A huge part of publishing a book is promotion. If researching a story is a rabbit hole, creating promo material is a black hole. There is an entire universe of options, and it is far too easy to get sucked into each one and lose hours, sometimes days. Here is my latest creation. I made many versions in Canva* before settling on this one. For those of you doing your own promo (which falls on most writers nowadays, independently and traditionally published), I highly recommend Deposit Photos* for your photos. They have great sale packages, so keep an eye on their site, or sign up for notifications. (*These referrals are based on my experience. I do not benefit from recommending them.) 

When you chase your dreams, you begin to live your dreams. —Scot McKnight

Brace yourself. Long post ahead.

My team…

It’s a big day in our house any time one of my books gets published. But, today feels even bigger because I see SPOTLIGHT as “our” book, not just mine. This baby has been handled only by Keev and me, with some help thrown in from my dear friend and beta reader, Jayne. Keev and I will be raising a glass of Zanatta bubbly later today to celebrate our collective efforts.🥂

Our tasks…

I wrote the story. I revised the story. I edited the story. Then, Keev took it on and, let me tell you, he is one hard editor. I had to come back at it several times before Jayne read it. And Jayne is eagle-eyed too, even when handed a formatting nightmare of a book.

Ugh, formatting. It made the writing and editing seem like a cakewalk. Learning how to format for eBook wasn’t too bad. For paperback? Ahhhhhhh. But, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I learned how to create different margins on alternating pages, how to block text so that there were more than five words on a line, how to drop the first letter of the opening word of chapters, and how to stop numbering pages when it was a new chapter. I have a copy of the paperback, and I’m very pleased with the look.

I also designed the cover. Learning what I needed to purchase for licensing was the easiest part. Designing it so that it was both eye-catching and fit all of the criteria of formatting was a challenge. Although, it was a much more pleasurable challenge than the interior text. From this, all graphic promos are built…another task that is mine alone. And, I won’t talk about uploading, timing paperback and eBook, meta data, creating advertising spread—which is waiting approval because it has the word “sexy” in it. 🤦‍♀️ I’m still wiping at my tears.

What I learned…

I love my publisher, Dragonblade, and have a huge appreciation for all of the work they do. I look forward to working with them again (news on the horizon). It’s doubtful I’ll go the self-publishing route again, but I’m glad I tried it. The learning curve was steep but definitely rewarding. Oh, and for the record, those who are not concerned about having a paperback copy but purchase one to support me, I make more on eBooks. So, buy that eBook guilt free! Reviews do make a difference too, so if you can bring yourself to drop by Amazon and star it (honestly) and/or say a few words, that would be greatly appreciated.🙏

Back to the story itself…

I have already mentioned that this book is not about me, but has pieces of me. Those who know me will recognize my passion for lyric writing and performing. It was a thrill to write song lyrics for the book. I dream of putting them to music. (What do you think Aldo? Jay? Wouldn’t that be a hoot? Pity neither of you live close to me anymore.)

Folks will also recognize my experience from 17 years in the hospitality industry. I know waitressing and bartending inside out and upside down. I can hear the kitchen orders, see the serving shelf, and smell the cruddy little staff room. I also remember well the orchestrated dance of busy servers. It’s a job. It’s a strategy game. It’s hard work. As for the school and learning disability scenes, it goes without saying, I have a bit of insider knowledge on those.😉

Finally, yes finally—I warned you it was going to be a long post—everyone knows that I believe in dreaming, big or small, and in chasing those dreams. I have done it my whole life. May I never stop. May you never stop.

Thank you for supporting me in my endless chase. It means more than I can truly express. 💕

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One Starfish at a Time

My latest YA novel, Spotlight, is not remotely about me, yet has so much of me in it. It is definitely more connected to who I was, who I am, and my life experiences than my other three YA novels.

I had two teachers who made such a difference in my sense of self that I am convinced they changed the trajectory of my life. Autumn, the main character in Spotlight, is also fortunate to have one of those special educators. I had such great pleasure writing that teacher through Autumn’s lens.

Those in the educational field do not often get to see the impact they have on the future of their students. And some days it’s tough for them to believe that what they do is worth the sleepless nights. But, it is the faith that they can somehow make a difference that drives the great ones. I always thought this short adaptation, called The Starfish, captured that perfectly. The boy’s words became my mantra as a teacher and as a principal, so it’s not entirely surprising that the concept has found its way into my writing.

