Back To Work

Hello, Readers! So sorry for the slack in communication. I signed on for an immense real-life project that has taken up all my creativity and spare time for the last month solid so I'm afraid I have that excuse. In other news, I have a new career goal:

To have material published in the print version of Saveur Magazine.

Seeing that they accept submissions and that they're my favorite food journalism outlet, I decided I'd have a go. Now to get on that. I pulled out The Spindle & The Queen (my "Sleeping Beauty" retelling) recently, being reminded that I should finish brushing it up so that it's actually a finished product and from there making decisions about it. I'll be working on the re-haul and to keep myself inspired, I thought I'd share a few bits of it.

L.A., luridly in need of a power-wash, smelled of swimming pools and half-boiled dreams this morning.

"...you've got to get some hustle, sweetheart, or I'll call another girl to take your place. I can get 'em. Anywhere, anytime. Lot of girls. Lot of guys too. Head of design for Thurman-Fischer. Girl. Step it up like Fred Astaire."

“All right, Princess.” His sly grin nauseated her. He actually made her sick. “But only because you're cute and my Yoda told me my juju's off. Need to balance the symbiotic relationship between my spleen and diaphragm with a series of generous act and a kombucha bath.”

Maria prepared to exit this dark-paneled room with its portraits of the handsome king and his patient-eyed queen. Their long-suffering faces, especially the queen's, gave her the creeps. Like a young fashion maven who hadn't received her customary invitation to the Met Gala and was going to Talk to Someone about it.

Snippable Stories

So. Snippets. Yes. It appears to be that time of the blog post circle when I share pieces from what I'm currently writing. They aren't many, this time, but there are some and for that you must give me grace. Five Glass Slippers and the publicity pertaining that is keeping me plenty busy, but I have found time for writing a bit. I hope you enjoy these.

In the shifting blue shadows where green gave way like watercolors to the gold-ripe fields, a hand clamped over Merrin's arm.

-Toadhaven League

“I hate him.” The end of Germaine's statement tilted upward like the tip of her nose, conversationally.

-Toadhaven League

She compliments him, Merrin thought. Like poppies compliment wheat.

-Toadhaven League

She chopped blindly at a tuft of grass that had grown up with depressing presumption between a squash plant and the garden path. Merrin was no better at menial labor—indeed, likely much worse—but she was not certain gripping it with both hands, like a croquet mallet, was quite the way to handle a hoe.

-Toadhaven League

It was the first page of summer and a high, white melody was at play in the trees. Great, black bees droned in thickets of oregano and thyme. Great, black crows stalked in the gardens which had not behaved this year as gardens ought, but crept along like midget-things at a slug’s trot.

-Toadhaven League

“It is hardly fair, Cat, that I cannot be a princess.” Saying so, the young woman locked eyes with the animal in her lap. Her eyes were golden and his were golden, and the result was that the girl looked away before the cat.

-Toadhaven League

Womannish, Merrin shoved the truth in the Cotton Man's eyes: “Estelle is blonde and tall and wise which are things I can never be and Tierney. Tierney is a man and he must see it and I fear lest he see it and … and love it.”

-Toadhaven League

Merrin's heart plummeted with dread. Nay, plummeted before the act as if prophesying it.

-Toadhaven League

“We sound so horrible,” Lisbeth said, “to anyone who isn't us.”

“Quite so.” Germaine did not sound the least bit concerned about sounding horrible. “The cat, you know, probably loathes us. I know the crows do. I hate working out or doors; the weather does nothing but glare, you know.”

