Wednesday, July 10, 2019

Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA



Today we get a taste of Mary Adler's thoughtful work. I do hope you enjoy it!


"Black Notes Beat" by Mary Adler

I have studied and observed crows for years, and the more I’ve learned about them, the more I admire their complex family and flock relationships. They are intelligent, create and use tools, and they teach their skills to other crows. As Rev. Henry Ward Beecher said, “If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows.”

Over the years, I have told my family and friends more than they ever wanted to know about crows. One person said, after hearing the stories I told about them, that she stopped trying to run crows down with her car. (There is so much wrong with that statement, that I don’t know where to begin.)

During the non-nesting period of the year, crows gather at night to roost together, sometimes in flocks of thousands. They are stealthy and take a roundabout way to the roosting place. They have good reason to be wary. For decades, humans have killed them, even dynamiting their roosting places at night.

Like many natural creatures, they are good and bad, depending on your viewpoint, and not everyone appreciates their beauty. But I love to watch them streaming across the sky--one small group after another--as they return from foraging to join the flock. When they are together, those who have found a safe source of food will tell the others where it is. They share, but only within their own flock.

One evening, after watching them move across the sky, I wrote this:



Black Notes Beat

Black notes beat

Unfurling dusk

Across the bruising sky.



Quarter notes, half notes

Rise and fall.

Whole notes

Rest on treetops.



An arpeggio of eighth notes

Silently swirls,

Scribing a nocturne

in the fading light.



Softly they spill

to the nighttime roost:

Rustling,

murmuring,

settling,

hushed.



Now the still moment,

the last note fading,

No bows, no curtsies,

No fear of reviews.



They need no applause to perform their works.



Mary Adler


***


"SHADOWED BY DEATH"  by Mary Adler 

Blurb:
San Francisco, 1944. Sophia Nirenska, a Polish resistance fighter who survived the Warsaw ghetto uprising, finds safety in California until someone tries to kill her. She insists political enemies want to silence her, but homicide detective Oliver Wright, on medical leave from the Marines, believes the motive is more personal. He and his German shepherd, Harley, try to protect Sophia, but she insists on doing things her own way—a dangerous decision. 

Oliver guards Sophia as they travel from an Italian cafe in Richmond to communist chicken farmers in Petaluma where her impetuous actions put them both in mortal danger. 

When Oliver rescues a girl and her dog who are running for their lives, he discovers the dark secret at the heart of the threat to Sophia, a secret with its roots in Poland. When he does, he is forced to choose between enforcing the law as he knows it and jeopardizing Sophia or accepting a rougher kind of justice.

Shadowed by Death accurately portrays the fears and troubles of the communities of northern California as they bear the burdens of World War II and celebrate the gift of finding family among strangers.  


Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.

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Tuesday, July 9, 2019

Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA



Fantasy author extraordinaire Wendy J. Scott is our guest today on the Watch RWISA Write blog tour, and I am thrilled to have her. Take it away, Wendy!