I look forward to you meeting Autumn and seeing her special relationship with her music teacher. Here’s to all the educators who pick up starfish every day.

Coming June 1st! Available for preorder now.

Available for Preorder!

I took a breather from the extensive research involved in writing historical romance and returned to YA. It's a bit like cleansing the palate, so I can better enjoy the next course. And there is definitely a next course for me in historical writing. I'll talk more about that another time. Today, I'd like to introduce you to Autumn's story. I just love her, and I hope that you will too.

A sexy rock star, a determined songwriter, and a shared dream—

Seventeen-year-old Autumn can craft killer songs. It's an amazing feat considering she can't read or write. It's not that she doesn't understand how to, it's that the words won't sit still. Literally. They dance and swirl across the page. Mislabeled ADD and self-defined as stupid, she's managed to keep most people from knowing about her illiteracy with help from her mom and her best friend. 

When Logan, the lead singer of Midknight, falls for both Autumn and her lyrics, he encourages her to hitch onto his rising star. It's a dream come true, but she's convinced he'll dump her when he finds out the truth. She wants to pursue song writing and hold on to Logan, but figuring out how to keep the guy, and her secret, may prove an even bigger challenge than making it through senior year. 

Coming June 1st. Available for preorder now.

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 CA:  http://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0C3Z47XGZ

 UK:  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0C3Z47XGZ

 DE:  https://www.amazon.de/dp/B0C3Z47XGZ

 

Gonna be a time...

It’s gonna be a time. It’s a Newfoundland expression you say when adventure lies ahead—especially if it involves a gathering of your besties, booze, and good downhome music. I’ve heard the saying in my head so much this last year or so. But, while the voice in my imagination is laden with the familiar Newfie accent, I haven’t drawn any comfort from it. Mostly, because the voice has altered the words, instead, repeatedly saying: It’s been a time. And, it has.

 

Life has been weighted with loss, health issues, and stress. Just when I thought the world would soon tip upright, it tilted again. It has also been a year of hard work and reward. Writing under contract was new to me, and being an overachiever, I took it seriously, delivering my manuscripts polished and well ahead of deadlines. I’ve always functioned that way. But I’ve never had to do it while my personal life was reeling. The publication of my first historical romance series (a dream come true) was both joyous and bittersweet.

 

So, why the Newfoundland expression? I don’t know. Perhaps, during the harder days, I was drawn to memories of my life growing up in an outport there. Some of the happiest—innocence, youth, blind belief that life would be uneventfully eventful. Or is that what growing old does? Colour the past into comfortable pastel shades to ease the dark that splashes across one’s aging canvas?

 

My world is still askew, but less so. Maybe another aspect of getting older is that it never returns to its original position? Maybe we’re meant to look at our lives from each new angle? I’m not sure, but I do know, I am growing more productive. I’m also pushing myself back out into the world at large. A bit unnerving, but so far, I have been rewarded with the company of wonderful people.

 

So, it’s been a time. But more and more, I believe, that once again, the voice from my youth is going to cheer me on, and I will genuinely be looking forward to new adventures. Yes, some day soon, it’s gonna be a time.

Booksweeps Giveaway!

 😍 Love is in the air! If you haven’t read LOVE DENIED, you can enter to win it on BookSweeps today — plus 40+ exciting Historical Romances from a great collection of authors AND a brand new eReader!💖

 

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Love Unraveled

The French Revolution, the Napoleonic Wars, and spies—all rolled into a Regency era happy ever after. Here's a sneak peek at Sophia's story.

Prologue 

Promise us the sun forever as well as the night;

Yes. Forever the night. Promise me that.

Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, Let Us Cry

                             

1797

 

If Sophia had not known he was coming, she would have assumed the tapping was the wind shifting the far-too-loose latch on her window. But she'd been waiting for him for hours. Truly for years. Her heart pounded ferociously against her chest. He was here now. As he'd promised.

She leapt from the bed and pressed her ear to the hall door. There was no sound other than a repeated tap, tap, tap behind her. She flew to the window and threw back the drapes, the shadow of Gaston's willowy body all she could make out of him in the darkness. She unhooked the latch and pushed at the window. Gaston caught it before it blew too far to the side and banged the pillar. He threw one long leg over the sash and pulled the window closed as he stepped fully into the room.

