There are times in life when one just wants to forget about concerns and cares. To ignore the shouted whisper of caution in the ear. To believe that nothing could ever be wrong and that every dream or fantasy one has ever had is about to be fulfilled. This was such a time.
The dirt stained the cloth that had been left for me and the water in the bowl looked as if it had been collected from a moat. I craved a warm scented bath, for my nails to be clean, for my hair to once again fall in a silky swathe. But it was not to be and I could see myself arriving before my father so travel-stained that I doubted he would recognize me. There was a chance he might not recognize me anyway as it had been three years since I had seen him. But worse, I had gleaned a subtext from Vasey’s words; that my father was not himself. He could have lost his mind with grief, he could be a soak, he could be anything but the man my mother had loved. I turned from the bowl to reach for clothes . . .
As I stared up at the campaign horse, the flames of the torchères in the livery yard made him look like some giant creature of the Apocalypse. Shadows jumped and flickered and thoughts of Moncrieff receded unhappily to the back of my mind whilst I contemplated the mountainous shape in front of me. I sighed as I thought of my little grey mare on whom I could spring bare-back if I chose and I would almost have given in to all my woes, if the bristly lips of my mount hadn’t brushed over the top of my hand as it lay on the hitching rail. The animal was infinitely gentle and I lifted my eyes to his, what I could see of them in the dark, and would swear he sent me a message back. ‘Do not concern yourself with things you cannot change, mistress.’
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.
' embers which cracked and sparked . . . '
I went to a book-launch tonight. Given that I live in an island region of Australia, in a little town, it was so rewarding to attend the launch of new historical fiction title by internationally acclaimed writer, Posie Graeme-Evans. And the book is The Dressmaker. 
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.
Patricia Sweet continues the intriguing story of ‘The Masked Ball.’ . . .
A letter from Vittoria!
“…and I cannot thank you enough for taking my part about the mask. My Aunt doesn’t understand how important it is that I make an impression on a certain person and his family! If we hadn’t met at Signorina Brabante’s conversazione last week, I would never have known of the existence of the most wonderful, the most handsome, the most admirable-in-all-ways man I have ever seen!!! When you pointed him out to me I near swooned with mingled apprehension and desire, as my innocent heart was pierced with a flaming arrow of love that clove my breast and spilled my very Soul into the aether, my blushes setting my cheeks afire with a sign of my passion that he could not help but see. But I will reserve till our next meeting, the true extent of my regard for him.
Niccolo Rising
For some reason this year, I’ve had an insatiable desire for historical fiction. I’ve always loved the genre, ever since I was a school reader. But the devil they say, is in the detail, and it’s the more intellectual detail I love, especially from writers of the calibre of the late and most wonderfully great Dorothy Dunnett and the most current and thoroughly popular Phillipa Gregory. I have also enjoyed Sharon Penman, SJA Turney and Posie Graeme Evans amongst many others. Eleanor Of Aquitaine and Henry I sit comfortably with Caesar, with Claes van der Poele and with Francis Crawford of Lymond. Apart from the unique plots, the height and breadth of research is what thrills me. I try and soak up just a little bit more information each time I open the books.
Marius's Mules by SJA Turney
If I wasn’t a fantasy writer, I should dearly love to write historical fiction. And as a reader, this year I have tried to read mostly hist.fict. which includes those I listed in my shopping spree last night as well as a re-visit of the unparalleled Dorothy Dunnett. To me, these top rated authors are paying an enormous compliment to time past, to our ancestors, to the breadth of experience that has brought us to this point in our existence. None more so than those who write of ancient Rome. I have read Marius’ Mules this year and below is my review of it for Amazon.com:
