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In August of 2014 I was asked to write a guest blog for A Woman’s Wisdom. I thought about what I might write and figured I’d be on safe ground talking about mysteries — my genre and my favorite books to read.  But I also like food; in fact I’m rather a gourmand. No, not a gourmet – I just like food.  It can be comforting, like a good mystery. It’s a wonder I don’t weigh 500 pounds. We are grilling a chicken this weekend, so the gourmand naturally thought of this post. Hope you don’t mind looking at it again! A good mystery begins with a whodunit, but one that should wrap around at least one other story, and maybe two. A good mystery, as Winston Churchill once said about Russia, “…is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key.” It sort of reminds me of a turducken, a deboned chicken into a deboned duck, which is in turn stuffed into a deboned turkey.  Hence turducken.  It was introduced to the world by football commentator and former coach John Madden, during a National Football League broadcast. Did I mention I like football, too? While announcing a game, he displayed the turducken and started to carve it up.  In the United Kingdom, the Pure Meat Company offered a five-bird roast (a goose, a turkey, a chicken, a pheasant, and a pigeon, stuffed with sausage in 1989. Now that’s a royal roast!       So what makes a good mystery? There are a plethora of to-do lists on the internet about writing mysteries, but here are some of mine. 1. An interesting locale. The locale itself can be a character in your story. 2. A compelling main character. This person can be you, if you wish, but bring in parts of other people to make him or her interesting and give them depth. 3. A hook to catch the reader. This is usually the first sentence, the first paragraph, or first chapter of the book, although occasionally a prologue does the trick. Think of the beginning of P.D. James’ Unnatural Causes, in which a famous crime writer’s body found handless and floating in a local vicar’s boat. 4. A strong main plot = the turkey. Hopefully not a turkey.  I find inspiration for this in news stories and personal experiences. Make sure it involves a murder and a body – I know this should be obvious – but no one is going to want to read an entire book about a stolen watch. 5. A subplot = the duck. The subplot does not necessarily have to tie into the plot except through the main character, although it is nice if you can weave them together. A third subplot = the chicken. You are not limited in number with regard to subplots – so you can go for the five bird roast – but with too many the book becomes confusing.  The flavors are lost! In my first book, Death in a Red Canvas Chair, the main plot concerns finding the killer of a young woman. The subplot involves college student prostitutes. Another subplot, although minor, was the purloining and selling of untreated body parts for transplantation. These tie to one another and ultimately to the young woman in the canvas chair.  My protagonist’s marriage has a life of its own through the book, and it continues as a subplot in the second book, Death in a Dacron Sail. Being a gourmand, I had to have food running through both books; one reader told me I made him hungry! 6. Be sure that each subplot is populated by one or more distinct characters, whose personalities are well-drawn, likable or not. Tension is created by the unlikable. Sometimes it’s hard to create a nasty character, but once you’ve done it, you’ll find it’s fun! 7. The story needs to be believable. This might seem a bit obvious, but I’ve read some mysteries in which the plot is too fantastic or the protagonist superhuman. I like Clive Cussler’s books, for example – they’re entertaining beach reads, but the stories are wild and the main characters are, well, too perfect. 8. Research! For every scene in which something procedural takes place or there is a known locale, you need to do your research. This can be really enjoyable; I’ve met some incredible people with stories of their own to tell.  I even spent a week in Maine in February to get a feel for winter there, as background for Death in a Dacron Sail. Experiencing temperatures below zero and amazing images of what feet of snow can do to the landscape made it an adventure. You might want to research where to find a turducken. 9. Read!  Mystery is one of my favorite genres, so maybe that’s why I decided to write one or two or three… You learn a lot about what works and what doesn’t by reading other mystery writers. 10. Write! You need to write every day, even if it is only for your blog. If you don’t want to write a mystery, write what is comfortable for you. What’s your favorite genre? Maybe that’s where to start. Many thanks to A Woman’s Wisdom for the opportunity to write a guest pos! In case you’re wondering what I am doing for  the A-Z Challenge, this year my subject(s) will be people and places from my books, including the third (Death by Pumpkin, out in April). 0 0