She reached past him to re-hook the latch, catching a whiff of him as she did so. "You stink," she whispered, scrunching her nose.

"And you, ma chérie, smell like a garden of roses in summer." He tilted his head to kiss her and raindrops fell from his hat, chilling her bared shoulder. 

She pushed him. "Well, you smell like a wet dog," she said, even though excitement raced through her veins.

"More like a wet horse," he said, but shook his entire body exactly as a dog would do, splattering Sophia even more. She laughed out loud. He stepped up to her quickly, covering her mouth with his hand. "Fais attention, Sophie. Someone will hear you."

Sophia bit his hand playfully, and she could see the flash of his teeth in the dim light. "There is a hook on the wall there. Hang your things." She strode to the window and closed the drapes again, then returned to her bedside, fumbling for the tinderbox she'd left there. 

"Let me." 

His breath was warm against her ear as he took the box from her, and she regretted its loss when he leaned away from her to blow on the tinder. She set the wick to it, and the candle slowly took. After she set it on the table, she turned to look at him. Mon dieu. Sophia still could not believe he had come.

"You are so beautiful, my eyes hurt." Gaston ran the back of his fingers down her cheek, along her neck, and across her shoulder. Her flesh tingled in their wake.

"Embrasse-moi." Sophia puckered her lips and closed her eyes, and Gaston obliged her request for a kiss. His lips were soft and gentle, but she wanted more. She tried to probe with her tongue, but he kept his mouth closed to her. She opened her eyes, and he grinned. Sophia slapped his arm, and his grin grew bigger.

"You have not changed." Gaston chuckled and looked around the room, then pulled her toward the chairs by the fireplace.

"Non, it is too cold to sit by an empty grate. Come." Sophia tugged him in the opposite direction, back toward the bed.

"Sophie." 

He said her name like a warning, and she ignored it. She did not fear Gaston. It was Gaston who should fear her. Sophia had waited three years for him, and she was not about to sit politely in chairs across from one another. She was going to be held and, for the first time in too long, she was going to be loved. She would settle for no less.

She let go of his hand and climbed onto the bed, feeling powerful, knowing he was watching her. She leaned forward, daringly showing the rise of her breasts, and patted the bed. 

Gaston shook his head. 

"But we must speak quietly," she said tapping the bed again. "And I am chilled," she added, tugging at the counterpane and pulling it over her lap as proof.

Gaston sighed heavily. He perched on the edge of the bed and removed his boots before crawling in beside her. She was disappointed he stayed on top of the coverlet, but it did not defeat her. She would woo Gaston before night's end, and they would be bound together forever.

"I should not stay long," he said, taking her hand in his and running his thumb over her palm. "It would not do for me to be caught here in your bedroom."

"It would not do for you to be seen anywhere by mia zia—ma tante." Sophia caught herself and switched from Italian back to French for it was the language they shared. "Tante Giorgia despises the French even more now that they occupy our cities."

"But you are French, non? She cannot possibly detest all French." Gaston squeezed Sophia's hand.

"She does not acknowledge that part of me. It is like Papa never existed, and she sees only the daughter of her sister." Sophia shrugged. "Still, she gave me a home when I had none. But I do not wish to speak of her any further. It is you and only you I want to hear about."

Gaston had suddenly appeared at the market that morning. She'd been examining a basket when she sensed someone beside her. She'd turned and blinked over and over. She could not accept what her eyes told her was true. He spoke quickly and quietly, and she'd given her address and specific directions to her bedroom before he disappeared into the crowd. It had felt like a dream, but it was not. For there was nothing imaginary about the warmth of his hand or his thigh pressed against hers, exuding a heat no blanket could block.

"Have you come with the army?" Sophia hoped not, for she had come to detest the bold soldiers who considered her there for their taking. She had learned quickly not to leave the house without a chaperone and a male servant for protection.

"The only army I fight with is Régiment de Bourbon. For my father. And for yours."

"Papa?" She sat straighter, all thoughts of seduction flown from her mind. She'd heard nothing from her father in months. " Have you word of him?"

"Non, ma douce, I have heard nothing directly. But the Directory was annulled and the fair election overturned. In September. Many were shipped to Guiana. I am trying to find out if your father was among them or if he is still in Paris. Perhaps, he is in hiding?"