The Awakening by Wendy Scott
(An excerpt from 'Prophecy and Pirates' my unpublished first fantasy novel).
Evarna gazed at the tinker's sleeping form and resisted the urge to trail her fingertips through Rick's locks. For both their sakes she had to leave now before he awoke. They lived in contrasting worlds; he roamed the forest with a free spirit, but as an aristocrat’s bastard, she battled the protocols and restrictions of the Baron’s Court. As satisfying as this romantic interlude had been, she must be on her way. 
The chill of the morning air vanquished the warmth she'd experienced in his arms as she eased out of the feather quilt. She untangled her discardedclothes from his and slipped into them. Last night they'd been shed as the lovers had fumbled toward the bed in a lip-locked embrace.
The wagon's interior was a treasure trove, and she wished she had more time to explore. The shelves jammed with instruments, jostled scrolls, and jars filled with curious items drew her gaze. On the window ledge two doll-sized chairs nestled a miniature table. Evarna’shand hovered close to a silverharp, itching to touch the strings, but she lowered her hand before her fingers betrayed her. What nonsense. A tone-deaf goose possessed more musical ability than she did. Rick wouldn't appreciate being woken by the sound of mutilated chords.
His abode hinted at depths of character she wanted to delve deeper into. For a moment shelingered at the door and glanced back at his tousled hair. The urge to dive back under the covers and cuddleup against his muscular length was almost more than she could control. Instead, sheaverted her gaze and whispered, "Farewell, Tinkerman."
Sighing, she stepped outside. Tail thumping erupted from between the wheels, pinpointing where Stitch had spent the night. Usually, her dog made a fuss about always bedding downnext to her. She felt a blush bloom on her cheeks. Last evening she hadn't given her furry friend a moment's thought after the tinker's first kiss.
A moist tongue licked her hand, and the dog leaned against her legs as she stroked his fur. She kept her voice low. "Hey, boy. Time to go home."
Stitch stalked over to the fire pit and stared into the suspended pot. Evarna chuckled and fed him the remains of yesterday's stew.
"Not feeding you. Now, that's something you would not easily forgive."
***
The sound of horse hooves drifted off into the distance. Rick's eyelids snapped upwards,and he bounded out of bed. He hummed as he gathered up his clothing and tossed them on the mussed up bed, ignoring the tapping sounds emanating from the small window above the door.
Naked, he jerked the door open, streaked across the camp, and plunged into the lake. The surface churned into a maelstrom of white water as he re-emerged onto the shore. Huffing, he sprinted back into the wagon, his breaths trailing him like mist.
Two small, winged creatures swooped and followed him through the ajar door. Their tiny wings shimmered like rainbows as they swirled around his head before landing on his pillow. Twin pixie expressionspeered up at him, their violet eyes gleaming with mischief. Golden hair framed identical faces and the easiest way to tell them apart was by the colour of their gowns. Yasmin favoured pastel pink, while her sister, Jasmin, wore lavenderto compliment her eyes.
"Hrumph! You shut us out." Yasmin pinched her nose. "We had to snuggle up to a smelly dog to keep warm. Now you've got yourself a lady friend, you think you can ignore us as if we're not good enough company anymore."
"I don't understandwhat you see in her." Jasmin crossed her arms and glared up at him. "She doesn't even have wings!"
Elbowing her sibling out of the way, Yasmin flicked her hair so wildly it swept over and covered her face. From beneath the cloud of hair came a muffled voice, "I thought you'd prefer blondes."
Rick grinned down at the pair of outraged pixies, drawn up to their full height of six inches. "And pray be, how was a poor fellow supposed to choose between two such lovely ladies as yourselves?"
The sisters clasped hands. "He's got a point there; we could never let a mere gyp come between us."
"The tinker islucky that we give him the time of day. Fancy him thinking he'd be acceptable to either ofus."
Rick shook his head, showering the pixies with droplets of the water. They both squealed and scurried backward.
"Stop mucking aroundand put some clothes on for goddess-sake." Jasmin wrung the water from her gown.
After a token pass with a towel Rick grabbed his pantsand began dressing. "Evarna is the one I've been searching for. The prophecy foretold her arrival."
"How can you be sure she's the one?" Jasmin waggled her finger.
He placed a hand on his chest. "Her magic awakened my heart. So we must gather all the fairy folk we can and march for Carnavalla."
Yasmin plucked a dog hair from her dress and brandished it like a sword. "And how do you expect we'll find the lost city of the Gypnees? Legend says it disappeared hundreds of years ago."
"Carnavallawas hidden from mortals on purpose, it's only sleeping and I've severalgyp tricks I haven't shared with you."
Rick frowned. "Unfortunately, Evarna's in for a few magical surprises. I'm going to have some explaining to do when we next meet. I hope my future wife is the forgiving type."
Yasmin arched her brow. "But does she love you?"

"Of course she does, she just doesn't know it yet."
***
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Monday, July 8, 2019

Welcome to the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour! #RRBC #RWISA




I'm so pleased today to welcome Rave Reviews Book Club and RWISA founder Nonnie Jules to the blog! She's sharing a powerful poem called "Silent Tears." Take it away, Nonnie!



SILENT TEARS
by Nonnie Jules

I cry these silent tears for her
For her loss, for her pain, for her heart
Breaking when she looks into their eyes
Her children – 
she feels their loss, their pain, their hearts breaking.
The memories – 
the hardest
Yet, there’s no getting away from the reminders of what used to be.
There once was a HE
HE sat, parented, loved, even laughed
Yes, towards all ends there is laughter some say
But his chair is empty now
Just as their hearts
Hollow as the tree he chose.
He left it all there
His back against a world filled with painful memories of a childhood unprotected.
His pain…
Bottled up in the bottles of poison he consumed
Reckless abandon he gave to it
But quit…
he could not
would not
was it his choice not?
In the end, the call of the poison was stronger
and he had to answer
he was forced to answer
given no choice but to answer…
was the way he felt.
His choice gave her no choice
Single parenting
A thing for some
but…
It wasn’t her thing
That is
until
he left her
no choice.

She’ll be fine
Kids are resilient
They’ll be fine
Time heals all wounds
All clichés but true.

Still…
I cry my silent tears for her
For the husband she once knew.



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Saturday, July 6, 2019

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Welcome back to the Watch RWISA Write Showcase Tour! Today I'm hosting Linda Mims and her new short story "Solace." Enjoy!

Solace
by Linda Mims


Eighteen precocious kindergartners stared as Carly walked into the colorfully decorated classroom. Carly hoped her smile was more reassuring than she felt. Was this a mistake? She spotted two six-year-olds who'd been in her charge on the first field trip she’d chaperoned. They gave her a friendly wave, and a true smile parted Carly’s pursed lips and lightened her heart.

Ms. Jones, the principal, asked all of the children to file around and shake hands with Carly, but some of them hugged her around the waist and Carly bent to embrace them. The huggers stared up at her and quickly turned away unsure how to behave.

After Carly shook hands and hugged them, she asked their new teacher’s permission to lead them to the circle in the back of the room. She’d read that schools were frowning on seating students on the floor, but their former teacher, Miss Mason, had valued the practice. 

Miss Mason sat smack dab in the middle of “her kids” and shared her own childhood or read to them from her favorite stories. 

So, hovering above the painted line, Carly squatted until she dropped. Sitting crossed-legged wasn’t as comfortable or as easy for Carly as the children made it appear. She smiled as they sank to the floor on legs like rubber bands.

The children sat on the painted circle touching their neighbors with legs, arms, or elbows. There was no jostling or whining from anyone about invasion of space. They needed to connect in this strange time, so it was okay for someone to sit too close. 

Two little ones, seated across from Carly, couldn’t stop sniffling, so she held out her arms, and they came over. She pulled them down on either side of her and nuzzled them there. She wanted to join in. Be as free and uninhibited as they, but she held her feelings in check.

The children bowed their heads, but a few raised their eyes to cast envious glances at the two burrowed beneath Carly's arms. She smiled around the room, looking for the ones Miss Mason had told her about. Johnnie, who was the biggest discipline challenge. Grown-ish Jenny of the fresh mouth and Einstein mind. 

Carly recognized little unkempt Anna who caused Miss Mason enough anxiety to refer her family to DCFS. Diana Mason loved these children, and they loved her. The students spent more time with Carly’s daughter than with their own parents.

“Listen and I’ll tell you about the day little Ms. Mason broke the rules and made cookies for herself and her little sister,” Carly said.  “When her father and I were away from home, she wasn’t supposed to fool with the stove, but you guys know how feisty Ms. Mason can be.” 

“She was a mischievous little girl,” Carly said with exaggerated feeling.

One of the little ones giggled and hurriedly stifled it when the others swiveled their heads to stare at her, disapprovingly. 

“Children,” Carly said. “Ms. Mason would want you guys to smile as you remember her. She’d want you to remember the stories I’m about to tell you and think of her with love.”

***

Joe Mason waited outside the old brick building where, four years ago, his daughter and some of her colleagues had started their own small school. His wife was inside visiting his daughter’s kindergarten class, but Joe remained in the car. 

He hadn’t agreed with Carly that this was a good idea. His family had spent a crushing two days grieving Diana’s sudden death and just when—maybe—the weight was easing, his wife sprung up. 

“Oh God, Joe! Her kids.”

“I’m sure someone has told them,” he assured her, but Carly wouldn’t be comforted.

“They’re five and six years old, Joe. They don’t understand death. Can you imagine the confusion and anguish for those children? I have to go,” Carly said. 
“They need to hear from me and know that it will be all right.”

She had made up her mind and Joe didn’t try to talk her out of it. Perhaps she needed this, too. He, on the other hand, couldn’t bring himself to think about Diana without feeling guilty. There was no peace for him as he shouldered the weight of his daughter’s death.

The night Diana died alone in her room, Joe had convinced himself that he’d heard her knocking for help. He’d been dreaming and in the dream, Diana had knocked on the front door. He was upstairs, and he wondered why Carly didn’t go to the door and let their daughter in.

She knocked in random succession maybe three times, but when Joe woke, he heard nothing. He lay there for a long while listening and wondering if someone had been knocking on the door for real. 