-Toadhaven League

Thnippeths of Thtory

I am so glad that I held off on a February snippets post until March, because now I'm on time for Katie's Snippets of Story and didn't dart ahead. I got a fair amount of writing done in February, some of it good, some of it middling, and some I know will be operated on severely come rewrites. Nevertheless, I've collected snippets from all of it below, and I hope you enjoy the review. Also, you there are changes afoot regarding the face of this blog--the most excellent Bree Holloway is concocting a new face for The Inkpen Authoress. If you stop by and don't recognize your surroundings, don't freak out. We've simply had a makeover. Now for the real stuffs:

“That was entirely useless,” Farnham hissed between teeth clenched in a faux smile as he tied Belch’s lead to his handlebar. “Of course I expected nothing but nonsense from the man. All that ridiculousness about Miss Bertois speaking with him. He said she wore a silky dress ‘just like the picture’. It was wool, as you plainly recall. What a stupid man. I’m afraid he couldn’t testify at a sheep-shearing let alone in court.”

One of the men hailed Farnham. “Any idea where I might find the scoop on the scandal?”

Farnham’s stomach doubled up and bit him. “What scandal?”

“American Actress Meets Frightful Death.”

“Oh, that. Try the police station--that’s where one usually finds justice and horrors evenly mixed.”

“Right. Well,” Jimmy looked her straight in the eyes. “See you soon, then?”

“Soon.” Vivi smiled in reply to his question, feeling that it held at actual inquiry that wanted affirmation. Yes, she wanted to see Jimmy again. Yes, she wanted it soon. She pulled her bike up and Jimmy steadied it while she got on. She peddled off, thanking God under her breath that she was past the waggle-waddle stage of remembering how.  

The candle-flames bounced in an erratic dance with some unseen spectre of a draft. Two dried petals from the centerpiece of roses fell to the table with a tick like mouse claws, one right after another so it seemed that a ghost hand had drawn its nails over the wood. 

Vivi smiled and folded her hands against her skirt, small, polite, impeccably distant. “My uncle is not at home right now and I’m afraid our butler is away on business, but--”

Michael spread his hands with a free grin. “Butlers on business? What a modernist.”

She bent her head as if into a stiff wind and continued: “But if you would like to wait in the study I am certain he will not be long.”

 “If you’re my gaoler, I don’t mind being imprisoned in a room with a door that sticks.” 

Vivi watched candlelight gleam on the gold of Michael’s ring like a bit of truth caught in a brass lie.

For some reason she was upset and he thought it quite likely the fault of that young god-like creature in the chair. His chair. He stared at the fellow, unwilling to initiate an acquaintance with a man who could sit in another man’s wing-chair with a smile like that upon his face; Farnham felt he knew the discomfort of dispossessed lords when seeing Americans purchase and dwell in their family castles as if there weren’t years of blood spilled and blood shared connecting a man with his ancestral home. 

He prayed he wasn’t one of those tee-totallers who caused such trouble in the world when you wanted to get them out of the way by offering drinks all round.

They had come to the diningroom, so Farnham shook off her arm and set the candletree on the table. The flames gleamed in reflection on the glassy wood  like the whirring golden beetles one could sometimes find in the back garden in summertime.

“Look,” Farnham said before he could stop himself, “fairy-lamps.”

He felt the red rush  into his cheeks. He ground his jaw. He’d not anticipated how silly it would sound aloud.

 She arranged the wedges on a baking stone and slid them into the oven without speaking. Not that she wasn’t going to speak, Farnham thought, but she hadn’t quite decided what she was going to say. He liked that about Vivi: so many women rattled on as if words didn’t cost something; as if people actually had time to listen to three sentences where one coherent thought would have done the job.

“Fifteen for Lillian to arrive at Holly Triad. What would you give him...five minutes to kill her?” Vivi’s face turned red. “I mean, let us presume she was a bit late and he was already in an ill temper. She does or tells him something that sets him off. It mightn’t even take that long.”

“Three minutes, let us say,” Farnham agreed. “What next?”

“Ten minutes for carrying the body the half mile between Holly Triad and its final resting place, do you think?” Vivi asked.

“I’ve never lugged a dead body cross-country,” Farnham admitted.

 She was glad he had his hands in his pockets, for then she didn’t have to see his strong, supple fingers--fingers that could close with ease on a woman’s throat and extinguish the life from it. But would he?

His lips trembled as if he was about to speak, then warmed into a chiseled smile. “I suppose you didn’t come to speak about us either.”“No,” she said flatly. “We’ve exhausted that topic.”

