I intend to post draft copies of my work here for my fans to comment, and will remove all but the first chapter when I publish. All rights reserved, no copying of any portion of my writing without permission. Copyright Sarah J Waldock.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HQYL128B
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HQYL128B
I'm updating the Felicia and Robin series as well, but though Kindle say I can make unlimited upgrades, apparently I am still limited by the only publish two books a week rule.
the third of the three books in the 'War of the Blood Moon' trilogy is now live - a lovely long read for the holidays with the other two.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HPBCS194
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HPBCS194
"She will live forever and desire Death." A prophecy to daunt anyone, most of all an ex slave turned warrior whose spirit is bigger than her body...
first of an epic trilogy, The War of the Blood Moon which I'll be releasing over the next month or so.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HM9FH6QJ
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HM9FH6QJ
I wrote this little illustrated book with reading age 7-8 which I hope will also interest slow readers of up to about 11 - just putting in two of many illustrations
An ordinary, little brown mouse lived in an ordinary, big brown tree, in a very special wood.
He did not have a name, because he was an ordinary mouse who did not need a name.
One day, he heard music, and came out to see what was going on.
There were fairies dancing, because it was a magical wood!
The fairies were celebrating. They threw around a lot of fairy dust, and giggled. Fairies often giggle.
Some of the fairy dust fell on the mouse, and he felt very strange.
“My name is Monty,” he said to himself. “My back is sore!”
Suddenly, Monty realised he had grown fairy wings.
“The fairies will be angry,” he thought. “They were careless and their queen will punish them.”
“I will fly away,” thought Monty. “How useful my wings are!” He smiled.
Monty found that he could do fairy magic, too, and he used it to help people.
One day, he came to an old cottage where there was an orange cat, who looked sad.
“I am Monty, the fairy mouse. Who are you, and why are you sad?” asked Monty.
“I am Cecil; my human has died and I have nobody to look after me,” said Cecil.
“Oh, dear! I don’t know what to do,” said Monty.
“I wish I had wings, like you,” said Cecil.
“Let me see what I can do,” said Monty. “Oh!” his magic made little wings all around Cecil’s neck.
“Never mind,” said Cecil. “You tried.”
“I can do better,” said Monty. And this time, Cecil shrank to be a bit bigger than Monty, and grew wings.
“I can fly!” said Cecil.
“Do you mind that you are small?” asked Monty.
“No, I like it. We can be friends properly,” purred Cecil.
So they were.
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8
Luke did not intend to use noisy means to achieve his goal if he might do so otherwise. He got up half an hour after midnight, sneering at the women keeping country hours, and slunk along the gallery to Lucy’s bedroom. He gently turned the handle, and felt the door give. Good! Too stupid to lock the door. He had a dark lantern and made his way to the dressing-table where he thought it likely that the reticule might be found.
It was not there.
That left the commode, he thought, moving over to the curtained bed.
There was no reticule on the commode at the side of the bed. He went round to the other side.
He drew back the curtain, intending to terrorise the governess into talking about where Lucy was; or to break her scrawny neck and terrorise Lucy herself if she was there. By the time he had burned her with a candle, and threatened to put her eyes out, she would talk. And perhaps he might take advantage of the fact that he was going to kill her anyway, so it did not matter if he had his will of her as well, to make her tell him where the key was, and then she would never speak of it to anyone as he would break her neck too, and set a fire as soon as he had his treasure.
But nobody lay in the bed; not the governess, not Lucy. There was nothing but a Holland cover over it.
Luke was nonplussed.
Surely the governess woman had not fled? He searched the room, lighting several candles. There was no luggage here, either. Could she have moved to another room? She surely was not pleasuring the solicitor? No, highly unlikely. She must have moved rooms, knowing that she should fear him. Well, it was unfortunate, but that was how it was.
Luke went back to his room for his gunpowder, and put the barrel at the base of the figurehead. He did not tamp it, not knowing that he should do so; and not knowing how. He put the slow match into the barrel, and stretched it out as far as it would go. It did not go all the way through the door of the gallery, but that did not seem important to Luke. It was very long.
He lit the slow match; and watched the little red spark crawl its way along the line of match.
It did not occur to him to retire through the door at the end of the gallery.
The spark made its way to the barrel, and crept over its edge. Luke gave a savage, ungentlemanly grin.
And then the world detonated.
Luke did not have time to feel triumph.
Luke did not have time to feel anything beyond pain in his ears, and the sensation of flying. He was vaguely aware of Henderson’s voice crying out in horror.
Henderson swore blind to the end of his days that the figurehead, outraged, reached out and picked Luke up and threw him over the balcony. With all the smoke, anyone might argue that he could not have seen anything; but nobody in Fenwick-cum-Tadreth ever doubted Henderson’s version. Luke had offended the spirit of the old pirate; and paid the price.
Bits of burning barrel went everywhere, and Henderson had the presence of mind to bang on the curious gong used in days of yore as a dinner gong, before going about the business of getting water and wetted blankets to beat out the charring bits of barrel debris before they might set light to any of the ancient oak of the house. The diamond-paned windows on the lower floor had shaken in their frames, but though the lead around them had buckled in places, they remained substantially intact, so at least there was no draught to make small fires burn hotter.
Lucy and Arabella emerged to see what was toward, and joined Henderson in his mission, beating out any bits of burning debris.
“And a hem good job thet du be there du-ant be no tapestries in here,” said Henderson.
His wife joined them. She set up a screech seeing Luke’s body on the floor, and threw up the apron she was wearing incongruously over her nightgown, to cover her face,
“Do-ant yew be such a fewl, Martha,” said Henderson. “That cutty little tyke tried to blow up the Black Snake’s lady, ar, an’ the owd captain put his spirit in her, and she threw him down.”
“Mrs. Henderson, please check if he still lives,” said Lucy. Mrs. Henderson went over to Luke’s body, and trembling she touched his face.
“He... he is dead,” she said. “Oh, Master Luke, why did you do it?”
“Greed,” said Lucy. “Come, Mrs. Henderson; we have the fires out, I think. You may lay him out, but now, I think, we shall all be in need of a cup of tea. The vicar might be called in the morning.”
“My goodness!” Mr. Death had emerged. “Gunpowder! You were not exaggerating Mr. Fenwick’s lethal designs at all, Miss Bellington!”
“Well, as you have not been man enough to help beat out fires, perhaps you will spend your time tomorrow discovering where Luke obtained gunpowder, in order to report it at the inquest which must surely ensue,” said Lucy, tartly. “Collecting facts of so prosaic a nature where you cannot make up stories of romancing should not be beyond your ability.”
“I... I am sorry that I permitted Mr. Fenwick to poison my mind with tales of you being highly strung and inclined to romance, Miss Fenwick,” said Death.
“Doubtless he is sorrier, right now,” said Lucy. “Well, I doubt any of us will be going back to sleep, so when we have had a cup of tea, we shall tidy up, have an early breakfast, and it will be your job, Mr. Death, to inform the vicar, the coroner, and anyone else who should be informed. Oh! Henry!”
Henry had burst in.
“I was in the stables, watching over the horses,” he said. “By Jove! What a mess!”
“And yet, I fancy no serious structural damage,” said Lucy. “The figurehead is quite intact.”
“And a blessing the windows did not blow out,” said Henry. “There, my love, you are safe.”
Lucy melted into his arms, and pulled off the ring-beard before he kissed her.
“Dear me, most irregular,” murmured Mr. Death.
“Not a word from you,” said Arabella.
Mr. Death’s word was at least enough to convene an inquest the next day, and Henry attended as himself. Lucy and Arabella did not have to go, as the two men, with asides from Henderson, were enough to give a clear picture. Mr. Death produced two gunsmiths from King’s Lynn to make deposition that Mr. Luke Fenwick had attempted to purchase a large amount of gunpowder from them, proving intent and planning to cause structural damage and possibly intent to kill.
“It went fine,” said Henry, to Lucy, kissing her, on their return. “The jury returned a verdict of ‘Death by misadventure whilst engaged in felonious destruction of property.’ Apparently, the whole village was wakened by the detonation, and Henderson’s version was accepted with far more alacrity than the coroner’s dry summation.”
