Read a Chapter Month 5

 Action-adventure romantasy

ON AMAZON 

Kirkus "GET IT" Award - January 2026

Kirkus "A classic quest narrative that lovers of fairy tales are likely to enjoy."

Booklife Review (Jan 2026) " A lively, touching bard’s tale of a faerie’s adventures in the mortal realm."

An action-adventure romantasy filled with intrigue, sharp banter, dangerous secrets, and real emotional stakes.

Escala’s Wish, the debut fantasy-romance novel by David James, launches the epic Tales from Valla series, where fey politics and forbidden love collide in a world shaped as much by choices as by power.

It started with a kiss.

Escala Winter, a mischievous pixie from the Court of Dreams, only wanted to understand love.

But one impulsive kiss awakens a long-buried grudge, forges a treacherous alliance, and unleashes a storm of vengeance that threatens to consume both mortal and Fey realms.

Banished from her enchanted home, Escala is thrust into a world of danger and deception, and burdened with an impossible quest that may be her only chance to make things right.

She’s hunted by a cruel rival, haunted by the loss of her best friend, and entangled in a sinister revenge plot older and darker than she could ever imagine.

Now, trapped in the mortal world, Escala must confront a past she never knew, and an evil she accidentally unleashed, one that could destroy her family, the fey realm, and the entire material plane.

Escala’s Wish is a sweeping coming-of-age tale about magic, mischief, and the dangerous price of curiosity.

Escala never meant to cause the end of everything, but can she stop it before it's too late?

This is a fresh, unique romantasy: no werewolves, no vampires, no “bad boy” love interest, and no enemies-to-lovers arc. Instead, the romance is sweet, gradual, emotionally sincere, and reminiscent of classic fantasy love stories, an innocent slow burn that grows from shared trials and genuine connection.

Told by an energetic and egotistical bard named Wigfrith Foreverbloom, Esacla's Wish is a tale of redemption, sacrifice, and love, where every price of curiosity might be too high.

Step into Valla and discover how one wish sets an entire world in motion.

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I reach for my pipe—a quiet invitation, in case anyone else fancies a smoke. As I pack the bowl with tobacco from the rolling fields of Kelly’s Pride, I nearly launch into the tale of how it got its name.

Something about a woman named Kelly who seduced a wealthy old miner,

took over his town, and inherited everything—after he “accidentally”

tumbled down one of his own goldmine shafts.

But that’s a story for another night.

As I puff, I continue the story.

When they arrived at Dunwell, the first thing Escala noticed was the

vivid colors. Everything was painted—doors in faded reds and deep

greens, shutters in lavender and storm blue. Even the cobblestones were

splashed here and there with dye and chalk, remnants of old festivals and

careless children.

They passed a bakery with golden rolls steaming on the sill, a smithy

with a horseshoe nailed crooked over the lintel. Street vendors called out

wares. Sticky walked beside Escala, arms folded behind his back, scanning

every flowerpot for bugs to snatch with his tongue—he was not

disappointed.

Escala wasn’t used to being surrounded by so many people. Almost

immediately, there were some “don’t touch the faerie” moments that

Roedyn had to defuse.

They followed a cobbled lane to a three-story inn with a crooked sign

swinging out front: The Stag and Hound.

They stepped inside by the very door you all came through tonight. It

looked the same back then, maybe with fewer folks inside—but on stage

was a certain dashing gnome performer, finishing a tale as they walked in.

He struck a pose and recited:

“—and with a roar, she tore the wing from the firedrake’s spine and

fanned herself with it—the way only a queen of the Summer Court might!”

The gnome was me, of course, and I bowed so deeply that I nearly

tumbled off the table.

“Wigfrith?” Harper called out, grinning.

I snapped my head up and took in Harper and her companions.

I lifted my mug as if preparing to deliver the toast of a lifetime. This

was the very first time I laid eyes on Escala. And my, oh my, was she

beautiful.

She wore tan canvas pants tucked into black boots that rose to her

knees. A royal navy-blue tunic, trimmed with silver, hugged her frame. A

black leather belt circled her waist, with a travel pouch on one side and a

short sword on the other. Her pack was slung casually over one shoulder.

I even noticed a small patch near her ribs where the tunic had clearly been

stitched, like it had once been torn in battle.

But what struck me was her presence. She carried herself like someone

who belonged in a court—she was no peasant. Of course, I recognized

Harper and Roedyn immediately. But the frog? I didn’t know him. I had

questions—so many questions.

Harper nudged Escala forward, of course, but I did not know her name

yet.

“She’s looking for you,” Harper said. “We told her you know

everything.”

