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Everywhere Else

Excerpt - Constance and Enzo's Tea Time With Peyton

Chapter 8 – Progression

Peyton froze as the lock clicked.

There was a pause, then the door opened just enough for Constance to peer around it. Peyton unwittingly compared the effect to Enzo’s disembodied head from moments earlier.

Constance’s hand appeared around the door, then, and pointed to the spot where Peyton should have been waiting.

“Sorry!” Peyton cried as she raced toward the door.

“Good heavens!” Constance muttered, but said nothing more as she wound the ribbon around Peyton’s wrists.

Peyton watched the windows silently, her thoughts racing.

“Is he here?” Constance asked, and Peyton turned to scan the room

She found him with a start, the visage of his lower half sprawled on the bed. Peyton frowned and leaned to see past Constance and found his upper half, but this time, his head was missing.

“Well?” Constance demanded, hands fisted on her hips.

Enzo’s head materialized slowly; a purplish mass appearing first and then oozing into its proper shape. His arms went to this throat as his features became apparent.

Peyton fought the urge to cry out at the sight, and met Constance’s gaze. “M – mostly,” was the only answer she could manage.

Constance manufactured a prim expression and put her nose in the air. “Well, tell him it’s time for tea.”

Peyton hesitated.

“My word, Peyton! You’re slower than usual tonight!”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that – I don’t need to tell him; he can hear you.”

Constance averted her eyes as she pressed her lips together.

It wasn’t the first time Peyton had reminded her of the fact, but somehow it became more difficult each time, as unsure as she was of Constance’s disposition from moment to moment.

“Right. Then, shall we?” Constance was blushing; Peyton could see red blotches on her neck, as well. Her skin seemed as temperamental as her mood, flaring in tandem. A red flag.

Peyton nodded, muttering a hurried, “Of course,” before stepping lightly past the shorter woman and into the hallway.

Constance peered around the space once more before joining her, then started down the hall, nose in the air again.

Peyton frowned, but followed, taking in every detail as they went. Constance often forgot to remove her constraints, but she’d never forgotten the blindfold. She knew she should speak up – her reaction to the revelation would no doubt sting less than the discovery of it after Peyton had seen too much and held the knowledge back – but she found herself unable to dislodge the words from her throat.

There wasn’t much to see; the hallway was short and decorated only by large tapestries and a single painting of riders on horseback, hounds at their feet. But as they neared the stairs, Peyton’s eyes widened as her view did. Several paintings lined the descending wall. She recognized the one of the twins first, though their captured images looked back from younger faces than she was accustomed to, and another of Enzo, alone. He was dressed in riding gear, one foot on an overturned barrel and his opposite arm bent to hold a riding crop over his shoulder. His pose spoke pridefully, but Peyton saw sadness in his eyes.

As they continued down, the largest of the paintings caught her attention. It was a dignified-looking older man with Enzo’s eyes and a stern-looking woman with thin lips and tightly pulled-back hair. “Who’s that?” she mumbled aloud, then gasped, inwardly cursing herself for having gotten so distracted by her surroundings that she’d forgotten to keep quiet about it.

“What?” Constance turned as the reached the bottom, then uttered a high-pitched, “Oh!” as she pulled the thicker ribbon from her sash. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she growled in Peyton’s ear as she tightened the knot at the back.

Peyton grimaced at the pressure on her eyes and the way the knot pulled at her hair.

Constance tapped a flat hand on her cheek, urging her to speak. It wasn’t a slap, really, but it made her jump, nonetheless. “I’m sorry!”

“You say that so much!” Constance growled. “And rightly so; you’re such a fuck-up!”

Peyton recoiled at Constance’s rare use of profanity. Heavy footsteps retreated downward then and she pictured a smug look on her captor’s face. When she heard no more, she considered her options. She’d never navigated the stairs without Constance’s guidance, and the simultaneous restraint of her hands did Peyton no favours. “Constance?”

Silence answered her.

