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Here's a sample from the novel INMATE OF THE ROOM by Zelda Becht Prologue SPRING 1549 AD Though it was spring the room was cold. The foul night air penetrated every crack and cranny, bringing with it untold spirits, evil tidings, death at the devil’s hand, God curse him. The girl, lying abed drenched in sweat, eyes bulging in terror, thought not of the night, but of what might become of her, of them, if this here be known. She did not feel the hot tears course down her cheeks. There was only the distress and loneliness, the pain and agony, but most, the fear. There would be no stopping her enemies were they to know. They would be as a pack of wolves tearing at her throat. As she twisted and turned in her bed, her thoughts more agonizing than even the pain, she thought of Katherine. Perhaps, had her stepmother lived . . . but no, she would not to be overcome with self-pity. Was there no one to blame for her greed and ignorance save herself? She had wanted Thomas as much as he had wanted her. But he was gone now, dead, like others she’d loved. He was no more. Stupid, bungling fool. Gone, leaving me with this to face alone, to put me in this plight, curse him. “Curse them all,” she screamed into the silent room. She heard a baby cry. Reaching under her pillow, she removed a small packet. “Mamie, I entrust to you my diary. It tells of my love for his father. Hide it well. I will not write in it again, and do fear it on my person. Do not break the seal. Perhaps he will not blame me more I would not save his father from the executioner. When the boy is grown, I prey he understand I could not, for our very life. Someday, he will understand.” Excerpt from Chapter OneNorthwest England - The Present
Nell Gordon first saw the ancient castle from the window of the moving bus. It loomed lofty, disconcerting from out of the mist, its towers ghostly above the treetops. Even at this distance, she imagined--felt--a dominant force, long tendrils beckoning across an open space, reaching out to her, reaching to draw her in.
She nudged her friend, Diana Musgrave, sitting beside her, and pointed out the window. “Di, that old castle--”
Her words hung in the air as the vision swayed and floated out of focus, disappearing from her view.
“Nellie,” Diana bellowed in alarm, joined by the low cry escaping Nell as her body pitched forward.
A hand from the seat behind gripped Nell’s shoulder tightly, yanking her back, saving her from a nasty encounter with the seat in front.
The bus had suddenly gone on a rampage.
A piercing squeal violated the peaceful English countryside as the driver hit the brakes. Tires tore at the tarmac, cleaving long streaks of black rubber. He struggled to turn the large wheel, holding fast as if riding a bucking bronco, restraining the ponderous, double-deck behemoth careening half across the road then back to the edge of the embankment.
Shuddering, the bus lurched several times from side to side, appearing to hover airborne. As in the throes of passion it rocked and heaved. Striking a signpost at roadside, it finally came to rest. The right end of the coach, its green paint slashed a foot long, pushed against the concrete stanchion.
The post, half in, half out of the ground and bent askew, leaned at a forty-five degree angle.
Turning her head, Nell made out the sign: WALINGTONPORT 3 MILES EAST -- WALES 23 MILES WEST.
The thrashing about had taken less than a minute.
Available at Copyright 2005, Zelda Becht |