of book or one subject. And so it is with writing. One genre only can quickly reduce the flavor of your writing to stale crumbs of half-baked inspiration trying desperately to be an elaborate Charlotte Russe or some other stunning dessert. That being said, I will name my favorite genres to write, and what I like about them:

15-day Writing Challenge Day Six: What is your favorite genre to write in?

Light Historical Fiction: this is what I'm terming novels as that are not dealing with historical events, but are set back in time. Using history as your setting, rather than what moves your plot along. A Mother for the Seasonings fits this category well. It's set in a British settlement in East India during the Victorian Era, and while I tried my best to be historically accurate with what was going on during that time, the kids don't encounter much history.

Historical Fiction: This is researched, thought out, careful writing that has to deal closely with historical events and people. My newest idea is going to be a French Revolution historical fiction, and I am in the stages of researching and planning and loving it to death. :)

Poetry: Is this a genre? I guess it is. I love poetry. It comes to me quite often with a resounding "SMACK!" and I'll have written something passable. A phenomenon, really, as the words seem to write themselves. What moments. If only prose was as easy as poetry is for me most of the time.

Satire: I will admit, I love satire. I love Mark Twain's tongue-in-cheek, biting words. But a little of satire goes a long way, and I have to be careful in selecting who I show my bits to. I actually am quite a hand at poking fun at our conservative/homeschooling foibles and follies. :P *smiles at Marybelle*

Short Stories: Until about a month or two ago, I had never been much good at writing these. I found it hard to fit a beginning, a plot, and an end into a few short pages. But I've found that when the writing bug has bitten and my main novel isn't agreeing, it's a great way to liberate inspiration.

15-day Writing Challenge Day 7: What is your current writing project?

Aha. Puddleby Lane claims my attention at present. I am not the writer who works on two projects at a time--I can't fathom how that can make for a very cohesive novel...hopping back and forth from plot to plot as if you were playing one-man ping-pong? Strange indeed. I know most of you have heard enough about Puddleby Lane, but for any new-comers I shall do a blurb:

"In her fourteen years of life Cora Lesley hasn't met with much that she'd call adventure. Beyond The Accident, there hasn't even been anything worth writing down as her "life story". That is until the stock-market crashes on October 29, 1929 and Cora and her sister's family lose everything. They are forced to leave their cozy home in the Mid-West to move to a shabby seaside town. Does Puddleby Lane hold a promise of adventure? It seems so. The discovery in the Other House and the mystery cloaking it, the budding friendship with the three year-round inhabitants of the town, Captain Boniface and his queer home, The Bonny Addie, and even the change of scenery all point to new experiences for Cora. But when calamity touches the family and a shadow falls across Puddleby Lane, the question arises: Will Cora, Maggie, and the children be force to go through yet another storm, or

will this new set of adventures teach them to lean more than ever on the Everlasting Arms?"

There you have it. I am at 139 pages right now, and about half-way through the plot. I'm estimating it to be about 300 pages long by the end. Plenty long enough for a light historical-fiction novel, I believe. Anyway, that's all for now, folks!

15-day Challenge: Day Four: Inspiration

15-Day Challenge Day Four:
{A novel or author that has inspired something in your writing style}

I am one so apt to catch grains of inspiration as they fall from each book I open that this is rather an interesting question for me. But of course I now realize the happy truth that the question is a writer or book, not the writer or book.

"Let us proceed at once to business. What is the use of delay when we agreed to take that up the first thing?" ~The Society for the Suppression of Gossip (hilarious Victorian play, that)

ANY-whoo, to answer the question, I am afraid I must again choose two authors, and one of those authors will be making his second appearance in this 15-day challenge:

1. Louisa May Alcott- I have always felt a deep connection with this author's novels. You see, being the eldest sister in a chunk of four girls right in the middle of our big family, I felt much like Meg with Jo, Beth, and Amy to look after. Even our personalities match up to the March girls! So it was only natural that my life would be rather Little Women-ish, and it will not surprise you to hear that we started our own literary society when my fellow members were 9, 6, and 4 respectively. *Harumph* (Needless to say, talent was limited. :P)
Louisa May Alcott novels are sweet and innocent, and I feel each time I put one down that I walk away a better girl for it. Morals and wisdom are entwined so effortlessly in the windings of the story that one doesn't know one has learned anything, and yet the day is colored by noble ideals afterward.
I did not realize her writing had truly influenced mine until I'd had...oh...probably near a dozen people tell me that my books remind them so much of Louisa May Alcott's. Someone said that The Seasonings had the flavor of Eight Cousins about it. :)

2. Charles Dickens. I know, I know you must be sick to death of hearing about him. You must think I never read anything else. But I had to bring him in, because I have come to realize that he has influenced me in the forming of my characters. I am continually delighted with the ream of people I find in the pages of his novels. They are so queer and quaint and unusual. He can concoct the most interesting mash of qualities into a larger-than-life personality that one remembers forever. In Puddleby Lane, particularly, one character is fashioned on purpose in the Dickensian style. :)

It did not take as long as Cora expected to get to town. Perhaps it was the cheerful conversation of Ann Company, or the novelty of walking like a caravan of gypsies down a sandy road, that made the two miles seem like a hundred yards, but Cora did not feel at all fatigued when they finally reached the train station.

Piper’s Corner was not so bleak after all. Cora tilted her head at the station. Still windswept, and the row of wax myrtles weren’t the most robust bushes she’d ever encountered, but there was a certain charm even in the loneliness.

“Hey, Pa!” Ann Company’s shout startled Cora, and she turned to find Tucker and Dot sitting on the edge of the platform.

“Don’t sit so near the edge, Tuck. What if a train came along?”

“Shoot, Miz Cora! There’s only the nine-fifteen, the one-thirty, and the five-forty-five that comes through here this time a’year. Tucker could sit there another three hours an’ he’d be no worse’n me fer it.”

“Can I, Cora?” Tucker hammered the side of the platform with the heels of his shoes.

“Certainly not.”

A heavy hand descended on Cora’s shoulder. “Well what’ve we got here? A pack of young’uns?”

Cora turned to find Flounder’s red face crinkled up in what she supposed to be a grin. “Good morning, Flounder.”

“Good mornin’ to you.” He withdrew his hand and stuck his thumbs through his suspenders. The sleeves of his shirt were still rolled up. And was it the same shirt? If not, surely the ink-stains on the cuffs had been duplicated with a careful eye to authenticity.

Ann Company adjusted Flounder’s collar and brushed crumbs from the front of his shirt. “I’m fixin’ t’give these kids a tour a’Piper’s Corner.”

Flounder patted Ann Company’s curly hair as if she was a favorite puppy of his and cast his wall-eye at Cora, Tucker, and Dot. “A splendid idear. I splendid idear. Didn’t I say this mornin’, Ann Company, it’d be a splendid idear?”

“I b’lieve you did, Pa. That’s what put it in m’head in th’ first place.”

Flounder shook his head like a ponderous bull-dog. “Splendid idears sometimes do come to me, you know. Though some might doubt it.”

“Course idears come t’you.” Ann Company, who had been putting her father in shape with many a tender push, pull, and shove the whole time, stepped back and grabbed Tucker’s hand. “I guess we’ll be goin’ now, Pa.”

“Yes, yes. And don’t forget to show your friends Adolphus.”

“I won’t, Pa.” Ann Company nodded to Cora and led the way across the tracks, leaving Eulalie near the railroad office.

See? :) Flounder is turning out to be a rather fussy but good-hearted man. He whines. Rather a Mr. Dorrit, if you will, minus the debtor's prison. I admit Dickens has influenced this character heavily, but that's okay. Since I did it on purpose, it doesn't count as copying. ;)

Puddleby Lane Excerpt: Chpt. 13: The Other House

Greetings fellow writers! My pen, a rather weary and bedraggled, but triumphant pen salutes you. In between the gardening, harvesting and sorting for farmers' market, baking of eight loaves of zucchini spice bread, peeling of 25 potatoes, washing of a myriad of dishes, mashing and whipping of said potatoes, and all the other duties faced by a girl of my station and capacities, I have written a chapter of Puddleby Lane. It follows close on the heels of Cora's arrival to the lane and her new home. The first night she had seen a light glowing in The Other House--a place that is known to be entirely deserted. She is intent on ferreting out this new mystery. Thus my chapter. Now, I am laying myself bare for your much-cherished opinions. Do you think I do well in my description in this chapter? I wanted to instill a cob-webby, delicious, tingling anticipation in the reader as they walked through the scene with Cora...did I succeed, my friends? You must tell me, and tell me true. I know it is just a first draft, and there's room for improvement. Thus, I am allowing you to read chapter 13 of Puddleby Lane: Adieu, mes chers.

Chapter Thirteen: The Other House

Cora’s eyes fluttered open to view a sodden world. Torrents gushed down the roof, hardly stopping to travel down the window panes but careening instead off the shingles and onto the ground below. Through the drops the wind had tossed against the panes, Cora viewed a beach that looked more like Impressionistic art than sand and shore. She shivered and pulled her things on, adding an extra sweater. She was still not used to waking in cold rooms. Beaumont Street had gas heating; Puddleby Lane was a wood-fire or nothing.

She had slept better last night. Cora stretched and yawned, then perched on the top of her humpback trunk and surveyed the room, half-dreaming, half-alert. The sensation of sitting in the peace of her room—the rain beating atop the roof and the wind trying the panes with feverish hands—was a luxury of the highest order. Cora fancied her room to be a sort of ship’s cabin, what with the water streaming from the eaves and the dull crashing of the bay still heard beyond the sounds of the storm.

She leaned her head against the wall. What would Puddleby Lane bring today? Maggie needed help finishing the unpacking and things of that nature, she knew. But after? Cora’s gaze travelled to the little dormer window and a rain-streaked picture of the Other House through the portal. She had to find out what that light was about. She just had to. After the work was done, she’d ask Maggie to let her explore a little. Maybe during Dot’s nap when she wouldn’t have to cart her around. Tucker could come along. He’d be a comfort if anything too mysterious began happening. After all, there was safety in numbers…right?

* * * * * *

“But, Maggie, it isn’t really raining that hard.” Cora threw her hands out with a desperate gesture and peered out the window.

“Yes it is, look—I’m surprised we haven’t floated away by now.” Maggie pointed to the rain, still pouring off the roof and crossed her arms. “Why are you so eager to get away from the house?”

“Tuck and I still have some exploring to do, Maggie.”

“Yeah, Mama, can’t we?”

Maggie shook her head, but her mouth was no longer so decided. Cora swooped in to seize the moment of indecision. “Listen, Maggie, we won’t go any farther than Captain Boniface’s house, if we even get that far.”

Maggie walked to the window and stared at the storm. The two anxious creases between her eyebrows showed and she bent toward the windows as if listening to the gale. “I don’t like it, Cora.”

“Maggie, it’s just a storm. Please?” Cora grabbed her sister’s hand and pressed it.

Maggie seated herself at the kitchen table, sighing, and warmed her hands on her cup of tea. “I suppose. But take the umbrellas and try not to get wet.”

“Thanks a million times over, Maggie!” Cora flew from the room, lest Maggie change her mind and call them back.

“Oh! And mind you stay away from the waves. I’d rather not have to go fishing in this weather.” Maggie’s voice was nearly drowned by the force of the storm as Cora opened the front door.

Cora hadn’t realized the storm was coming straight off the bay. A wild, determined breeze forced its way into the hall and she had to wrestle the door close. The wind threw itself against the door, howling and trying the knobs, then swept up next to the dormer windows and sulked, making disconsolate noises and shrieking now and again that it had been put off.

Cora raised her umbrella and helped Tucker with his. “Careful, Tuck.” The wind bent their umbrellas and threatened to take Tucker’s away, little boy and all, any second. Cora tried to keep the wind from turning the umbrellas inside out, but it was useless. “All right, Tuck,” she yelled. “Let’s make a dash for porch of the Other House—I’m sure we can figure this out there.”

Cora grabbed Tucker’s hand and they ran through the rain together, umbrellas bouncing along behind, buffeted and twisted by the hands of the wind.

“Gee, let’s hurry, Tuck.” Cora’s hair stuck to her face in wet strands as she tried the latch on the garden gate. The Other House rose, a formidable giant, and watched the proceedings with none too friendly an eye. Cora worried as she brushed the rain out of her face long enough to steal a quick glance upward. She wasn’t sure what it was that frightened her, but the sensation of being watched by the house was unpleasant. “Oh, come on!” Cora’s wet hands were stiffening in the cold and her fingers felt numb and useless. At last the latch gave way and Cora pushed Tucker through, grabbed the bent umbrellas, and dashed to the porch.

She gasped for breath and held Tucker close to her. Maggie was right. The storm was worse than she had taken it for at first. They never had gales like this in Greensdale. Everything seemed so much wilder and more powerful at Puddleby Lane.

“What do we do now, Cora?” Tucker slumped against the faded outer walls of the Other House and grinned.

“Don’t know. We can’t exactly go inside…” Cora turned to look at the door and wondered. “Tuck…”

“You wanna try?”

“If you do.”

“I’m game.”

“Right.” Cora passed her umbrella to Tucker. “Ann Company says no one knocks at Puddleby Lane—wouldn’t that mean the doors aren’t kept locked?”

“I guess.” Tucker stuffed the twisted remains of the umbrella in an empty flowerpot on the edge of the porch and turned to Cora. “Well, aren’t you gonna try it?”

Cora nodded and turned toward the door. A calm resignation, akin to that she imagined one would feel when heading into a lion’s den, flowed over her as she made up her mind to enter The Other House. She recalled Ann Company’s hesitation to speak of it, and her final reluctant admission that she was scared. Why scared? Because she had heard so many tales of it. Tales that haunt the Brocken, and whisper down the Rhine…The phantom strain of poetry coursed through Cora’s mind, an unbidden but fitting refrain.

But she would not waver in her pursuit. There was a mystery to be solved. The cold brass of the knob zapped Cora’s skin as she put out her hand, and she quivered. Not from quite from fear, not from excitement, but from the knowledge that the unknown and the answer to her mystery must lay behind the door. She twisted the knob but it stuck. For a moment disappointment washed over Cora’s heart like a crashing wave from the bay, and she knew just how much she wanted to solve her mystery.

