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“Twins?” I parroted. The two young women I’d seen at the graveyard? Had Tilda been there as well? “That’s so… special.”
The woman smiled. “I think so. Er, what topic were you interested in?”
I looked at my watch. “Actually, I’ll have to come back another time.”
“Okay. Have a nice day.” But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
I skedaddled out of there, feeling like I’d brushed against something evil.
Which was nonsense, I told myself.
I didn’t believe in the supernatural.
July 24, Wednesday
I WAS still waiting for my laptop, but until it arrived, I sat on the wraparound porch and poured a sudden bout of productivity into my notebook. My characters had finally taken shape in my head, and I’d filled the pages with snippets of dialogue, descriptions of settings, sensory details I wanted to impart, and full scenes that seemed to scroll out of my head onto the page.
My hero, Logan, was quickly becoming one of my favorite heroes to write. It was difficult to depict a man of the Regency era with an artistic vision. Fair or not, my readers preferred their men on the page to be alpha and to hold positions and titles that afforded them to purchase whatever art and sculptures they needed to furnish their lavish castles, versus making it themselves.
But I’d made Logan a stone mason and a third son who’d never expected to inherit a title and had made his fortune in brick-making. After a tragedy takes the lives of both elder brothers, he finds himself suddenly a Duke. Logan is having trouble assuming the social airs of someone at his new station. He keeps tripping over himself and saying the wrong things. I hadn’t had this much fun with a character in a long while.
I closed the notebook, satisfied and relieved that I was finally getting somewhere. When my computer arrived, I was confident I’d be able to transcribe at least fifty pages of manuscript to build upon.
On the table next to my chair sat Wayne’s daunting manuscript. I picked it up and scanned the first ten pages, praying it was good.
It was not.
I sighed and put the manuscript down, hoping it would get better as it went on. But for now, I didn’t have the… energy… to read… it….
I dozed and enjoyed pleasant dreams of Logan my hero arriving in a black pickup—er, on a black horse… calling up to me as I sat on the rail of my Juliet balcony, wearing a voluminous gown, ready to jump into his arms because something was chasing me… nibbling at me… licking me—
I started awake and cried out to see Satan the goat’s tongue reaching out for another taste. He bleated at me. The beast had gotten loose. From the frayed edge of rope around his neck, it appeared he’d chewed his way to freedom. He was standing on his hind legs, with his front legs on the table next to my chair and he was…
Oh, dear God, no…
Chewing the remnants of my notebook and…
Oh, dear God, no…
The last bits of Wayne’s manuscript.
July 25, Thursday
WHEN I arrived at the cemetery gate the next morning, the old woman Muriel was once again waiting with her foraging bag and her walking stick. She gave me a toothless smile as I inserted the key into the padlock.
“Do you lock the gate to keep humans out, or to keep the spirits in?”
Her nonsensical question reminded me of the kooky tour guide. Instead of responding, I decided to change the subject. “Do you have anything in your bag to kill a goat?”
She cackled. “No. Goats are good, they eat trash.”
Everyone was a critic. I swung the gate open. “Have a nice day.”
“I hear the witches are back,” she said.
I sighed. “Okay, I’ll play along. Why are they back?”
“To choose a new leader. Their rose in bloom is gone.”