There had been news of Napoleon's Coup d’état, but she didn't see how it could affect her father. "But Papa, he is not in the government. He is writing for the paper."

Gaston turned to face her, cupping her cheek. "The royalist newspapers were shut down. Many journalists were shipped with the deputies."

"Non." Sophia shook her head, fighting the tears stinging her eyes. 

"I am sorry, mon amour. You must face the possibility. It is why I came."

"I don't understand…"

"The last time I saw your father, he made me promise to come to you should something ever happen to him."

"But why?" Sophia swallowed her agony. Surely, Gaston was assuming the worst. Her father was a clever man. He had managed all the atrocities that had come before. An overturn in government could not be harder to navigate than the slaughter they had escaped.

"Because he knows nobody can love you more than he does…except me." Gaston pressed his forehead against hers. "And he's right."

Gaston held Sophia for few minutes while she grappled with the concept of her father sent somewhere far away. She did not cry easily, and she would not cry now. Not for a maybe. A possibility. It was equally likely he was not amongst those banished. He might still be somewhere in France or gone somewhere else for safety. She knew for certain he would not come to Venezia. Her aunt might report him.

When her thoughts were composed and her emotions reined in, she pulled away from Gaston. He watched her, his brow furrowed in concern.

"I am not glass. I will not shatter." She flicked a strand of hair back over her shoulder. "And what does Papa think you might do for me?"

"Take you away with me."

"Where?" She asked it calmly, but her insides quivered with excitement. Her aunt had become intolerable. Other than trips to the market, Sophia's life had become one lonely dull day followed by another. And to be with Gaston? It was a dream come true.

"He would see you in England, if I can manage it."

"England! But it is so far. And I speak the language like a bébé."

Gaston ran his hand over her cheek and lifted her chin. "Then you must learn it, ma chérie. For you will live there until it is safe to return to France."

It was all so much to grasp. Her father gone. Her leaving Venezia. Gaston. "With you?" she asked.

"For a time. But I must do my part. I will return to the régiment."

Gaston was going to take her to England and leave her there. Alone. The past three years had taught her everything could change in a moment. She knew what she must do to ensure his commitment to her remained constant. She loved him too much to risk losing him.

"You will marry me." It was a statement, not a question, and it got a slow smile from Gaston.

"Oui, ma beauté, I will marry you at the first opportunity. Your father has given me his permission." He leaned in and kissed her, and this time the kiss was not chaste. She was panting when he pulled away.

"I don't remember you kissing like that," Gaston said. 

"I was a child. I am a woman now." She smiled at his scowl, a sense of triumph easing the sorrow of his news about her father. 

"You have practiced?" 

Sophia laughed at his fierce expression and the growl in his voice. Oh, yes, she had power now she did not have before. Although, in truth, she'd not tried to use it until this moment. But she was not going to tell him. 

She daintily shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps, un peu." She pinched her thumb and forefinger together to show him the little bit, and he growled again. She fell onto her back, pulling him with her, and demonstrated again she was more than ready to take on the task of being his partner. When she clawed at his shirt, he pulled back.

"Sophie, non."

"Oui." She boldly ran her finger down his shirt and teased the band of his trousers. "We are to be married. Besides, I have always been yours. And you, mine."

She tugged him to her again, confident he would surrender. And she was right. Later, lying in the afterglow of their first lovemaking, he shared his plan. 

"Count Tessaro has arranged a rendezvous tomorrow night with a local fisherman. You must go about your day, act as you normally do, and pack only a few things. Dress plainly."

His chest warm beneath her cheek, he stroked her arm as he talked. She snuggled closer, drifting in contented happiness. The bed dipped and Sophia opened her eyes. Gaston was fully dressed and pulling on his boots. She sat up, pulling the cover to her chest. How could she have fallen asleep?

"My sleeping beauty awakes." He tugged on the second boot and shifted to face her. "Midnight. Be ready. There will be no time to spare."

Excitement and fear coursed through her. She did not want him to leave but knew he must. Tears stung, and he lifted her chin so she looked him in the eyes.

"I will return. I promise."