“Here, let me try.” Tucker dried the knob as best he could with the tail of his shirt and got hold of it with both hands. “Ready?” He wrenched. The knob hesitated then turned, and with a short kick, Tucker and Cora tumbled into the front passage of the Other House. The wind changed directions and sucked the door closed with a hollow bang. All at once the noise outside muffled and Cora could hear the pounding of her heart. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and she grabbed Tucker, holding him close and gasping for breath.

“Lemme go, Cora.” Tucker twitched himself out of her grasp and sat up. His blond hair was dark with rain and his skin glowed ghostly pale in the darkness of the house. The front shutters were, of course, closed, and the only light entered through a row of little diamond-shaped panes running across the top of the door.

Cora stood, her entire body shaking, and helped Tucker up. Why was she being so strange? Why did this house act upon her in such a queer fashion? She knew just what Maggie would say. It was because she had let herself, with her wild imagination, build a lavish mystery around it. Her thoughts had been filled with the Other House all day and night, as if there weren’t a hundred other things worth giving her mind to.

“Cora, you goose.”

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud till Tucker laughed. “Why’d you say that?”

“Because I’m just a little bit scared.”

“You are?” Tucker’s blue eyes demanded an explanation.

“Well, it’s such a gloomy place, and you know I saw a light in the window.”

“Ann Company said it couldn’t have been real.”

“Whose side are you on?” It peeved Cora to have her story questioned. She had seen a light and she would ferret out the reason behind it.

“Aw, don’t be mad.” Tucker hugged Cora. “C’mon. What are we waiting for?”

Indeed. What were they waiting for? An invitation from the glowering, shuttered eyes? Cora turned her back to the windows and squared her shoulders. She was being nonsensical, and if the Captain or Frank saw her, she’d be the laughing stock of Puddleby Lane. “Well, let’s go.”

Cora crept through the house with Tucker close behind. It was situated like their own cottage, only in mirror image. They found nothing in any of the rooms they passed—parlor, kitchen, hall—and Cora began to wonder if there was no mystery here after all. They started up the stairs not daring to make noise least it should awaken something. Echoes. Or spiders. Or—Cora screamed and jumped behind Tucker.

“What? What is it?”

Cora sobbed and laughed at the same time and pointed with a trembling finger to the piece of the parlor visible between the rails. “It was just the woodstove. It looked like someone crouching in the corner.”

Tucker bestowed upon Cora a look that spoke volumes of impatience. “Is that all?”

“Let’s just hurry upstairs.” Cora led the way on tip-toe, sliding her hand along the dust-covered railing. Once-beautiful Oriental carpet ran down the stairs, places in it faded to pastel hues from the tread of many feet. Cora avoided these worn patches—it was only a notion, but she hated the thought of putting her own feet in the steps of people long vanished.

“Why isn’t there anything here?” Tucker’s voice broke the stillness and Cora could have sworn she heard a rustling.

“What do you mean?” Cora whispered.

“There aren’t any chairs or tables or curtains or anything.” This even louder declaration seemed to summon the attention of the eyes in the pea-cock print wall-paper.

Cora clapped a hand over Tucker’s mouth. “Hush. Not so loud, goose.” She beckoned to the top of the stairs and put a finger to her lips. Tucker shrugged and continued on behind her. Cora hardly knew why silence was vital. She knew it, and that was enough. Some faint impression that the house was watching and disapproving of their entry caused Cora’s heart to pound and the blood to rush to her head.

If she didn’t stop soon she’d faint—what a mess that would be. Cora pinched her arm and stepped up the last three stairs into the hallway. “Right….which way to the room where I saw the light?” she said under her breath.

Cold talons of fear gripped her heart and stroked it, whispering icy cobwebs into her thoughts. Cora grabbed Tucker’s hand for moral support and went up to the door in the center of the hall. From what she could remember, this was the position of the candle. They stood for a moment, Cora’s hand on knob, her heart in her throat. The roar of the gale outdoors seemed to swell louder, challenging her entry to the room. A shred of wind, torn from the main body of the storm, lingered under the eaves and wailed, wringing its hands and crying to be let in.

“Why does it do that?” Tucker whispered now and shrank close to Cora.

“I don’t know.” There was no sense in lingering. Her trepidation could not grow more enmeshed with her excitement if she had weaved it on a loom. “Ready?”

“Wait.”

Cora froze. “What?”

“What’ll we find in there?” Tucker pulled away from the door and put one arm on the stair-rail.

“How should I know?”

“It won’t be anything…scary, will it?”

“No, silly. I only saw a light. It’s not as if it’s—”

“A robber’s lair?”

“Right.” Cora squeezed her eyes shut, twisted the knob, and stepped through the door.