“I -” Peyton faltered, noting the odd sensation of tears trying to well in her eyes, which were so tightly compressed in their sockets she felt they may implode. “I don’t want to fall,” she finished, her words sounding pathetic to her own ears.

A warm hand gripped her elbow and Peyton exhaled in a rush, relief flooding her. “Thank you,” she muttered as she continued downward. She became aware it was Enzo helping her when she reached the landing and Constance took her opposite arm roughly.

“My brother likes to oppose me,” the woman fumed.

Peyton turned her head to see him, reminded of her blindfold after the fact. “Enzo?”

Constance tugged on her arm with a growl of irritation. “If I’d known the two of you would gang up on me, I’d never have brought you here!” Her fingers dug into Peyton’s upper arm as she accentuated her words with violent yanks.

“Oh!” Peyton cried as her shoulder sent out a bolt of pain.

“Shut up!” Constance spat, pulling Peyton down roughly so she could yell into her ear.

Peyton was quickly forgetting the rules of social etiquette she’d worked so hard to gain. She sucked in a breath and made an effort to concentrate on walking, using Constance’s lead regardless of the pain it caused.

“Bitch” Enzo’s voice came from her left, and Peyton fought the urge to turn toward it again. “She’s such a baby,” he added, childishly.

Peyton knew the irony would be funny later, but it felt too dangerous to laugh at, now.

The smells of tea and cakes filtered through the air as they stepped onto hardwood floors, and Peyton realized with a sense of dread she’d forgotten to put her shoes on. She bit the insides of her cheeks, throwing a prayer out to whomever could hear her. Please, don’t let her see.

She was shoved unceremoniously, her knees meeting something solid quite painfully. She didn’t cry out, though; she stayed still, hoping Constance would remove her blindfold so her eyes could return to their proper homes.

“Oh, did you hurt your knees?” Constance crooned from behind her.

Peyton bit her lip, wanting to be anywhere else. Wanting to be sleeping. Wanting to be gone.

The blindfold loosened, then was torn from her head. Peyton was aware of the stinging pain of some hair being torn out with it, but focused instead on the overwhelming relief of having the pressure removed from her eyes.

But what she saw tossed her in another direction, entirely.

Enzo was on the table, squatting over a tray of sandwiches, a huge smile beaming in Peyton’s direction.

Peyton struggled to remain calm as her wrists were freed from their restraints, but she couldn’t look away.

His pants and underwear were puddled around his ankles, but Peyton could see that nothing on the table had been disturbed.

He made a feather flutter, she reminded herself. There’s no way he can take a crap on the sandwiches.

Still, her appetite had waned considerably.

Peyton cleared her throat and looked at Constance. “Shall I serve your tea?”

Constance fumed. “I’d like an apology, first!”

Peyton worked to steady herself as Enzo whispered, “Should I do it?” then broke into a fit of laughter.

“I apologize about the blindfold. I didn’t realize until we were already walking, and then I saw the pictures and got distracted.”

Constance looked regretfully appeased, her eyes still flashing angrily.

“How old were you and Enzo? In that one with -”

Constance pointed a finger at Peyton’s face, the heat of her fingertip palpable between her eyes. “Don’t ask questions about things you shouldn’t have seen!”

Peyton lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Enzo, apparently bored, stood and pulled his pants up. “You’re no fun,” he muttered, then jumped off the table and disappeared in midair.

Constance marched to the head of the table and sat, her dress fluffing out at the sides. The woman was short, but she wasn’t slight.

“Serve,” she demanded.

Things were quiet for a while. Peyton served Constance; she’d deigned to let Peyton choose everything for her this time, and then made up a plate for Enzo, though he hadn’t reappeared.

Peyton served herself last, and had to hold herself back as her appetite returned with a vengeance. Chicken salad sandwiches with little slices of sweet pickles were her favorite of all the sandwiches served, save perhaps the cream cheese and swiss croissants with cucumber and tomato. She ate in grateful silence, watching Constance warily. But the woman’s eyes were clouded over.