A recent post from Sue Vincent reminded me of how much I like spiders’ webs: their patterns, their beauty when limned with frost or dew, the delicacy with which they are spun. So I decided to learn about where them come from; here is what I found: Spider webs are made of proteinaceous silk extruded from the spider’s spinnerets. These glands are located on the tip of the spider’s abdomen. Many spiders have three pairs of spinnerets, each producing a silk thread with a different purpose: trailed safety lines, sticky silk for trapping and fine silk for wrapping their prey. Some spider can produce up to eight different kinds of silk threads. Spider webs have been around for a long time – at least 100 million years age—because they discovered in early Cretaceous amber in France, Burma and England. When spiders moved from water to the land in the Early Devonian period, their silk evolved initially to protect their bodies and eggs, then for hunting purposes. The silk threads were used as guide lines, then in webs on the ground and eventually as aerial webs. Spiders can be classified by the webs they weave: Spiral orb webs                  Funnel web     Tubular webs which run up the bases of trees or along the ground           Sheet webs             People have found some uses for webs, too. Years ago, webs were packed into wounds to stop bleeding. They have been used as fishing line in Polynesia, were made into nets for transporting objects, and some tribes in New Guinea have used the webs as rain hats. During World War II, the threads of the black widow were used in their telescopic gun sights. Isn’t life amazing!? I have a healthy respect for spiders and generally leave them alone. If I find one inside, I trap it and dump it outside; if I encounter them in the pool, I scoop them out. I like what Pablo Picasso had to say about artists and spider webs. “The artist is a receptacle for the emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from theearth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web.”   0 0

I read and reviewed this author’s first book in her Eyre Hall Trilogy, hesitant because I was not a fan of Jane Eyre and also because I had found reading adaptive continuations of fiction written during that era to be boring and a slog. I was pleasantly surprised! I liked All Hallows at Eyre Hall; it was meticulously researched and a worthy continuation of Jane Eyre’s story. With Twelfth Night, Ms. Gray gets further from the original, but also establishes herself as solid writer of historical romance. A little back story: In All Hallows, which begins twenty-two years after Jane’s marriage to Edward Rochester, Jane is coping with the imminent death of her bedridden husband, whose lifetime of infidelities has profoundly changed their relationship. Richard Mason, brother of Rochester’s mad first wife, returns from Jamaica, bringing with him Annette. Annette is unaware she is Rochester’s daughter by Mason’s sister. This vile man tells Annette that Jane – limned as the devil by Mason – will provide for her education and a dowry and find her a suitable husband. Mason believes Jane played a role in the death of his sister and plans vengeance on Jane. As a widow and chatelaine of the Rochester estate, Jane is truly a good person, concerned about her family, especially her son John, the welfare of the servants, and the poor children in the villages, Despite her wishes to be above reproach, Jane falls deeply and sensually in love with a most inappropriate man, Michael Kirkpatrick, many years her junior, and a valet to her husband before his death. In an effort to preserve Jane’s reputation, Michael leaves the estate and Jane is blackmailed into marrying the detestable Mason. In Twelfth Night, all of the main characters return, with the introduction of several new ones, including some who had hovered at the edges in the first book. Again, the story is told from several points of view, which normally might confuse a reader, but here provides depth and richness to the story. Jane is recovering from a long, unstated illness and Annette, who has come to appreciate Jane, has developed romantic feelings for Jane’s son, unaware he is her