I barely slept. I sat up high on the cot despite the good sheets and a finely woven blanket. My head rested against the walls and I curled my arms around my knees and stared into the dark.
My mare cast a shoe a league before the town and I was forced to lead her and thus we arrived, both of us, footsore and tired. Guy offered me his gelding, but I would not ride. Khazia had carried me unstintingly, it was the least I could do to walk beside her as she suffered a bruised sole. Guy dismounted and led his horse, and we barely spoke, but each time his arm rubbed against mine butterflies danced in my belly.
When I began writing the fan-fiction The Sheriff’s Collector, it was all a bit of fun. It meant nothing, it was just a tale of a tale and had no plot, no real characters that I empathised with, no setting, nothing that means anything to a writer taking their craft seriously.