It was 1:45 a.m. and outside, the sounds of jazz music told him his neighbor Jimmy was in his parked van, again.

Jimmy did that after a spat with his wife, Vanessa. That’s what the knocking had been. A radio commercial. Satisfied, Joe turned over and went back to sleep. It never occurred to him to wake Carly or to go check on Diana. If he had, his daughter could have gotten help, and she’d still be alive.

Joe couldn’t tell anyone. Carly and Diana were more than mother and daughter. They were best friends. Carly would never forgive him for, if nothing else, letting her remain asleep. God! The pain of losing Diana, compounded by his guilt, was eating Joe alive.

Inside, Carly carried her own guilt. Diana had been working herself to the bone raising money to keep the school afloat. More than just exist, Diana and her colleagues wanted the school to make a huge impact on the lives of their students and their families.

Diana wasn’t sleeping. She was losing weight, and more than a few times, Carly argued with her about taking care of herself.

“If you don’t take care of your own health, you won’t be any damned good to your students!”

“Mom, relax! What am I going to do? Die?”

“Your heart, Diana. Please remember your heart.”

“I do, mom. I think about my heart all the time. School is the only thing that prevents me from thinking about my heart. Can you give me a break? And don’t go to Dad with your suspicions.”

So, Carly gave her a break and she didn’t tell Joe that she suspected Carly was sicker than she was letting on.

***

“You smell like her,” said a little one who'd scooted over and was hugging Carly from behind.

“Let me smell,” said another, peeling his classmate’s arms from around Carly and nudging the child over to squeeze in.

“I wanna smell,” cried a young girl who had stopped twirling her hair around her finger and now stood.

Soon they clustered around Carly, talking and gesturing. Their little voices serious as they shared stories of the times Ms. Mason had been kind, or funny, or very, very stern. Their beautiful faces weren’t so sad now and they made Carly laugh. An hour passed and the pall over the room lifted. 

Outside, the breeze blew leaves from the young trees Diana had planted across the grounds. Joe trained his eye on a leaf that floated across his windshield on the gentle breeze. Instead of drifting along, the green leaf frolicked and rolled on the air in front of him. 

He’d never paid attention to leaves, and he wondered that this one seemed determined to hang right there, tumbling and playing in front of him. While Joe watched, the leaf floated down and lay on the hood as though spent. Then, to Joe’s amusement, it blew flat against his window and stuck there for a few moments.

The leaf stood on its stem and Joe bent to see it flutter across the car and brush Carly’s face just as she opened the passenger door. Carly started, then laughed and touched her face. Smiling, without even knowing why, they watched the little leaf fly off over the building and out of sight. 

 ***


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Friday, July 5, 2019

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Today, I'm pleased to welcome Gwen Plano to my blog. I hope you enjoy her brand new short story "The Rosary."