half-brother. Now a Navy lieutenant, Michael returns to discover Jane’s marriage to Mason. In addition, Jane is now a published author, under a male pseudonym. When Mason returns to the estate, he immediately resumes his sexual predation of the Hall’s younger female servants, unknown to Jane. This is just a brief introduction to the web of complex relationships among the people who will reside at the Hall during the holidays. Ms. Gray draws us into their lives and the social strata, with its attendant bigotry, greed, ignorance, repressed sexuality, and superstition – all of the little gems of a great Gothic novel. I was sufficiently captivated by the story to put the book down only when I absolutely had to. There are wonderful historical touches throughout the book, such as the introduction of a sin eater and the visit of Charles Dickens with Jane. The author has done her research well, which is what makes the book a rich treat. While some historical romances drown in detail and reading them is like plowing through mud, the pacing and descriptions in Twelfth Night at Eyre Hall is robust and full of twists and turns.  And the cover is an eye-catcher! I strongly recommend Ms. Gray’s second outing with Jane Eyre and look forward to reading the third book in the Trilogy. I purchased this book for review. It can be found on Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/Twelfth-Night-Eyre-Hall-Trilogy-ebook/ and Goodreads: http://www.amazon.com/Twelfth-Night-Eyre-Hall-Trilogy-ebook/   About the author Luccia Gray was born in London and has a degree in Modern Foreign Languages. She now lives in southern Spain with her husband and dotes on her three children and three grandchildren. When she is not writing, she teaches English at an Adult Education Center and is an English Language tutor at the Spanish Distance University. She can be found at her blog, Rereading Jane Eyre: http://lucciagray.com/, Facebook and Twitter: @ LucciaGray 0 0

For some time, I have steadfastly held to being award-free on this blog, despite the row of awards listed alongside my blog (really!). I am so honored when someone gives me an award! These are fellow bloggers who have been role models, friends, and supporters and who enrich my life. I recently was given the Champions Award by Sue Vincent, an incredible lady with wondrous stories to tell, journeys to take us on, and a keen eye for beauty. Oh, and a dog with whom I’ve fallen in love. So I am making an exception in accepting this.   Seumas Gallacher (http://seumasgallacher.com/, prolific Scot writer (have you seen him looking magnificent in his kilt?) created the award as a means of saying thank you to those readers and writer who go the extra mile in support of others. So this has wonderful meaning. There are no rules, just to pass this on to worthy people. So thank you to everyone who visits saylingaway with their thoughtful comments and support!   Here are some bloggers whom I would like to honor in turn. If you have a no awards policy, no problem! Jemima Pett at jemimapett.com Katherine E. Pitts at http://iwishilivedinalibrary.blogspot.com/ Pamela Wight at http://roughwighting.net/ Barb Vitelli at https://bvitelli2002.wordpress.com/ D. Wallace Peach at http://mythsofthemirror.com/ Recipients, if you choose to accept and wish to propagate the CHAMPIONS AWARDS, please do the following: Post this Award Sticker on your blog, with the hashtag #CHAMPIONSAWARDS Acknowledge the sponsor of your Awards. Choose at least five of your own nominees and advise them accordingly, attaching these 5 guidelines. Keep it simple… no need for explanations for the Awards… we know how great these folks are. You are free to give out these Awards as frequently as you wish. 0 0

My son is a Staff Sergeant in the 101st Airborne, and I recently ran across this tribute to Darrell”Shifty” Powers, written by another true American hero, Chuck Yeager. Belatedly, by some years. Staff Sergeant Darrell C. “Shifty” Powers (13 March 1923 – 17 June 2009) was a non-commissioned officer  with Easy Company, 2nd Battalion, 506th Parachute Infantry in the 101st Airborne Division during WW II, a member of our Greatest Generation. The 101st Airborne played a large role in the liberation of Europe. Powers contributed to, and was portrayed in, the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers. We should not forget. “Shifty” By Chuck Yeager Shifty volunteered for the airborne in WWII and served with Easy Company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, part of the 101st Airborne Infantry. If you’ve seen Band of Brothers on HBO or the History Channel, you