...that I sing aloud?
Is that just the sun
Breaking through the clouds?
Oh, I know it's more
And I know somehow that
Heaven is breaking through!
"breaking through," audrey assad
It's August already! Next thing you know it will be Christmas. A rough update of my life would include the possibility of going to the beach in October, working on getting a literary agent for Adamantine, continued work on Plenilune, and a possible third companion novel which blasted me out of the blue last night (in the shower, no less), and is generally really cool. But right now it's time for snippets and a peek-a-boo view of what I have been up to.
It was too great a distance for either of them to see each other’s faces clearly, but Margaret felt that did not matter to Rupert and the old woman. The plum-coloured rush of shadow and wind blew over them, lifting the dark hair from his forehead; his hands flickered—a swift black-and-blue electric prickle ran in the air. But even as Margaret braced herself, unsure of what would follow, it drained away with the wind. The broken shadows of the woodshore slashed back and forth and the old woman, slipping out of their gaze, disappeared among them.
She tasted salt, and did not know from which of them it came.
"It is of great import to thee that, though the world groans under oppression and fears de la Mare’s future rule, thy single friend should lose his life?"
It swivelled its ears and turned its head—the light sang sharply on its horn-point—and then, suddenly, with a little sighing heave of its flanks, it turned away, disinterested, high-stepping through the sodden grass with the late dew gleaming on its hide. Its soft, grey-plumed tail was the last thing she saw, glinting among the black pines, swallowed up by trees and undergrowth and the sharp pale winter sunlight.
Bloodburn turned his head away and there was in his voice a careful gentleness which belied a sullenness beneath. “The Overlord knows that he can count on me.”
“Yes,” Rupert said more kindly after a moment. “The Overlord knows.”
“Oh.” Dray sniffed and frowned, pondering with a dark cleft between his brows. “I don’t know offhand, but judging from the artwork I would say it dates back to the Amaranthine Period. The sinewy movement was very prevalent in art during that time. They used to be revered as gods, you know—the dragons.”
"I do not have fond memories of dragons."
“I was not dishonest, if that is what you mean,” I replied defensively.
“No, but clearly someone was.”
“What makes you say that?”
He shifted his glasses back into place. “My dear young lady, circumstances make us bitter—people make us vitriolic.”
They were really very beautiful, in their awful, inhuman way...