 Vivi shook the woman’s plump, sweating hand and a pair of keen eyes raked her up and down.“Woy up, then!”

“How do y’do?” Vivi answered, figuring the woman’s odd words were a like manner of greeting.

“Well she don’t look like a fiz-gig and ent that a relief!” Mrs. Froggle said with a wink at Farnham. “Lord knows we’ve got enough of ‘em in the world.”

Friendships are Built on Blood {Snippets of Story}

The very first thing I want to say is that I have posted my review for Amber Stokes's brand new novel, Forget Me Not. You can read my thoughts on it here! Short version: you will enjoy it. :)

 It is time for Snippets of Story at Whisperings of the Pen. I don't think this needs explaining, but if it does, the rules can be found here. This past week was a bit bummy writing-wise a few of the days, but I do have a goodly chunk to show from January's capture so here's to lots more in February-to-come!

Vivi stopped and looked at her uncle. He gave a slight shake of his head as if to discourage further explanation of that fact. It was meant to be a secret gesture but Vivi saw  the Inspector looking at him.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

She let him boil in that kettle a moment, then graced him with a sweet smile.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“I can’t remember what she said precisely and if a thing is not accurately presented there is ample room for misconstruction,” Vivi said.

The chief steepled his fingers, putting the points of his index finger against his nose, and stared at her over them. “And if there is nothing presented all all the answer will certainly be misconstrued. Be a sensible little woman.”

-Anon, Sir, Anon

The trio exited the police station and crammed into Dr. Breen’s car. Vivi felt weak and exhausted by the ordeal at the station; no matter how innocent she knew she was, there was always a moment where she feared something would go awry and she would be pegged a murderess. Something to do with her mother’s lessons that the guest was always right.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

The engine coughed to silence and Breen climbed out of the driver’s seat and opened  Vivi’s door with a flourish. “Welcome to the Quagmire, my dear Miss Langley.”

-Anon, Sir, Anon

The bad weather of the evening had cleared off with the springing-up of a light breeze, and cloud-tatters flitted over a half moon; the temperature was perfect for an almost-solitary walk: cold without being vampire-like. He felt the weight of Vivi’s arm in his and was glad he was there to protect her if--God forbid--the killer was still in Whistlecreig.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“I’m your nursemaid. Shouldn’t I be monitoring your food intake?”

“Don’t be a spoil sport. I’m hungry for once in my bang life; let my ulcers scream. We shall solve this mystery and we shall solve it in a week--no more. I shall bet Breen on that.”

-Anon, Sir, Anon

But in her stomach a sparrow-fear darted up and beat its wings.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

She rounded a sudden twist and found herself face to face with a red fox. It grinned at her, brushing its tale across the grass. She took a step forward and it tensed, drawing backward but still grinning; the creature considered her a moment longer before trotting off in an auburn snoot, more cat than dog. She watched a rogue shaft of sunlight jink on the fox’s pelt before it vanished into the rowans like an amber spectre. Vivi was not frightened by the odd meeting with the creature but it occurred to her then that not everything in the Rowan Walk must needs be friendly; there were predators among the woodland folk even as there were among humans.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“Do you keep horses?” Vivi asked as she and Farnham made their way down the mossy steps of the great house and took to the gravel drive.

Farnham stuffed his hands in his cardigan. “Do I look like I keep horses?”

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“What kind a’ ‘uman could craunch a gel’s head like that and not be a bloke? Barnaby, says I, Barnaby, he’s a nurker he is. Allus hotching about while waitin’ for ‘is train. Allus glining. He’s a rum one, that’un.”

-Anon, Sir, Anon

It was a pretty spot, Vivi decided. She liked it. The mill felt like a mother, gathering the rampant stream to her breast and hushing it with a chuckling murmur till it fell asleep in the cradle-pond.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

She watched Farnham and his hound lounge up the bank with growing apprehension. He wasn’t hurrying. He was barely smiling. But then, Farnham never did go in much for the whole amiable-expression thing.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“That is positively morbid.”