know Shifty. His character appears in all 10 episodes, and Shifty himself is interviewed in several of them. I met Shifty in the Philadelphia airport several years ago. I didn’t know who he was at the time. I just saw an elderly gentleman having trouble reading his ticket. I offered to help, assured him that he was at the right gate, and noticed the “Screaming Eagle,” the symbol of the 101st Airborne, on his hat. Making conversation, I asked him if he’d been in the 101st Airborne or if his son was serving. He said quietly that he had been in the 101st. I thanked him for his service, then asked him when he served,and how many jumps he made. Quietly and humbly, he said “Well, I guess I signed up in 1941 or so, and was in until sometime in 1945 …” at which point my heart skipped. At that point, again, very humbly, he said “I made the 5 training jumps at Toccoa, and then jumped into Normandy . . . do you know where Normandy is?” At this point my heart stopped. I told him “yes, I know exactly where Normandy is, and I know what D-Day was.” At that point he said “I also made a second jump into Holland, into Arnhem .” I was standing with a genuine war hero … and then I realized that it was June, just after the anniversary of D-Day. I asked Shifty if he was on his way back from France , and he said “Yes… And it ‘s real sad because, these days, so few of the guys are left, and those that are, lots of them can’t make the trip.” My heart was in my throat and I didn’t know what to say. I helped Shifty get onto the plane and then realized he was back in coach while I was in First Class. I sent the flight attendant back to get him and said that I wanted to switch seats. When Shifty came forward, I got up out of the seat and told him I wanted him to have it, that I’d take his in coach. He said “No, son, you enjoy that seat. Just knowing that there are still some who remember what we did and who still care is enough to make an old man very happy.” His eyes were filling up as he said it. And mine are brimming up now as I write this. Shifty died on Jan. l7, 2009 after fighting cancer. There was no parade. No big event in Staples Center . No wall-to-wall, back-to-back 24×7 news coverage. No weeping fans on television. And that’s not right! Let’s give Shifty his own memorial service, on line, in our own quiet way. Please forward this email to everyone you know. Especially to the veterans. Rest in peace, Shifty. Chuck Yeager, Maj. General [ret.] 0 0

Gina blew out the 19 candles and her family clapped. She’d taken the bus overnight to be home because she knew how much her being there would mean to her mother. Her father handed her a small box, nicely wrapped, and everyone watched expectantly as she unwrapped it. It contained some car keys. “Happy Birthday, Gina,” everyone yelled. “I got a car?” she asked. “Yeah, just look out the front door,” her father replied, the excitement in his voice bubbling over. Gina ran to the front door, threw it open and looked in the driveway. Nothing there. “Across the street,” her father’s voice behind her instructed. She’d noticed the white Camry when her Mom and Dad drove in with her this morning but figured it belonged to a neighbor. She ran across the street, fitted the key in the lock and opened the car door. Her father was right behind her. “I know it’s a little old, a 2003. But it’s in great shape, only two owners,” he told her. “Last one ran it into a tree, but the damage was completely fixed, good as new.” “So why was it sold?” “Kid got shook, and his mother refused to let him drive again for a year. Good mileage, too, less than 60,000. We figured you might want to drive home instead of taking the bus.” Gina got in, adjusted the seat and looked around. The inside was pristine and smelled almost new; she was sure her father had spent hours cleaning it. She was equally sure the car was a way for her parents to wangle her home more often. She loved it, though, and promised herself she would drive home more frequently. The she noticed it: a GPS unit attached to the front windshield. “Dad, it’s even got a GPS! Did you buy that for me?” “No, sweetie, it came with the car. But I feel a whole lot safer that you’ll have a GPS to help you find your way around and not get lost in some bad places.” “Fantastic, Dad. I could never afford one for myself. Thank you so much for my car!” She got out and gave him a bear hug.   