“It makes for a better story,” said Lucy. “I hope Henderson was not in trouble for expressing his tale?”
“No, the coroner looked over the top of his glasses and hinted that the spirit of the old captain of the Black Snake mostly resided in dregs from the late Mr. Lucius Fenwick’s brandy bottles,” said Henry. “Henderson was put out, but the coroner moved swiftly on. I was able to attest that Luke was inclined from childhood to perform often quite crazy feats of what he considered retribution for being thwarted.” He hesitated. “I told how, when you were awarded the surviving pup of a litter, he killed it rather than let you have it.”
Lucy’s eyes filled with tears.
“I was heartbroken, and Uncle Lucius was convinced he had accidentally handled the pup too roughly,” she said.
“He was trying to protect you, hoping you would not realise how nasty Luke was,” said Henry. “I am sorry to bring it up.”
“I need to deal with the horror of it,” said Lucy. “I’m glad he’s dead.”
The funeral was next day, at night according to custom. If it was not entirely appropriate for the season, the vicar was sympathetic to wanting the whole business over and done with. Naturally, Lucy and Arabella did not attend, and it was a very quiet service. Mrs. Henderson cried all evening, and Lucy took over the kitchen and cooked bubble-and-squeak with sausage cakes and plenty of fried eggs, because it was comfort food. Nobody complained.
They attended the Christmas service as a family, and the vicar read the banns for Henry and Lucy. It was a moment of normalcy, and Lucy relaxed for the first time since arriving at Fenwick Hall. Joyfully she sang out the old carols, and gave thanks to G-d for the chance to be alive to celebrate Christmas, and that Luke had brought his fate upon himself, and that she and Arabella had not needed to bring about his end. They cut evergreens for the vestibule on the way home, to be there until Twelfth Night.
“Next year, for our first married Christmas, we will decorate properly, and hold a house party,” said Lucy, firmly.
“Yes, and it was well done to mention our need for servants in church; with luck we shall have a few girls take up the position,” said Henry. “I will advertise for help for Henderson, and to be trained up to take over. I thought my own stable staff might move in? I have a coachman, a stablehand, and a boy, who is the coachman’s son.”
“That seems a good idea,” said Lucy. “And after we have attended the service for Holy Innocents on the twenty-eighth, all concerned shall choose a keepsake from the treasure.”
True to her word, Lucy invited the Hendersons, Mr. Death, Arabella, and Henry to the library, where she spread the treasure still there all over the table.
“Mercy me!” said Mrs. Henderson.
Henderson surprised her in choosing a ring.
“It makes me look like a man o’ affairs,” he said. “An’ I cin flash it down at the ‘Three Feathers,’ and tell the story.”
Mrs. Henderson picked a cross on a chain, and Mr. Death chose a pair of gold coins to be put onto cuff-links. Arabella picked some hair pins, and Henry also chose a ring.
“I want to wear one of these necklaces to get married,” said Lucy, “But it belongs with the treasure.”
Lucy indeed wore one of the emerald necklaces to be married in, once the banns had been read three times. Four girls from the village had volunteered, and though they waited still for a couple of footmen, Henry’s own coachman and groom moved into the stables.
The figurehead was scorched, but no more, and wore a garland of mistletoe, as she had brought Henry and Lucy together.
“I don’t think Luke ever knew that the treasure was already gone,” said Lucy. “Should I have told him?”
“No; he would probably have strangled you,” said Henry. “Come, my dear wife, the master suite awaits us, and I am glad that you made the mistress chamber into a parlour. And that most of the treasure is back behind its protective sundial. I can sleep easier.”
“A wife cleaves to her husband.... and puts her cold feet on him,” said Lucy.
“Oh, now, my wife, I must see if I can find a way to warm you and your feet up,” said Henry.
If Lucy retained cold feet, it was not for want of effort.
Henry and Lucy continued to fly the Jolly Roger on the house’s flagmast, and with wise investments of the treasure they converted to cash, they prospered.
Arabella married the vicar in due course, and set up a village school, which was also funded with pirate gold. The Hendersons retired when they had trained up replacements, and everyone except Luke, and a certain crooked sergeant, who was discovered and court-martialled, lived happily ever after.
