Archive for the ‘6 Sentences’ Category

Our hero, Tom, is spying on an earl’s rooms at a Cambridge inn, c.1733.

The governess spoke in a delightful Scottish brogue. The rrr’s trilled on her tongue. The familiar lilt made him think of his sisters, made him ache for home.

He blinked and forced himself to turn away. Now was his opportunity.

On the chill side of the sitting room, he slid open the door to the bedchamber.

* * * * * *

The Duel (selection #7).

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What He Sees

Our hero, Tom, has broken into the earl’s rooms at a Cambridge inn.

He leaned further and spied a woman’s back, a cascade of dark red hair, a tight black dress, a slatted rocking chair. A child wriggled in her lap and twirled her tangled curls.

The woman spoke in French, in rhyme, reading Perrault’s fables. He recognized the story of the grasping crow.

After a few precise, fluent sentences, she surprised him by translating the lines into English.

No, that would not be remarkable.

* * * * * *

The Duel (selection #6).

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Miss Stewart Meets Our Hero

Beneath square shoulders, he had the sinuous stance of a courtier. One foot stretched before the other with a twist of the ankles to display well-molded calves. Powder-white stockings peeked beneath black velvet breeches. He wore a striped waistcoat under a dark jacket, with wide, gold-ribboned lapels cut to reveal the solid girth and firm thighs of a man well-versed in the pleasures of food and wine.

And women, too. His gaze raked her body as his hand gave a courteous flourish.

* * * * * *

The Duel (selection #5).

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Guns Slung

Our hero Alexander leads the 1759 assault on Quebec in THE FAIR SEAFARER (selection #2):

Ready…  Part question, part command. Gauge my line of men.

Faces not fearsome, nor frightened, but fixed, in decision.

Frowning; furrowed brows. Guns slung across their shoulders, packs at their sides, hats pointed up, as they are to climb.

Wet wool coats caked in dirt and mud.

* * * * * *

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Introducing Alexander

From the opening of THE FAIR SEAFARER:

Quebec, 13 September 1759.

Such foul, muddy boots. Our breath comes fast and shallow. Walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Fear no Evil, we prayed in the boats before the dark side of dawn brought us here.

I hear your voice in my head. God keep you safe from harm.

* * * * * *

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Knife in his boot

Knife slipped in his boot. Dagger sheathed in his belt.

Hands–clenched and unclenched, awakening reluctantly, readying themselves. Brushing the soft nap of his favorite coat, dark brown like his hair. His fingers combed through stubborn curls and tied them back in an efficient queue. Yes, he cut a fine figure.

The Duel (selection #4)

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Tom followed, frowning

Tom slammed down the mug and tore off a crusty bite of rye, then followed, frowning, as the boy carried the fire-warmed pitcher into the adjoining chamber.

“Thank you, Robin. See to the horses.” His voice was low and scratchy. Water splashed from the basin. He wet his cheeks, pulled his skin taut, scraped his chin smooth with the sharp-edged razor as he breathed in steam and heat. What did a man wear, when he might die before sunrise?

The Duel (selection #3)

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