Throughout the spring semester, Gina drove her prized possession, taking her girlfriends out for fun nights at local spots, and yes, driving home at least once a month. And she used the GPS unit, too. At first she was somewhat put off by the vaguely slimy male British accent of the voice, and try as she might, she couldn’t figure out how to change it. She knew the newer units let you choose the voice you wanted. But after a while, she got used to it and trusted that voice to find where she needed to be and to get her there. It became her lifeline, just as her Dad said. Her college roommate Kate asked her to visit her in July. Kate lived in Wyoming and Gina had never been west of Wisconsin, so she said yes and asked when? It was decided she would drive there at the end of May, after finals were over and before she began her summer internship at a local vet’s office. Gina set off for Wyoming with Kate’s address programmed into the GPS and she also had maps her father had gotten for her at AAA. Kate lived in the small town of Lander, near the Wind River Range, and Gina was excited to see the mountains and compare small town western life to hers in Chicago.   Her leaving was not without family turmoil. The drive was 18 hours, too long for one day, her Dad declared and offered to buy her a plane ticket to the nearest big airport in Casper. But Gina stubbornly held to her idea of a great adventure, and only gave in to her parents’ demand that she stop for the night in North Platte, Nebraska. Gina snuck out of the house at 4AM on the day she planned to leave, figuring that she could make it to Kate’s home by 10 or 11 that night, if she drove straight through. She had a hamper of food and a cooler of drinks her mother had prepared the night before and her GPS. She could do it, and she shivered with excitement as she started her car and drove quietly off. She hadn’t realized how long an 18-hour drive could be after she’d been on the road for about eight hours. She played the radio, ate, talked to her parents on the phone several times, stopped for gas and the bathroom, stretched and counted the time. When she came to North Platte, she almost stopped, but then thought I can surprise Kate. In their last phone call, she assured Kate she was going to stop, but now that she was this far, she wanted to push on. The GPS reminded her from time to time where she was, how many miles to go, and when she finally reached Lander just short of 11, she felt a great sense of accomplishment. She found the dark here overwhelming, no streetlights like in Chicago, just the stars and blackness all around. The GPS now took her off the main road, and she was comforted by the voice that would take her up into the mountains to Kate’s. It seemed that this last part of the drive was interminable. Because the car was dark and she didn’t want to stop, she couldn’t check her maps. She trusted the GPS would get her there, following the voice’s commands through zigs and zags up the mountain side, turns onto side roads, until finally she was on what appeared to be a narrow gravel driveway. At last! Kate said they had a gravel drive and it was not easy to find. Gina thought she could see lights ahead and stepped on the gas, so anxious to be there. Her Camry shot forward and all of a sudden

I read a post the other day where the theme was rebellion, and I immediately thought of one of the few times I was truly rebellious with my parents. It all began with spinach. I like spinach, now that I’m an adult and can have it in lasagna, a baby spinach and beet salad, or sautéed with onions and garlic. As a child, however, I was served boiled spinach. No butter, salt or seasonings, just a great lump of shriveled spinach in a bowl with green liquid in the bottom. My mother was a great believer in greens: spinach, beet greens (equally loathed) or dandelion greens picked from the lawn (I won’t even go there). Usually I just choked the spinach down, because my father was a chair, CEO, and director of the Clean Plate Club. We were all members, and the only rule was members had to clean their plates of food at every meal. It took years to undue the effect of that rule! One Friday night, Mom served us our usual fish along with a bowl of spinach. I wasn’t happy with the fish, but ate it out of Catholic guilt. Teamed with the spinach, however, the meal was a real downer. I didn’t eat it. Dad insisted. I demurred. Dad insisted again, louder. I rebelled. “If you don’t eat that spinach now, you will have it for breakfast, cold. And NO dessert,” he bellowed. He did not like to be contradicted. “May I be excused, please?” “You may go to your room.” I got up from the table without saying what I was thinking, but I could hear him grumbling about wasting perfectly good food all the way up to my room. There on the table the next morning