Young or old, we are all children at heart. This truth became apparent to me last December when I had neurosurgery. 
Prior to the operation, a clerk handed me a stack of documents to sign—billing forms for the hospital and the doctors and several medical release forms that included a list of potential risks. My apprehension grew as I fingered through the papers and provided my signature. It was then that I wished that my mom could be with me. Like any child, I thought she could make it all better. But sadly, she had passed away nine months prior. 
My mom was a person of prayer, and when I was young, she’d gather her seven children, tell us to get on our knees, and then proceed to pray. We’d follow her lead—usually protesting—and pray for family members, friends, and the unknown masses. Often, she led us in saying the rosary. Prayer was my mom’s response to any challenge or difficulty, and we had plenty of both on our farm.
Mom’s most common expression was, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” While some of us might curse or yell in frustration, Mom would say this phrase instead.  So, when one of my brothers sent a golf ball through the picture window, Mom called out “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” before scolding him. When we siblings squabbled with one another, Mom would mutter, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” before sending us to our bedrooms. Without exception, we grew up knowing that when Mom said “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” we were in trouble. 
I can’t remember a time when Mom wasn’t praying. Whether washing the dishes, hanging the wash on the clothesline, working in the garden, or driving us to a sporting event or a 4-H meeting, Mom quietly prayed. I asked her about this once, and her response left an indelible impression. 
“Life is short,” she began, “and we must use every moment to the fullest. People need our prayers, and some don’t have a family to pray for them like we do.”
 I didn’t understand her comment about using every moment to the fullest until I grew older. But her explanation helped me grasp why she rarely watched television and why she rushed from one room to another throughout the day.   
When Mom passed at ninety-two years of age, she left a legacy of beliefs and practices that had found a place in the heart of each of her children. We may have complained about kneeling on the hard floor, but even as little tykes, prayer became part of our lives because of our mother. 
At her passing, we were bereft. Mom was our strength, our compass. She was the one we called about concerns, both large and small; she was the one we talked with about our hopes and dreams. Her passing left a huge emptiness that still echoes in our memories. When we sorted through her belongings, not so surprisingly, we discovered she had a dozen or so rosaries. I received two of them. 
When I checked into Cedars Sinai hospital in Los Angeles, I took my mom’s wooden rosary with me. I felt her near when I held it, and this sensation gave me comfort.  I held the beads tightly and imagined Mom with me. 
After the surgery, I was rolled into a room on the Pain Floor where all neurosurgery patients were housed. Next to me was an adjustable overbed table, and when I awakened, I realized that my mom’s rosary rested on it.  
My nurse, Lucy, regularly came in to check on me, and each time she walked through the door, she sang a refrain which included the words, our lady of the rosary. I was surprised by this, because Cedars Sinai is a Jewish hospital. After Lucy left, an aide visited, and she explained that her sister was a nun, and my rosary reminded her of this sister. Later, the night nurse came in and told me about immigrating to the US and how she loved the rosary. 
During my hospital stay, one staff person after another visited me and shared family stories and photos—all evoked by the rosary that rested on the overbed table. As I was preparing to leave, Lucy came in to say her goodbyes. She pulled a photo from her pocket. 
“This is my mom,” she proudly stated. “I thought you’d like to see her.” 
The image was of a petite woman, hunched over by time, smiling broadly at the camera. She stood next to her much-larger daughter, Lucy. I was stunned; she looked like my mom. 
As the hospital staff came to say goodbye and wish me well, I suddenly realized that Mom had been with me the whole while. I had been loved and cared for by many at the hospital, but it was Mom who drew them near with her rosary. 

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member's writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they've turned you into a fan.

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Thursday, July 4, 2019

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I'm so pleased to welcome to my blog today multi-genre author Rhani D'Chae. Such a visceral writer! I hope you'll enjoy her excerpt below.

EXCERPT FROM UPCOMING NOVEL, “WINTER OF THE DRILL”

By Rhani D’Chae


***

Decker leaned against the hood of his car, talking to JT in a low tone of voice. His face wore a pleasant expression, and a casual observer would have had no clue as to the seriousness of their conversation.

"Second floor, third from the left?"

JT nodded without turning, keeping his eyes focused on Decker's face. "That's what Hunt said, and it does make sense."

"Are you sure?"

The boy closed his eyes, remembering Hunter's words immediately after the shooting.

"I think it came from that window over there!" Hunter's eyes zeroed in on a building across the street. "Second floor, three in, left."

JT nodded his head, confident that he had given the correct information. "Third from the left. I'm sure."

Decker dipped his head almost imperceptibly, flicking his eyes quickly over the row of windows on the second floor of the nondescript building. Nothing seemed to be out of place, but he had not expected to find anything. However, the address of the building, as well as the location of the window and anything of interest nearby, went into the small notebook that he always carried with him.

"Well?" JT's voice held a touch of impatience. "Do you see anything?"

"Yes." Decker laid one hand on JT's shoulder. "I see a boy who needs to learn that some things take more than a minute."

The addition of a friendly smile took most of the sting from his words, and JT responded with a smile of his own.

"Okay." Decker rose from his perch and stepped on to the sidewalk. "I'm hungry, and you never got to the Olive Garden. Let's find some food."


* * *

From his vantage point at the front window of the Greyhound station across the street, the man known only as Rhegan, watched them head toward a small cafe. He had returned to the strip in search of street gossip but had surprisingly heard almost none. And what he did hear was not worth listening to.

As he watched the pair walk slowly along Pacific Avenue, he thought back to when he had sighted on the boy and pulled the trigger. He had aimed carefully, not wanting to kill, but even so, he was surprised to see JT back on the street so soon.

After the shooting, he had taken a few minutes to watch the fireworks, knowing that the police would not be called.

His victim had fallen hard, his panic obvious as he managed to scrabble behind the nearest parked car.

His companion had reacted with cool precision, slipping one arm behind the boy's shoulders and speed-dialing his cell phone with the other hand.

Even from a distance, Rhegan could see that the man was scanning the street. When the steel-blue eyes passed over the window that he looked through, he felt a sudden chill, as if those eyes had looked directly into his and issued a challenge.

A few passersby stopped to offer assistance, but Rhegan could tell that the man was dismissing each with a plausible excuse, for there was none of the panic that usually accompanied a public shooting.

Within minutes a car had pulled smoothly to a stop, collecting both men before exiting at a sedate speed that would not attract attention.

Rhegan had expected the part-time bouncer to run crying to Valdez, resignation in hand. Hopefully, the news that another person had taken a hit in his name would force a desperate Valdez to sign his club, the Toybox over to Malone, at whatever terms had been typed above the signature line.

Malone had told Rhegan that desperation was the only thing that would put a pen in his rival's hand and had given him a list of potential targets. Malone had laid out his plan of attack, and Rhegan had no problem with any of it.

But, instead of running, his first victim had returned to take care of business. Head high and shoulders straight, he walked the sidewalk that still bore spatters of his blood, not even glancing down when his boots passed over the red splotches.

He was doing what Reagan himself would have done, and the hard-eyed gunman respected that, even while he planned when and where to take the boy out for good.


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Wednesday, July 3, 2019

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Today is my day on the WATCH "RWISA" WRITE Showcase Tour. I've written a short story flashback set in the universe of my Hexborn Chronicles epic fantasy series. I do hope you will enjoy it!

“Mirror, Mirror”by A.M. Manay

Set in the world of The Hexborn Chronicles

Shiloh stood in her teacher’s doorway, pulling anxiously on the end of a pink braid that had snuck out of her hood. Brother Edmun was in high dudgeon, ranting about insults and ingrates. A wooden crate sat upon the table, straw peeking through the slats. She could feel magic pouring out of it like waves of heat. It didn’t feel like dark magic, not exactly. But it didn’t feel like good magic, either.
“Master?” she ventured. “Would you like me to make your breakfast?” She didn’t bother to ask about the box. She knew that he would tell her if he wanted her to know, and in his own good time, not before.
Edmun looked at her as though she’d appeared out of thin air. He waved her off. “Don’t bother, poppet. I couldn’t eat.”
Shiloh’s eyes strayed to the crate, but she said nothing.
“Go finish your essay from yesterday,” Edmun barked.
Shiloh took her seat at her little desk. Her back now to the table, she could hear Brother Edmun unpacking the mysterious arrival. It was all she could do to resist the urge to peek when she heard the sound of a hammer. Edmun muttered under his breath, a constant patter of unintelligible complaints. At least, she heard him pull out a chair and collapse into the seat. She looked over her page one more time, searching for mistakes, before standing to present her work to her teacher.
He looked down at the offering in her little hand, her words marching neatly across the page. He took up his pen in one hand and her paper in the other. The glower slowly disappeared from his face as he read, leaving behind only weariness and a hint of satisfaction. At last, he nodded, putting down his pen unused, and Shiloh exhaled in relief.
“Well done. A princess at the Academy could not have done better at twice your age.”
“Thank you, master,” she said. Her smile lit up her eyes, which then strayed over Edmun’s shoulder to a mirror now hanging on the wall. The ornate frame looked out of place in the mountain cabin, all gilded leaves and lacquered flowers.
“Don’t look in it more than you can help it,” Edmun ordered, and she turned her gaze back to her teacher’s face.
“Yes, master,” she replied. “May I know why not?”
Edmun hesitated.
“I can feel that it’s magic, master.”
He snorted. “I’m sure you can.” She waited, hoping he would be more forthcoming but knowing well enough not to press him.
Edmun heaved a sigh. “A man can give you a gift out of love, to please you. Or he can send it as an insult, to remind you of errors and caution you against repeating them. This mirror is the latter.”
“What does it do?” she asked.
“That is none of your concern,” he replied. “And that is all I will tell you. Go get a wand from the cabinet.”
Shiloh’s face lit up. “We’re using wands today?”
Edmun looked at her from beneath his eyebrows. “Is there another reason I’d ask you to get one? Now, do it quickly, before I think better of it.”