Finally, she said, “He’s not here, is he?”

Peyton froze mid-chew, then shook her head as daintily as she could.

Constance sighed heavily, her eyes going to the windows and out into the darkening evening. “She doesn’t ever stay long, but I know her visits upset him.”

“Who?” Peyton asked before she could stop herself, her heart suddenly pounding hard.

Constance sent her a withering look. “For your information, our stepmother was here today. She – she stays in the city when father is away on business.” Constance said in a rush, her eyes going to her plate. “Oh, brownies!” she muttered, and Peyton’s eyes widened as Enzo’s laugher seemed to come from all sides of her.

She squinted toward Constance as the woman brought the chocolate confection to her mouth, desperately trying to remember whether she’d served her brownies or not. Relief rolled over her when Constance closed her eyes, saying, “Mmm!”

Enzo popped into his chair at the opposite end of the table. He was still laughing. “You actually thought I did it!” he pointed at Peyton.

“I didn’t realize your father remarried after your mother’s death,” Peyton said smoothly, proud of her lack of reaction to Enzo’s tricks as she looked back at Constance.

“It’s not your place to realize that,” Constance replied, but there was no force behind her words.

Peyton sipped her tea.

“The truth is, if father wasn’t so busy with work, they’d be divorced already,” Constance said, reaching for her tea.

“Pfft,” uttered Enzo, who’d crossed his legs as he lounged sloppily. “She’s always been so jealous of her.”

Peyton knew he was talking to her, but his eyes were on Constance.

“Why?” Peyton asked, then sucked in her breath, looking at Constance.

Constance frowned. “Because she’s hateful!” she said, replying to the question Peyton had meant for Enzo, in some twist of luck.

“Because she loved me best, just like mother,” Enzo whispered, and it tickled Peyton’s neck, for he was behind her, now.

And she was momentarily distracted from both of them, caught up in the feel of his breath on her skin. Remembering the warmth of his touch on the stairs. And finally, envisioning the fluttering feather from that afternoon.

He was progressing remarkably fast.

This could be bad.

Fly, Rose, Fly!

There comes a time when we have to let our babies go.

We do it in fits and starts with our children; teaching them one moment and holding them to us the next, until they take a leap - or a series of leaps - on their own, to find their own unique place in the world.

It's a classic gateway in parenting as well as growing up, both terrifying and exalting.

I think art is similar; the products of our creative selves.

My books are created within me - mind, heart, and soul. They develop and grow, taking time and energy and love - lots of love. Releasing them is bittersweet; there is pride but fear bites it back. There is hope, but doubt holds it down. There are goals, but time is an ever-present force, pulling at the horse who bounds ahead and pushing the one that limps behind.

In the weeks pre and post-launch, I was focused in all ways on the plight of my baby. Even as I edited Heather's Grave (Book 2), Rose lurked peripherally, always. I checked on her several times a day and rejoiced in her progress! And when she stumbled, I determined every time to support her when she fell, and to believe, unfailingly, that she would be OK.

Now that the signings are behind me and the day is marked by a newly-launched blog tour, I find myself settling back into myself, satisfied that we've made it through the storm.

And other projects call me.

So, in good faith and remaining at my post for Rose's Ghost, should she need anything at all, I loosen my grip on her and let her fly!

Here is where she is for the next two weeks:

Please follow the tour and enter for your chance to win a signed hard copy of Rose's Ghost or one of five copies of the e-version!

Tour Schedule:

Week One:

12/16/2019	BookHounds	Excerpt
12/17/2019	Mythical Books	Excerpt
12/18/2019	Cuz I’m a Nerd	Review
12/19/2019	A Dream Within A Dream	Excerpt
12/20/2019	Nightfall Mysteries	Review

Week Two:

12/23/2019	Two Chicks on Books	Excerpt
12/24/2019	Reese's Reviews	Review
12/25/2019	Shelf-Rated	Review
12/26/2019	Books a Plenty Book Reviews	Review
12/27/2019	wordsandruin	Review

And here is what's coming next:

Constance and Enzo's Tea Time With Peyton

I'm beyond excited to be going back to this one, which was started while I was writing the Rose's Ghost series, and then put aside when I realized I'd have to wait to release it until after the series was out!