was that bowl, now with ice cold spinach, sitting like a lump of accusation, awaiting me for breakfast. Everyone else was having pancakes. I regarded it with loathing while everyone ate. When breakfast was over, Dad told me, “You will have it for lunch. Go to your room.” I don’t know what I did that morning, but I do remember not being particularly hungry. I overheard my mother pleading with my father to forget the spinach. Something about my being a growing girl and needing food. Not surprisingly, my father was intransigent. Cold spinach for lunch. Same reaction. By mid-afternoon, Mom was getting frantic. I could hear her begging my Dad to let her give me something to eat. When I came into the kitchen sometime that afternoon, Mom said, “I left the spinach out, so it’s not ice cold. If you only eat one bite, I’ll tell him you ate it…please?” She looked so distressed, I decided I could manage one bite. So I sat down, picked up the smallest amount I could and still have it qualify as a bite, and popped it in my mouth. Mom smiled and took the bowl away. “Would you like a cheese dream?” she asked. That’s a toasted cheese sandwich in our family, in case you’re wondering. I nodded, got up from the table and casually walked to the downstairs bathroom — where I closed the door, spit the spinach into the toilet, and flushed. Everyone came out a winner. I noticed we hardly ever had spinach after that — and never on a Friday. 0 0

Fellow blogger Irene Waters (whom my daughter and son-in-law met during their trip to Australia last year) kindly took time to read my first book and write a review on her blog. It is such a nice review, I just had to post it on mine. Thank you so much, Irene! Checkout Irene’s blog, Reflections and Nightmares, at http://irenewaters19.com/http://irenewaters19.com/ **** I have had fellow blogger, Noelle Granger, book, Death in a Red Canvas Chair, on my Kindle for about a year. What with books I had to read for my research and book club I just couldn’t get the time to read it until the few days I took off over Christmas and it was worth the wait. Although this is not Noelle’s first published book it is the first in her mystery series of Rhe Brewster, a woman just like you or I. Well that is if you are a woman and perhaps not quite like me as she gets embroiled in solving the mystery of the body she finds at the end of her son’s soccer game at one end of the field. Rhe is a nurse, a mother, a wife and lover (to the same man) and girlfriend. She is a normal woman with a larger than life curiosity and luckily a brother who is head of police who likes Rhe’s advice, and being a nurse she can also wheedle her way in with the medical examiner. She’s also at home on the university campus where her husband teaches. Reading Death in a Red Canvas Chair I was reminded of my enjoyment for Janet Evanovitch’s number series with Stephanie Plum who was a bail bond agent who always got into scrapes. The similarity lay in the ordinariness of the protagonist (Rhe/Stephanie) which as a reader you can relate to your own life such as coffee drinking, juggling family and job, confidences with girlfriends, food, (I loved Rhe she was a cook like me), the easy coversational tone of the narrative which as a reader you can’t help but be drawn into and a storyline that moves with action from one scene to the next. They often advise when writing, to write what you know and I think Noelle has done this well drawing on her knowledge of medicine, sailing and observer of human life. I would classify this book as a light, easy and enjoyable read particularly if you enjoy a mystery. I’m wondering if it will take me another year before I can get to read Noelle’s sequel Death in Dacron Sail as I look forward to more adventures with Rhe. 0 0

I just HAD to repost this from Nicholas Rossi’s blog. I see a plethora of book titles…   Continuing the three-part special on birds that started with A 400-Year-Old Book Made Entirely of Feathers, here is a post that deals with a truly thorny issue: You’ve just spotted a bunch of birds… Source: A Bunch of Birds. Or is That a Watch of Nightingales? 0 0