“It’s a testament to our friendship.”

“Friendships aren’t built on blood!” Vivi protested.

Farnham braked suddenly and turned on her with a certain fierceness both unnerving and quaint. “Aren’t they? Surely you’ve never stuck that aristocratic nose in Henry V or the Bible or any history of any war in the last two millennia if you think friendships can’t be built on blood.”

-Anon, Sir, Anon 

Snippity-Snaps

It's been a long time since I have done a snippets post and I'm a little sorry to say that is because it's been a long time since I have done any substantial writing. It is understandable, though, that one girl  not in possession of all the time in the world has margin for either the duo of "Publicizing" and "Publishing" or writing itself. All that said, I have had a few spare moments to scrawl things in Anon, Sir, Anon as well as bits and smushes of here-and-theres:

She muttered a few select words that ill-suited the sweet persona she was known for on-stage and slogged out of bed, feeling the new and grossly familiar sensation of nausea that pressed a clammy hand to her belly as if trying to feel the heartbeat of the mistake inside her.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

Her plans were big, sprawling, and certainly did not include bearing the child of --- no. She wouldn’t say his name. That would be acknowledging him and a bigger jerk than that man had never existed on either side of the Atlantic.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

He’d get a doctor. It would all be over in few days. Things would be just fine.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

How far the field stretched and whether it ran uphill or down was a fact obscured by the fog. It was everywhere, the fog, wrapping them in woolen quiet.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

Vivi used her uncle’s arm as a prop to aid her in getting over the brook, then tucked her hair into the back of her coat so she wouldn’t have to feel the breath of the faint wind sucking at her neck. “How could they have seen the body from the road, Doctor?

-Anon, Sir, Anon

Farnham placed his palm against her back and she leaned into it, feeling as  if the fog had crawled into her bloodstream and was lifting her higher, higher, higher into the air.“Whoap.” Breen hands were on her now and Vivi felt quite awkwardly that someone had thrown his coat on the turf and lowered her into a sitting position.“I’m all...right,” she murmured, wishing the wooliness would give way.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

Vivi’s mind began to run in a dull, idle way over meaningless details of the corpse: the style shoe the woman had worn; the way her stocking twisted around one ankle; her red dress and brown coat; her blue-felt cloche.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“Women’s intuition?” Breen asked with a deal of sarcasm.“Women’s intuition?” Vivi followed, quite curious now.“Women’s intuition,” the Inspector said, marveling.

-Anon, Sir, Anon

“Ain’t you a purdy little...gal...” Lindy knew the real name for she-pups but she’d said it once at Sunday-school and been told that Jesus wouldn’t like her usin’ such words. Lindy didn’t guess Jesus would care that much--’specially since her Daddy taught her that word right along with “mare” and “ewe” and “cow” and “queen”--but all the same she’d quit talking about hunting dogs at church.

-Untitled

“What’ll we do for your birthday?” Lindy asked Dagger as they turned down Pearmont Street when they had finished crossing the parking lot and the last few traffic signs had given way to long, swooping fields.“Don’t know. Might go fishing. Might get a job.”Lindy thought fishing sounded like more fun. “You’re goin’ to be fifteen. That’s half-way gone to thirty.”“Yep.”“And thirty’s half-way to sixty. And sixty’s halfway to bein’ dead.”“Thanks, Lindy.”

-Untitled

Lindy slipped her hand into Dagger’s big, tan one. She liked to feel his callouses. They felt almost like Daddy’s--like a crab-shell around his fingers to protect ‘em from all the cuts and bumps and things you got from workin’ outdoors.

-Untitled

They wound up the tree-lined driveway running along the left side of the Fayette’s yard. You couldn’t see Lindy’s house from Hayden Lane but it was there all right, tucked away behind a tunnel of old oak trees that cupped their branches around the driveway and sent their roots running along the bottom of it like they were trying to hug whoever walked through. Nobody else in Duke Meadows had a driveway this nice, Lindy thought. That’s cuz they all had cars and with cars, people always kept the trees nicely trimmed so’s they wouldn’t scratch paint.

