My grandfather once told me that he’d spent his whole life in summer. I was a child then and I didn’t understand, but I believed him. There was sunshine in him, always warmth, and he took delight in everything. Being around him was like an easy purposeless walk on an August evening through the […]Read More Avalon
I clean the shop, I mend the shoes, I help the downcast maiden choose Her future prince, her future bright, her perfect brave and charming knight I bless the baby that she bears, I honour every oath she swears, I prophesy of days unborn, of trials to come, of oaths foresworn Of fallen thrones and […]Read More Helping Hand
(Click here for the PROLOGUE) I had been fortunate enough, in the two years after my father was murdered, to avoid the attentions of White Kenneth and his runners. Many of the denizens of St Giles did not. He preyed upon the isolated, the lonely and the helpless. And the young. Especially the […]Read More Little Rosie – Chapter One
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, Rosie filches everything Sneaking, snatching, this and that Crafty as a creeping cat Bolt the doors, the shutters bar, Rosie reaches near and far, All in rags, not dainty frocks Little Rosie laughs at locks I may be an old woman, young man, but there is nothing wrong with my memory […]Read More Little Rosie. Prologue
The young man sat uncomfortably on the statue’s plinth, back turned to the god who glared down stonily on the disobedience of youth. He was strong, and naked except for a brief white cloth around his waist and he was staring ahead of him at the door that led into the uncertain night. The young […]Read More Strength
“It was not the thorn bending to the honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn.” -Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte The old man was dead, and he was still turning the world upside down. If Mother Wytlaf had been the sort to curse she would have cursed his name and his memory and his ancestors, she would […]Read More The Vigil of the Thorn
They took him at wordpoint (the gun was not visible but had been mentioned) into the basement. It was cold and well lit and there were shelves on which the usual basement detritus lurked dustily. In the centre of the floor was a gurney on which lay a dead body. That did not shock him, […]Read More Cold Artistry
I start and end here on the timeless rocks, and the sea is endless. Here is the place where I rest, and feast, and rejoice, and mourn and where I wait, where I always wait. Here on the rocks where once I saw long low ships with bright sails, distant things with black winged birds […]Read More Sister, Waiting.