Cover Art by Jason Pedersen       Legends of Windermere  – The Mercenary Prince by Charles Yallowitz is new and is available on Amazon for $2.99  This is Book 9 in this fantastic fantasy series. About the author: I met Charles through the blogosphere and enjoy his sense of humor. Here is his description of himself: Moniker:  Charles Edward Yallowitz Origin:  Long Island, NY Birthday: April 9th (that’s all you get)                                        Marital Status:  Legally binding, I checked                         Sex: Ask my wife                                    Children:  No thanks.  I already have one.     He was born, raised, and educated in New York, spent a few years in Florida, realized his fear of alligators, and moved back to the Empire State. He recounts that he spent most of his life wandering his own imagination in a blissful haze. Occasionally, he would return from this world for the necessities such as food, showers, and Saturday morning cartoons. One day he returned from his imagination and decided he would share his stories with the world, and the result is Legends of Windermere. When he isn’t writing, he  can be found cooking or going on whatever adventure his son has planned for the day. If you are familiar with his blog, you know he is a prodigious writer Synopsis: Delvin Cunningham has left the champions. Lost to his tribe in the Yagervan Plains, fear and shame have kept the former Mercenary Prince away from his homeland. With his confidence crumbling, he has decided to return and bring closure to his past. Reuniting with his old friends, Delvin’s timing could not be worse as a deadly campaign is brewing within Yagervan’s borders. Dawn Fangs are on the march and these powerful vampires are determined to turn the entire region into a graveyard. To protect his family, friends, and two homelands, Delvin will have to push his doubt away and become the cunning Mercenary Prince once again. Excerpt from The Mercenary Prince With the hint of a smirk, Selenia quickens her pace and unleashes a barrage of blows on her former student. Each strike and stab is deflected by the sweat-covered champion, his speed increasing to match her every time. At one point, the half-elf leaps forward and is struck in her stomach by his shield, which forces her to flip over his head. The headmistress lands in a crouch and whirls around to block the counterattack, the point of Delvin’s sword gently running along the leather patch over her stomach. Realizing that he is still holding back, Selenia bats his next attack away and delivers a painful kick to his exposed side. The blow knocks him against the fountain and he comes dangerously close to falling into the water. While rubbing his bruised side, Delvin circles the headmistress who turns to continue facing him. He makes a few feints that she refuses to acknowledge because they are clumsy and pathetically amateurish. The gathered students and teachers shout for more action, all of them believing the brown-haired warrior to be afraid of the legendary woman. None of them realize that his circles have been getting tighter and his fake attacks have caused Selenia to misjudge his distance. It is something she realizes when Delvin makes a quick swing for her hip and their weapons strike closer to their hilts than she expects. The moment the half-elf steps back to gain some space, her former student pushes forward with precise strikes that mirror the onslaught she previously unleashed. Without a shield, the headmistress finds it more difficult to block every attack and has to twist her body away from several attacks. The movements prevent her from throwing a kick or punch, which would probably hit the shield that he has yet to include in his advance. Selenia eventually catches Delvin’s blade and slides her weapon along its edge to step within his swinging range. The pair push against each other, their muscles straining to gain the upper hand. Every time one of them is about to gain ground, their opponent shifts enough to continue the frustrating stalemate. With a grunt of exertion, Delvin moves his shield in front of the headmistress’s face and blocks her view. Knowing she is expecting him to push forward, the warrior falls onto his back and lets the surprised half-elf’s momentum slam her face into the wooden disc. The back of his head bounces off the ground as he flicks his wrist to deliver an extra shot to Selenia’s chin. She rolls away from him to recover her senses, but Delvin scrambles to keep her in reach and continue his attack as they stand. “You actually hit me,” Selenia states when she notices that her nose is bleeding. She ducks under her opponent’s swing and aims her hilt for his stomach, the blow only grazing his shirt. “I think you’ve achieved two firsts for this academy, Delvin. Nobody has ever drawn my blood or made me dizzy during a match.” You can find Charles: Blog: Legends of Windemere Twitter: @cyallowitz Facebook: Charles Yallowitz Website: www.charleseyallowitz.com As always, if you enjoy this book, don’t forget to write a review for Amazon and copy it to Goodreads! 0 0