-Untitled

Septemberisms

It's the start of September which in its turn, is not really the start of autumn which is in its turn, my favorite season of the year. And between such things like reading about the murders of the Princes in the Tower by Richard III, reading Miss Marple mysteries aloud at midnight, scoring The Mind of the Maker with a G2 pen to mark all the best quotes, making cinnamon-sugar doughnuts, and directing and producing a mini-musical, I have had some time to write. Not quite as much time as I'd like, but it seems I'm in a reading stage of the writing which is, of course, equally important. Reading is the fuel that good writing runs on, and when I'm not reading, my engine tends to gutter. So though someone else's book is the tome in my hand these days, I am not too worried. That said, I thought it was time for some snippets so you could enjoy what writing I have done, and get a feeling for what is to come.

   She felt stronger, too, next to the baby, and strength was a thing she'd always lacked; she was only Veronique in these moments, wearing a wreath of poppies in her hair from the field near Darrow-Dwelling, and waiting for her brother, Darron, to return from his first hunt.

-The Baby

  Jamsie crossed her arms and thrust her chin at a higher angle. "Queen Victoria is quite the safest queen to have ever lived."
  "Much you know, m'lady. Why, i'faith, her every footstep is probably dogged by an assassin or four, her food hovered over with a spoonful of poison, her carriages stalked by hateful citizens who only wait for a chance to shed royal blood."

-The Baby

  Since there seemed nothing left to be said, Jamsie remained silent. What was one supposed to say to a thing like that? All the etiquette columns she'd studied in preparation for growing up neglected to cover how one should respond to a death threat.

-The Baby

  "Climbing has rather been proven to aid one's health, I believe," Ap-Brainard called back to them from a landing ahead. "Upward--it'll be bloody worth it if you've the guts to look beauty herself in the eye. Not many men have the pluck."

-The Baby

   In books they speak of certain women looking like angels; perhaps it was the other way round: perhaps angels--the best and gentlest--occasionally look like women.

-The Baby

  The Lady took a step forward, extending her pretty white hands, and when she took Jamsie's face in her hands and kissed her, the kiss was so like Mum's that Jamsie felt the ache of tears in the bridge of her nose.

-The Baby

  It hurt Jamsie to hear the light gaiety of the Queen's tone when she could see the way the poor woman chafed her wrists till the blood came rose-red to the surface of her skin.

-The Baby

  Richmond cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but a swift jab from the Admiral on his right cut the remark short, ending it in an ill-advised cough. Richmond twisted in his chair, furious and sore, but the Admiral was inspected a slice of toast held up to his nose and was, by all appearances, now quite absorbed in the study.
   "What did you mean by that?" Richmond hissed.
  "Not enough butter, your majesty," the Admiral said a bit sadly, and put the slice of toast to the side.

-The Baby

  The Queen carried The Baby back to her chair with Nurse following anxiously after, and sat down, holding him on her lap. "We'll grow up to be a lovely man, shan't we? Lovely, lovely, lovely--" (with a bounce for each word) "And you'll grow up to be just like your Papa, shan't you? Only, I'll keep you close to me always because you know I love you so, darling thing."

-The Baby

 "I can't say for sure, can I, Your Majesty?" Starling finally answered. "I could'eve had the best and kindest mum and father in th'world and still turned out skinny as a springtime eel, couldn't I have? But there probably wouldn't be quite so many bruises on my back, I'll wager." She shrugged.

-The Baby

.. (The Admiral) undid the ebony buttons of his feathered veskit. Goons, but it was a hot piece of haberdashery.

-The Baby

Come visit again tomorrow for a very special interview and giveaway!

Snippetty-Snip: The best of the Spring

We all know I had little time to write and what time I might have had, I spent otherwise. I did, however, manage to write a bit this Spring, and I have every intention of disciplining myself so that I shan't have to look at you with hands spread, saying: "I got nothin' for ya, man." These, then, are the best of the Spring:

***

They squeezed through the wrought iron rails—to use the gate was a sign of weakness—and paused on the gravel walk.