***

The following evening, Shiloh picked up a clean rag and set about the dusting. Edmun was busy in the temple, preparing for the upcoming Feast of the Father. As soon as she was done in the house, she was to join him there. The red cabinet took most of her attention, as usual. The many books, wands, and magical curiosities inside had to be carefully wiped and replaced in their accustomed positions. It was tedious work, but she was pleased that Edmun trusted her with the task.
Her work on the cabinet finally completed, she turned to dust the mirror and gasped. The silver surface had turned to black. A face appeared, and not her own. Shiloh took a step backward.
A man cocked his head to the side, a slow smile spreading across his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Shiloh did not wait to hear the words. She ran, her head scarf flying behind her all the way to the temple doors. She threw them open.
“What?” Edmun demanded, looking up from the altar.
“The mirror,” she panted. “It turned black, and there was a man.”
Edmun crossed the floor and took her by the shoulders. “What did he see? What did you say?”
“Nothing! I ran as soon as I saw him. I was only finishing up the dusting. Who was he?”
Edmun ran a hand over his mouth and chin and took a deep breath. “The most dangerous man in the kingdom. Silas Hatch.”
“The Hatchet?” Shiloh shivered. “The king’s spymaster? Why would he appear in your mirror?”
“Who do you think sent it? Hatch likely meant to speak with me, to threaten me. The king hates and fears me for reasons you well know.” His brows drew inward. “He gave you a right scare, didn’t he, poppet?” 
Shiloh nodded. Edmun knelt to look her in the eye. “Now, if I were a kind man, I’d tell you that you need not fear him. But I’m not, so I’ll tell you the truth. You should be terrified of him. If you ever give him reason to believe you are disloyal to the crown, he will slit your throat with his own hands.”
“Why would I ever be disloyal to the crown?”
Edmun placed a hand on her head. “Good girl. Now, put that man out of your mind and help me ready the temple for tomorrow.”
Shiloh nodded, yet the ice of fear in her stomach remained.
As did the look of worry on her beloved teacher’s face. 

***

Shiloh sat on her bed in the loft above her father’s smithy. Upon her blanket lay an array of charms she’d just made, for protection against all manner of hexes or ill-wishing.
The look upon the mirror man’s face had chilled her to the bone—something about the smile. It had been predatory. Proprietary. Wary. It had given her the distinct impression that the man’s interest lay not only in her master but in herself as well. I will not leave my teacher unprotected.
She pinned one charm on the linen beneath her tunic. The others she gathered into an old handkerchief. She tied it tight and placed the bundle in her pocket along with a jar of paste.
She knew Edmun would already be in the temple performing his ablutions for the feast day. She let herself into his house and crossed warily to the mirror. She exhaled with relief to find it clad in its ordinary silver. 
Carefully, she lifted the mirror off of its nail and turned it face down upon the table. She held the pot of glue in the crook of her elbow and pried it open, then affixed seven charms to the back of the Hatchet’s “gift” to her master, one for each of the Lords of Heaven. She returned the mirror to its proper place and hurried to the temple before Edmun could scold her for tardiness.

***

At dusk, Edmun sat his tired bones into his favorite chair and looked balefully at the mirror. Given the visitation to Shiloh the night before, Edmun expected to see Silas Hatch’s face, yet as the pink light of sunset faded, the man did not appear.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Edmun murmured. “I had hoped to get it over with.” He looked up at the mirror and realized that it was just slightly askew. He stood and removed it from the wall. Turning it over, he found Shiloh’s handiwork.
Edmun smiled and shook his head. “My sweet, clever poppet. Too clever by half.” Sighing, he plucked the charms from the backing and set the mirror on the table, leaning against a water pitcher. Silas appeared in moments.
“Master Edmun, I feared you had forgotten the terms of our arrangement. There was to be no meddling with the mirror.”
Edmun swallowed heavily. “It was a momentary lapse,” he lied. “I thought better of it.”
Silas grinned. “You don’t have lapses. It was the girl, wasn’t it?”
Edmun said nothing.
Silas laughed. “It was. Ha! And what is she, only eight years old?”
Still, Edmun said nothing.
“She must love you as much as I did,” Hatch mused.
“What do you want?”
“Are you really teaching her mirror magic this young?” Hatch asked, brow raised.
Edmun closed his eyes and sighed. “Of course not. Evidently, I didn’t teach you your own well enough, as she defeated you with a handful of charms and some paste.”
The young man’s ears flushed. “Well, then,” he managed, “I shall have to redouble my efforts.”
“You do that. And Silas?”
“Yes?”
Edmun leaned in. “The next time you frighten that girl, it had best be after I’m cold in the ground.”

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