I looked at the crowd for confirmation that perhaps Harper was not

wrong. It took a moment—longer than I would have liked—but eventually,

applause developed, and when I was satisfied, I gave a courteous nod.

Smiling at Harper, I said, “Well, now, I can see you definitely didn’t

inflate her expectations.”

Turning to Escala, I bowed with an elaborate flourish. “My dearest elf

maiden, it is my honor to meet you. I’m Wigfrith Foreverbloom—Bard

Medic of Misty Springs, spinner of a hundred tales, and survivor of at least

thirty-five. And you—

”And that’s when she said those nine words I would come to hear

hundreds—if not thousands—of times throughout our adventures together:

“I am Escala Winter from the Court of Dreams.”

Now, I’d heard of the Court of Dreams—most bards had. But she was

claiming to be fey, even though she looked like an elf. Interesting.

I stroked my chin theatrically. “Then come—we have much to

discuss.”

We took the corner table by the hearth. Escala sat across from me and

watched me closely, her eyes searching my face. And I—well, I was doing

the same to her, looking for any hint of madness.

I pulled out a leather-bound notebook, a fountain pen, and prepared to

take notes.

“Now,” I said, “we must establish that you are who you say you are.

Let’s begin.”

I squinted suspiciously at her. “First question. Name the three most

dangerous edible mushrooms in the Deep Briar, which, as you know, is a

hollow four valleys southwest of the palace of the Court of Dreams, and

tell me what they whisper when picked under a full moon?”

“What?” Escala said.

Roedyn leaned over to Harper. “Is he serious?”

“Oh yeah,” Harper muttered. “He’s in full Wiggie mode.”

Escala thought carefully. “This is a trick question.”

“How so?” I asked, knowing she was right.

“Well, the mushrooms that are dangerous to some are also a boon to

others. For example, firecaps can burn your blood, and if you eat too many,

you can explode from the inside. But they’re used by healers in small

quantities to treat certain infections. And what they whisper depends on

how fast you pick them. If you pick them fast, they scream. But if you pick

them very slowly, they don’t whisper anything.”

I raised an eyebrow—surprised. She was right.

“And then there are the purple-stemmed heartspore mushrooms,” she

continued. “They’re deadly to mortals and can kill almost instantly if

consumed, but they’re not poisonous to fey. We use them for stomach

aches. So, I’m not certain if that counts as a dangerous mushroom or not.

And they don’t whisper anything—well, I guess they do, but no one knows

what they say because they speak a language no one understands, and

then—”

I cut her off. “Very good!” I quickly scribbled her answers into my

notebook.

“But I didn’t finish the answer,” she said, almost annoyed.

“You did fine, just fine,” I said. “Question two: What is the third law

of moonlight according to sprite tradition?”

Escala didn’t hesitate. “Moonlight reveals only what wishes to be

found.”

I grinned wider. “Excellent. Question three: How many names does the

wind have in the Court of Dreams?”

“Eighteen,” she said. “Nineteen, when a crossing is open.”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means she knows what she’s talking about,” I said, my eyes never

leaving Escala’s. Maybe it was because she was so unbearably beautiful,

those striking blue eyes impossible to look away from—or maybe I was

trying to spot a ‘tell,’ some twitching lip or suspiciously sweaty forehead

that would reveal a lie.

All I can report is this: she had none of those things. Just those

impossibly beautiful blue eyes.

I leaned forward across the table. “Last question—the real test.” My

voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “In your truest form—before

the banishment—how tall were you?”

I pause the tale and take a slow sip of ale, rubbing my chin as if

pondering some grand mystery. Then I lean in and say, “Now listen

closely, friends—that last question I asked Escala was a trick question.

The fey don’t measure things the way we do. No pounds, feet, or meters

for them. They measure by nature—petals, raindrops, moonbeams, that

sort of thing.

If she’d said something like ‘one foot’ or ‘sixteen inches,’ I’d know

she was faking it. This is the moment of truth. If her answer sounds like a

lie, the story ends right here, and you can all head over to the Golden

Goose—hells, I’m going with you!

“But,” I tap the table for emphasis, “listen to what she tells me.”

Escala immediately answered, “I was two red apples and a green grape tall.”

I must admit—I howled with laughter and slapped my knee, and the

audience did too.

Harper choked on her drink.

“Two red apples!” I was nearly crying. “And a green grape!” I thumped

the table. “By the gods, she’s genuine!”

I nearly toppled off the stool, catching myself with a wobble and a

curse. Then, recovering with all the grace I could muster, I swept my arm

in a grand arc across the table.

“Escala of the Court of Dreams,” I proclaimed, “welcome to the

material plane, to Dunwell, and to The Stag and Hound!”

I extended my hand with a theatrical flourish. “How may I, Wigfrith

Foreverbloom, be of service?”