Why, you ask? Because it features characters from the series! And Peyton from That Summer and Margot from Bird With a Broken Wing are there, too...I hope readers will enjoy seeing them grown up as much as I'm enjoying the trip the book is taking me on.

Watch for an excerpt in the next couple of days!

And, hey - if you see Rose in your travels, give her some support, OK? She's doing alright, but it's a tentative success. She (read: *I*) still really needs your support!

Rose's Ghost Updates

Rose is officially launched!

I've been overwhelmed with the support I've received, both pre and post-launch; THANK YOU to my dear readers! This has been a whirlwind of an experience!

What's up now:

- Sage's Blog Tours is hosting a Blog Tour all this week; check it out!
- The "Tea Tour" has two confirmed book signing dates: December 14 from 2 to 4 at the British Cafe in Aylmer, and December 15 from 2 to 4 at teastore in the Byward Market

And here's where you can get it:

Amazon Canada
Amazon US
All The Others!

Up Next:

I'm just getting started! Rose isn't finished yet; Heather's Grave (Book 2) is in final edit mode and is on track to launch in January!

And my dear friend Eleanor Eden published The Strength of Burden last month, and plans to launch the second in the series: The Depths of Sorrow, in time for Christmas. These are fun ones, guys.

Onward and Upward!

Rose's Ghost Launch and Other New Stuff

Rose's Ghost is still on track for a November 29th launch!

In preparation, That Summer and Bird With a Broken Wing have each undergone a total overhaul and their new and improved versions are available almost everywhere!

Also check out the Paper Doll Publishing website, and watch for the Rose's Ghost blog tour details!

Finally, I've got two meet & greet/book signing events in the works; stay tuned for details via Facebook Events.

This is nuts, y'all. I'm so excited!

Semi-Finalist? That's a win, in my book. Ha! My book. See what I did, there?

I enter my finished manuscripts into lots of contests while they await that beautiful day when they go out into the world. I've learned to carefully consider each opportunity (and its requirements) against each manuscript. Chrysalis is a frequent contestant, as it tends to fit the "literary" category, despite its cross-dressing male prostitute junkie protagonist. I gotta say, Trey is a solid favorite of mine...now. It took a while to get to know and love him. Funny; I wonder how he's doing, sometimes.
Anyway, Chrysalis ended up in the semi-finalist category for the Eludia Award with Hidden River Arts. 
OK, so, upon further inspection, I've found that there were like, sixty semi-finalists, but I'm still taking it as a more positive sort of rejection. Like, I sorta came in second. With lots of other semi-finalists who also deserved it. And after the finalists who didn't win.
...
And their email was nice. "Beautiful work," they said. Don't mind me; I'm just letting that sink in nice and deep.
It's a flotation device, thrown just as my arms were getting really tired of treading water. And dangit, I'll take what I can get.

Thank you for sending us "Chrysalis". It passed to the semi-finalist stage of our deliberations, but did not pass into the finalist stage. We include here a link to our announcement of the semi-finalists and finalists, so that you can see the naming of your work in the semi-finalist category.

Thanks again for your interest in our Eludia Award and for your kind patience . We sincerely wish you the best of luck with placing this beautiful work.

Keeping It Real

Let's get this straight from the beginning, folks: publishing your work is EFFING HARD, yo!

It's only been half a year since I've been in the game, and I feel like I've been through the wringer, scrubbed, wrung out, and hung up to dry. And then the laundry person forgot about me. For six months. 

And, for perspective: many authors never get picked up by an agent, let alone a publisher! Even the ones that do may have been working at it for years.