-The Baby

Her voice had in it the offended dignity of a cat who has fallen off a garden wall.

-The Baby

“You, my little blighted toadstool, are in Crissendumm.”

-The Baby

...on the fourth day the ground that had been flat began to slope upward and the going got a bit more beaten-trackish with little footpaths scarring the face of the hillsides between banks of tangled twigs that would have been elderflower in the summertime.

-The Baby

The valley below was definitely Populated. Huge houses--each looking as if it could be a castle with a little coaxing--hung back toward the valley-rim, sending instead a long, straight drive to meet the coming world. There were orchards--bare now, but promising--and shorn wheat fields, and potatoes turned up in harrows from a late crop. Here and there a horse or two grazed alongside congregated bits of dirty white that proved to be sheep upon careful inspection.

-The Baby

“We’ll take lunch at Darrow-Dwelling,” the Admiral said. “Ahhhh, T-O-A-S-T A-N-D T-E-A--that’s th’way to spell Darrow-Dwelling, your majesty.” He tugged the brim of his weather-rusted hat in Jamsie’s direction.

-The Baby

“Thruppence t’pass,” the gatekeeper said. He was a round man with a nose like a conch-shell, and wore a cap with ‘Porter’ printed on it. Jamsie smiled and waved at him as the Admiral dug in one of his vest pockets for coins.

The Admiral looked up a moment later with a sorrowful expression. “Th’Fleet stole it again.”

“Stole what?” Richmond asked.

“My money. They like shiny things--anything shiny at all. And they’re always pinching my coins. I can’t pay. I’m afraid...” he sniffed and cast a sad eye over the hedge. “I’m afraid there will be no Darrow-Dwelling for us. No T-O-A-S-T A-N-D T-E-A. And no castle for you, either,” he said generously, as if to give them a part in his complete misery.

-The Baby

"..in my realm--in England--we have many places this nice.” She hoped it wasn’t a fib--she’d never been twenty miles past London.

-The Baby

“If Auguste Blenheim the Pig had not stolen my birthright, Dear Lord, would I be half as patient as I am?” I gestured to the window--open because there was neither glass nor shutter to close out the dripping weather. “And would my constitution be half as hearty as it is, if Thou had not given me such chance to test its limits? No, don’t answer that, My Lord, for I haven’t the temper this morning to hear the answer.”

-Lady Alis (the temporary moniker of a short story)

The first thing to do was try to find Father’s certificate of death, naturally.”

“But thur weren’t any!” Ellen protested.

“Precisely.” I scooped the tiny, curled tea leaves into the silver bobber and dropped it into the teapot. “There was never one filed. Not a single Bickersnath Carlisle in the whole Kingdom of Ashby has ever died, according to the Records.”

“They moost be a healthy race, them Bickersnaths,” Ellen observed. The excellent woman stirred the porridge and raked a cone of sugar with the tines of a fork overtop.

“Mmm. That, or everyone but my alleged ‘father’ had a gentler christening.”

-Lady Alis

February Snippetings!

Writing recently has been very very difficult and tedious and confusing for me of late. Partly because I still haven't figured out what to do with my Microsoft Word program and have been making shift with Google Drive to do any and all of my writing, partly because there are... 4 books I have ideas for and have worked at a bit, and hardly a one of them is rearing it's head and demanding I write it yet. Usually my books have a preference. My MO has been (and I assume will be) to work at the several ideas till one takes the reigns and runs off, pulling me in with it. That being said, none of the stories have done that yet, so if this blog has been a little silent, a little vague for some time, it's only because I am in several pickles at once and the brine is rather cloudy.

But I have been wanting to do a Snippets post all the same, so I hope you won't terribly mind knowing hardly anything about most of these stories. Explanation will come along in a bit after I have decided who and what I'm working with.

***

       Baron sighed--at least Callum thought he did. He made no sound but his arms rose and fell with his chest. "Callum pup, I've told you not to think about that yet. There is time."
       Callum felt the familiar anger rising in his breast. It hurt to breathe. "There is not time."
      "There is--"
        "No, Baron. Listen to me: I am fourteen years old."
       Baron's left eyebrow jerked upward at one corner, and Callum saw he shared the fear. "So old."

-Grey Goose Downs

        Baron slammed a fist on the table and Callum's cider sloshed over his bannock. "Your body is crippled, but your soul is keen and straight. Keep it burnished. Bronzed. In fighting trim. And the people will follow you."
       "Like eagles following a dying dove. I see. Well of course that's a marvelous plan, isn't it? I'll strike terror into the heart of the Northlings with my peckish beak and my little wings. They'll cower, naturally."

-Grey Goose Downs

        Callum picked up a stone or two and hurled them toward the path, following the trail of tallow-soaked torches the men had carried, still visible like star-fire in the rise of the hollow just beyond the village. As if the mock the paltry effort of throwing stones at his lot in life, the missiles landed harmlessly a few steps away. Callum buried his head in his arms, the weak curve of his spine providing a shell in which to hide his humiliation.

-Grey Goose Downs

       Callum felt the world wheeling and wondered if the stars had struck the moon and caused the upheaval.

-Grey Goose Downs

      His gaze wandered over to her hands. She gripped her chest-strap, and her eyes were fixed on the road with horror. A glance at the speedometer showed hew as going eighty-five, give or take ten miles. He applied pressure the brakes and watched her relax and increment as if she had been trying her hardest not to indulge in a squeal of terror. 

-No Mere Mortals

    "First of all, about the kid...I know this is going to sound awkward, but is she yours?"

    "You mean to say--coming on the smoking heels of the extensive Wikipedia article you have doubtless scoured--you know I am unmarried and wish to see if I've been dabbling in the fine art of womanizing. To answer your question quite bluntly, Miss Langley, I received Winnie as an inheritance from an old friend of mine."

     She was silent. He wished she'd say something. Anything.

     "Is that legal?" Quiet, clipped question.

      Well, that was a start.

-No Mere Mortals

     Gregory hit hit number one speed-dial and Anders answered.

      "Hello, Mr. Gregory. Do you have her?"

      "I do, Anders."

      "And?"

      He leaned as close as he could to the driver's window, hoping Aura wasn't paying attention. "She's perfectly ordinary as far as looks and intelligence go," he whispered.

     "Why are you whispering?" Anders asked.

     "Gosh, man! She's in the blinking car with me and can blinking hear every word you're saying."

-No Mere Mortals

      In Richmond's book it began, of course, where all things begin. At that precise moment when one has just got accustomed to the idea of doing whatever-it-is one has been doing for the rest of the year and forever an' ever amen. Richmond, in his case, was sitting with his legs slung over the back of the blue sofa, and his eyes fastened on the ceiling, wishing he hadn't dropped that book because now it meant getting up and finding his place again."

 -Gloamingswood

      "Let's think about it logically," Richmond said a half-hour later when the sponge cake had been reduced to a few sticky, jam-spread crumbs on the fork tines. He flipped to a blank sheet in his writing tablet and wrote the words "Finding Baby" across the top. Then, not knowing what else to write, he traced the words, bearing down hard with his pencil."

-Gloamingswood

    "Do you think this is safe?" he asked.

     Jamsie wondered if he could be serious. Was it possible? Richmond--asking such a question? She put her hand against his forehead to check for altered temperature--nothing. "It's not dangerous, if that's what you mean," she said at last.

    "But if it really is a kidnapper..."

     "Then we'll probably join his collection." Jamsie laughed, pleased with her own joke but, upon catching sight of Richmond's grimace, stopped. "Are you really worried?"

      Richmond stopped fully and turned around, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It's a person who took a baby, Jamsie. It's not a joke. People don't do this sort of thing for larks."

    "It probably fell down a rabbit-hole like Alice. Now stop being a sad sack and hurry. The bobbies will have the case wrapped up if we wait any longer."

    -Gloamingswood