She did not shake my hand. To be honest, I thought she was being rude.

However, Roedyn quickly said, “She doesn’t like to be touched; it’s

nothing personal.” I withdrew my hand at once.

I leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded beneath my chin.

“So,” I said, “what can I help you with?

Escala told me her story, which you have already heard, and I focused

on the boulder part.

“Tell me exactly what the Court of Dreams said—word for word.” I

said, ready to take detailed notes.

Escala nodded slowly. She took a breath, closed her eyes for a moment,

and recited her sentence from the trial I told you about earlier. I stopped

her at the part about the boulders and made her repeat it.

Now, I am a smart gnome, I think you’ll agree, but I did not know what

a boulder was in the context of her punishment.

“Apples and pears,” I said. “They went full poetic punishment.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out what it means ever since,” Escala said. “At first, I thought the court meant real boulders—physical things I had to move or destroy. Then I thought maybe it was about people’s obstacles—dreadful things in their lives they needed help with. I’ve been keeping a logbook—I have people sign it every time I help someone.”

“She’s not kidding,” Harper said. “She even has a signed page from some guy saying she helped him negotiate a peace treaty with a swarm of bees.”

“Do you think what I’m doing is right? Is helping people with their

troubles and obstacles the boulders the Court of Dreams meant?” she

asked.

“No,” I said. “But,” I added, holding up one finger, voice laced with

stubborn brightness, “I have theories.”

I flipped through my notebook and stopped with a flourish on a page—

crinkled, ink-stained, singed at the corner.

I tapped a passage with my knuckle. “This one always stuck with me.

A forest warden I met in the Cindermarshes said it came to him in a fever

dream. He woke screaming and didn’t speak for days. When he finally did,

all he said was, ‘The Cycle’s jammed. Too many boulders—the wheel’s

stuck.’”

That line sent me spiraling. Some scholars—those unhinged enough to

study dream-sentencing—believe the True Cycle governs more than life

and death. They think it governs intention and balance—not just how life

moves… but why.

I traced a small circular sketch beside the passage. “The fey courts,

especially the Dreaming Court—”

“Court of Dreams,” Escala corrected.

“Yes, the Court of Dreams,” I said, “are obsessed with the idea of

balance. Dreams, stories, seasons—they all turn like wheels. But when a

wheel is blocked… everything can get warped.”

“So…” Roedyn frowned. “Boulders could be disruptions?”

“Exactly,” I said, nodding firmly now. “Blockages or interferences.

Some obstacle that prevents the Cycle from moving cleanly. It could be

anything—unresolved pain, misplaced power, unnatural magic, festering

guilt. Something that doesn’t belong but won’t move.”

“If enough of those stack up… the wheel stops.”

“Like corruption?” Harper asked. “Or monsters?”

“Sometimes.” I shrugged. “But the ‘boulder’ could be a lie, a secret, or

even a regret. Something stuck in someone’s heart that refuses to move

forward.”

“That could be anything,” Escala exclaimed.

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s the point—it’s not a checklist. It’s a test of

the soul.”

Escala looked down, the reality hitting her for the first time.

“They gave you an open-ended sentence. That means the court doesn’t

want you to solve a riddle. They want you to change. To see the world. To

touch it—and let it touch you.”

“But I don’t understand. I was sent here for interfering. It doesn’t make

sense—why would they want me to interfere with the True Cycle now?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“So, the logbook… won’t help?” she asked quietly.

I knew I had to be careful—not to crush her spirit. I smiled gently. “It

might. I think it says more about you than you realize.”

Escala looked down again.

“That’s the worst part of fey justice,” I added, settling back on my

stool. “They don’t hand you chains—they hand you a mirror.”

About the Author

Read a Chapter Month 4

 Medical fantasy/thriller

EBOOK

Is she willing to pay the price?

Remi's chest painfully constricted as she struggled to breathe. Rushed to the hospital, she received a mysterious treatment due to a medical error, which miraculously stopped the asthma attack and restored her breathing. While she felt healthier than ever before, along with this shocking recovery came strange abilities, and this miraculous treatment may have a price that she’s not willing to pay.

“This book contains no AI‑generated writing. All text was created by the author.”

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The flashing lights of the ambulance illuminated the night as it came to a stop at the entrance of the bustling hospital. The doors flew open, and they wheeled in Remi on a stretcher.

A kind-looking nurse with blonde hair approached them with a warm smile. “Hello, dear, my name is Anna,” she introduced herself before leading them to Bed B.

With gentle hands and a sense of urgency, they carefully transferred Remi onto the bed as Anna immediately began assessing her condition. She listened intently to her lungs, checking for any signs of distress.