Yeah, yeah, I was warned. But it's like having kids: nothing and nobody can prepare you for the life-altering impact the change will bring. Transitioning from writer to published author has been a task of momentous highs and resolve-weakening lows...it's a roller coaster that never ends. I don't blame the droves of disenchanted for leaping off the ride as soon as it's back in the station; without stubborn determination and the ability to pick yourself off and dust yourself of A MILLION TIMES, this business is an epic challenge to stick with.

To be honest, I question my sanity at least once a day.

Would I have done it, if I'd known?

Yep.

Because the highs outweighs the lows.

Simple, right?

Let's look at the lowest of the lows for a sec, shall we? 

Predictably, it's rejection. Oh, my God, the rejection. You think you know rejection? Submit eight different books and two short stories to every single agent and publisher accepting queries or submissions. Submit them with a hopefulness that buoys you and carries you forward and a confidence made of the concrete knowledge that your work is good! Put everything you've got into your query letters and hold your breath when you press 'send', simultaneously putting a wish out to the universe. 

Let this be it! 

...and be rejected, over and over and over again. Not just by agents and publishers, no, but by people you GIVE your work to for free. By uninterested family members. And, in a crushing blow delivered by what you thought was your final option, should nothing else work, by publicists you try to HIRE.

To say it's a knock to the self-esteem is a vast understatement.

Now, let me tell you about the highs. 

The writing. Basically, if writing doesn't fulfill you, don't get into it thinking of fame and fortune. If you don't absolutely love the process of getting your stories out - weaving them with words creatively set and narration both intriguing and enticing, don't do it. Bottom line. And if the drive to finish the book doesn't compel you to the point of possession, consider whether it's worth it to start. There. I think I've said that in three different ways. 

Now let me say it once more: THE WRITING HAS TO GET YOU HIGH. 

Yep. It has to be your drive, your drug, your cancer, your cure and your salvation all rolled into one. And typing "The End" has to be as good as sex. Good sex. Like, with multiple orgasms. OK, almost as good as that. 

Making connections. That's another high, at least for me. There's nothing like realizing, through feedback on your work, that you're not alone. Even fictional stories make the author vulnerable; after all, you're displaying the contents of your mind for others to study, assess...ultimately, to critique. Every reader has the answer to a fundamental question at the end of your book: do I want more? Personally, I can deal with the fact that I can't please everyone. But if I didn't achieve at least some sort of connection with my readers, I wouldn't write. 

Then there's the fact that, even after you've failed for a while, you realize you've amassed a wealth of information to work with as you continue your efforts. I know, now, about the different types of publishing companies and their methods. I've learned hard lessons about taking shortcuts, and subsequently the value in investing more than your time and creative energy into your work. Unless you have access to a list of experts that any author would envy, you're going to have to pay for essentials like editing, proofreading, design, publicity, distribution...the list goes on. And, if you're still without a masthead in the end (ie: without a publisher), it's still going to be harder to sell your books, even if you've put in your blood, sweat, tears AND money to do so. Sounds like it should be up there in the negative stuff, right? But it's just a fact of the business, and the sooner you learn it, the better you can prepare for it and mitigate it.

I'm still floundering out here; don't get me wrong. But at least my skin has thickened up a bit. I don't pander to publishers; I ask them questions before I even submit, now. I know what I want and I've said no to those who couldn't meet me halfway. Would you believe me if I said I'm treated much better as a result? And I'm learning to put myself out there - make connections with people who've been in the business a while and benefit from them, even if it's just to further educate myself. Or to feel understood by someone who's been through it already.

I'm not giving up. Not yet. I still feel that promise of something, you know? I see the light at the end of the tunnel for "Rose's Ghost", which has been a long time coming for my first finished manuscript! And I'm almost finished my eighth full-length novel, "Stumble". It's such a sweet feeling to be building up a collection of little gems, each glittering more than the last, and keeping them safe, anticipating a growing group of supporters to appreciate them. 

See? In the end, it's still the writing that saves me.