I’ve been staying up until midnight (4am) sometimes this last week — partially due to insomnia, partially due to my sleep schedule being all out of whack from pain interference and trying to get back into working. The beautiful thing about this situation, however, is that I get a lot of writing done. Okay, well maybe not a lot… but certainly more than I had been getting done!
I’ve written at least five thousand words in Brother’s Keeper (my novel about two outlaw Jacobite brothers trying to survive/escape post-Culloden Western Scotland) in the last week, making me so very happy!
So happy, in fact, that I’m going to share a snippet with you.
“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked him suddenly. Her gaze remained fixed on the horizon, memorizing the slow decay of the sun’s last glow. “My name… It isn’t really Sarah.”
He paused in packing the remains of their picnic into the basket to look at her in silence. He didn’t say anything – in fact, he took care to keep his features impossibly still, given her ability to read him like a bloody book – and let her unfold her tale in her own time.
She seemed to waiting for his response to this revelation, however. She picked up blades of grass, twisting them in her fingers until an upstart breeze snatched the bits up and scattered them. She repeated the process, still not saying anything.
Say something, he thought. But what? Her name wasn’t really her name? He wasn’t exactly in a position to judge her for that. Neither, of course, could he tell her that to make her – what? – feel better…?
So, on a fair morning with no rain, a brilliant blue sky, and heather crowning the landscape in tufts of blue, green, and lavender – and on a day when he’d never found the erstwhile Sarah Crawford more alluring than in all of the short time he’d known her – what he managed was a gruff, “Why would you tell me such a thing?”
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