He kissed her one last time, and she watched as he opened the window and disappeared. The wind rattled the pane and she got out of bed, the marble floor cold against her feet. She opened it and peered outside, but she could see no one. "Je t'aime," she whispered into the darkness before latching the window and crawling back into bed. She held the pillow against her as though it were Gaston. His scent still lingered, and the pungent smell of the stable he had slept in was now a comfort. 

A few more hours, and there would be no more goodbyes.

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I have written 11 books but each time I think ‘Uh-oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.' —Maya Angelou

One of my fellow authors said she was experiencing the worst case of imposter syndrome. She wondered if anyone else felt inadequate. My answer? Always. And, I’ve thought about that a lot this morning.

As a teacher, I felt it. As a principal, I felt it. As a performer, I felt it. As a writer, I feel it. All_the_time. I’m not entirely sure about the psychology behind it. No doubt we can retrace the steps in my life and pinpoint some key moments that led to such embedded doubt. In many ways, the cause is irrelevant. The old cliché of what’s done is done leads to the one that it simply is what it is. And I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.

 

I think, perhaps, that if one feels overconfident, they become complacent. When one becomes complacent, one tends not to seek out anything that might destroy that equilibrium. Which limits growth. Regardless of your path in life, if you do not seek to grow, you stagnate, you wither. In any role in life, inertia is boring. It often leads to apathy and mediocrity. In the arts’ world in particular, it is the kiss of death. While the genre of romance comes with a set of tropes and comforting expectations, people (me included!) want to see writers switch things up, come at things differently, wow them with something new. They want a pop of color in their familiar palette.

 

So, I like to consider imposter syndrome the catalyst to new growth. That little voice nagging me about inadequacy? It’s pushing me to learn new things, challenge myself, take risks. Am I a Diana Gabaldon (insert your favorite writer here)? No. Will I ever be? No. But am I better than I was? Can I be better than I am? I believe so. And that feeling that I don’t belong, that I’m a fake, urges me on. And, one last cliché, you know what they say—fake it ‘til you make it.

Check out Love Abandoned!

 

Life is more than a little angsty for the Thornwoods, especially for Elizabeth. But don’t let her fool you. She might be small in stature, but she’s mighty with determination. Join her on her journey from the country to the city—all the way back into her husband’s heart.

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LOVE ABANDONED

If you enjoy historical romance set in Regency-era England, I hope you'll check out Love Abandoned. It's the second novel in the series Honorable Intentions for Dragonblade Publishing. Release is scheduled for June 1, 2022. In the meantime, please enjoy an excerpt.  

Prologue

Hear my soul speak:

The very instant that I saw you, did

My heart fly to your service; there resides,

To make me a slave to it;

 

~Shakespeare (The Tempest)

 

1808

 

Three years, and Elizabeth was as bewitching as the day he’d married her. As beguiling as the first day they met. Richard would ravish her where she stood were it not for the room full of guests. And it would be hours before they could retire, so he might as well rein in his lustful aspirations and turn his attention elsewhere. What a rubbish idea this anniversary gathering turned out to be. Even worse, it was his rubbish idea.

Richard had been in town for far too long, chasing down business investments, when he’d rather be chasing down Elizabeth. But the estate could not sustain itself indefinitely, and it was time to expand his fortunes. One day an heir would be grateful for his forethought. Hopefully, the manor would be full of children to support. Children. He’d far prefer slipping away and trying to create one than this standing around talking about inconsequential trivia. Unfortunately, he’d thought an anniversary celebration would be cheering for Elizabeth. The lack of children had been wearing on them both.

“Still gawking at your wife after all these years?” Bentley slapped Richard on the back jovially. “You almost make me consider marriage.”

Richard cast his glance sideways at his old school chum and raised an eyebrow. “Is there something…or someone…I should know about?”

“I said, almost, my friend. You know me better than that. Too many skirts in the wilderness, waiting to be tamed, for me to put myself in a cage.”

“Once a rake, always a rake? Don’t be so certain. Someday you’ll find your Lady Bentley, and she’ll cast her spell over you as mine has done to me. And you’ll be glad of it.”

Bentley guffawed, drawing the attention of some of the guests, and of Elizabeth. Richard smiled at her and held her stare. Her pale cheeks flushed a soft pink, but she did not look away. “If you’ll excuse me, Bentley?” he said and walked toward her.

Lovely gathering. Such a wonderful evening. Good to see you, Lord Thornwood. The voices swirled around him, but he had eyes only for Elizabeth. “Lady Thornwood,” he said, interrupting old Mrs. Farnsworth who was wearing far more ribbons and bows than a fresh debutante. “May I see you in private for a moment?” Her cheeks deepened to scarlet, but she nodded and set her hand on his arm. “If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Farnsworth,” he said, not waiting for her response. More platitudes followed them out of the room.

“Is there something I can do for you, my lord?” Hastings asked, two footmen in tow behind him, each carrying several decanters of wine.

“No, Hastings, we’re fine.” Richard tilted his head back toward the room. “Make sure glasses are full and no one is need of anything. And set the food out a little early.”

“Yes, my lord.”

No one would complain with an overflowing glass in hand and a full stomach. They would not be missed. He’d been delayed and had arrived along with guests, and he couldn’t wait another minute to hold her in his arms.

“Richard?”

“Shh,” he said. “Let me whisk you away.”

Her smile lit the hallway, and she leaned into him as they walked silently along the corridor. Although it would afford them definitive privacy, as no one would dare enter it, he chose not to stop at his study. The saloon next door to it had been opened to the large drawing room, which put the revelers far too close for comfort.

He released an audible sigh of relief when they made it to the library without encountering any strays. Richard pulled Elizabeth inside, begrudgingly letting her go to firmly close the doors. He turned around and leaned back on them, drinking her in. She stood there, looking shy and confident at the same time. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head, but she’d left wisps caressing her long slender neck. Only two gilt lamps had been lit, and they were behind her. Her lovely shape was well illuminated with the backlighting, but he could not see her eyes. It didn’t matter. He knew them by heart and was confident they mirrored the love she would see in his.

Richard opened his arms in invitation. She smiled and stepped into them, and he embraced her. Her heart beat against his own. This was home. “I missed you,” he whispered.

“I missed you too,” she said and tilted her face to look at him.

He could resist no longer. He took possession of her mouth, hoping his kiss would tell her more adequately than words the truth of his longing for her. They parted, both panting breathlessly.

“Richard,” she finally managed, touching her lips as she spoke his name. “The guests will see…”

He glanced out the windows at the night. It was a miserable one, windy and rainy. No one would be strolling the gardens. He told her so.

She smiled tentatively and touched her lips again. “No, that’s not what I meant. They will see the evidence. You know how easily I bruise.”

“Did I hurt you, my love?” He cursed himself for being an uncontrolled lecher, tugged her close, and kissed her forehead. “I would never willingly do so. You know that, don’t you?” He pulled back so he could see her face.

“Of course, I do.” This time her smile was mischievous. “Hurt me again.”

And wolfishly, he did. This time, when he finally let her go, he wondered how either of them were going to be able to return to the soiree. They would be fodder for endless gossip. He could hear them now disdaining a married couple who were actually in love.

“Come sit with me, and we’ll give ourselves some time to recompose.” He touched her swollen lips, and she kissed his fingers. “Elizabeth,” he growled in warning. His blood would never cool if she continued to look at him like that. He led her to the sofa and pulled her down beside him. “It is good to see the rose in your cheeks. You were exceptionally pale when I arrived, and I worried this gathering had put too much of a strain on you. I do apologize. It was a thick-witted idea.”

“Not at all, my dearest. A husband who remembers an anniversary is special. One who wishes to celebrate it is a rare find.”

He kissed her cheek, feeling as young and in love as when they’d first met five years ago. He’d been able to claim her as his own now for three years, and the glow that warmed him at the mere thought of her did not dull. She entwined her fingers in his.

“And we have much to celebrate,” she said quietly. She shifted their hands to her midriff and clasped them with her other hand, holding them tightly to her stomach. “Much to celebrate.”

Richard’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Dare he hope? “You are..? We are...?”

She nodded, her eyes shimmering in the dull light. “We are, Lord Thornwood. Finally.”

He pulled her close, biting back the emotion clogging his throat, making it impossible to speak. It was all he’d dreamed of in his young years. To hear the voices of other children ringing off these old walls. And now it was going to happen. His children. Her children. Their children. “Thank you,” he finally managed to whisper into her hair.

“Oh, Richard,” she whispered back. “This is only the beginning.”

 

Available for pre-order!