As Anna worked, the paramedic gave his report, and she quickly started an IV line in Remi's hand. Meanwhile, a nurse's aide unhooked Remi’s oxygen tube from the tank, connected the tube to the central connection, and attached the cardiac monitor electrodes to her chest.

The heavy curtain that separated the beds was suddenly pulled aside with a loud swoosh. In its place stood a tall man with thick, salt-and-pepper hair. He swept his gaze across the small cubicle before fixing his attention on Remi. Introducing himself as Dr. Schwarz, he took note of the discarded nebulizer pipe lying on her bed before directing his piercing blue eyes to her face and hands. “Let me listen to your lungs,” he said in a no-nonsense tone, holding out his stethoscope.

Remi nodded weakly and struggled to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in her chest. The doctor placed the cold metal against her skin and listened intently to her lung sounds, his brow furrowing in concern. After a moment, he asked, “How long have you been dealing with asthma?”

“Since...as far back as I can remember,” Remi gasped out between ragged breaths, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. “I take preventive medications and usually use my nebulizer during sudden attacks, but I didn’t have any solution and the inhaler didn’t help.”

The doctor's expression turned sympathetic as he nodded understandingly. “We'll get you taken care of,” he assured her before turning to the nurse.

“It’s my fault!” Emily informed the doctor with tears in her eyes. “Remi is staying with me while her parents are in South America with Doctors Without Borders, and I didn’t know she’s allergic to cats.”

“It’s okay,” Dr. Schwarz spoke in a soothing voice. “We’ll make her better, but I’m afraid, you need to get rid of your cat.”

“It’s not mine, just cat-sitting for a friend, but I’m going to call my other friends right now. I’m sure one of them will take the cat,” Emily said and pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll be in the waiting room,” she flashed a nervous smile at the young girl and hurried out of the room.

The doctor turned to the nurse. “Anna, let’s give her 125 Solumedrol, hook her up for continuous nebulizer, and get a portable chest X-ray as well.”

The nurse nodded and left the room. The doctor smiled, pulled the curtain that separated Remi’s room from bed C, and greeted the patient. “Hi Konrad, are you ready?”

“Yes,” sounded a young boy’s voice.

The doctor stopped for a second, thinking, and then turned back to Remi. “Do you speak German by any chance?” he asked.

Caught off guard by the unexpected question, Remi hesitated before responding. Despite having learned the language from her nanny since she was a toddler until high school, she decided against admitting it upon seeing the doctor's peculiar expression.

“No, but I speak French,” she replied.

“Never mind, I just thought... because of your last name, Hansen,” he mumbled, stepping out of the room and pulling the curtain closed behind him.

That was strange. Why did he ask me if I speak German? Perhaps he doesn’t want me to know what they’re talking about in the next cubicle. Remi wondered, listening to the conversation coming from behind the curtain.

“Are you sure you want it done this way?” Dr. Schwarz asked, speaking in German, and continued. “Don’t worry, the girl in that bed doesn’t understand the language.”

Remi heard a boy's and an older-sounding man’s voices answering, “Yes, we definitely want the treatment.” And the older voice continued. “My son is sixteen, and with cystic fibrosis and a rare blood type, finding a cure or donor is close to impossible. He might have a year left. But with your treatment, he could live a full, healthy life.”

She heard the doctor’s sigh, as he said, “I want to make sure you understand what will happen after the treatment.”

Konrad assured the doctor, “We thought it over very carefully what you said, and I fully understand the benefits. And...” he hesitated. “And I accept the obligation that comes with your treatment as well.”

“We took the necessary precautions as you instructed, and his handler will arrive tomorrow to discuss more details with us. Everything is ready,” The older man said.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a minute,” the doctor replied.

Remi wondered what that treatment was. Poor Konrad. He’s my age, and it sounds like he doesn’t have long to live. That’s terrible. Remi thought, feeling so much empathy for the boy. But why didn’t the doctor say medication or something specific? He repeated the German word behandlung, which means treatment. And because we’re in the hospital, it must be medical treatment.

***

The nurse felt sorry for Remi. Poor kid, only sixteen. She knows what it means to gasp for air. And the boy in bed C... why must young kids suffer like that? she thought bitterly, entering the med room. She pulled the drawer open, grabbed a syringe, and then took out a small box from the medication cabinet that was labeled Solumedrol 125 mg. She poked the needle through the rubber cap, drew the liquid from the small bottle, and then injected it into the other bottle with white powder in it. She mixed it well and drew the clear liquid back into the syringe.

***

Meanwhile, Dr. Schwarz entered bed C with a prepared syringe in his hand. "You never told me why a simple IV injection couldn't be administered at home," the boy’s father said, his voice laced with worry.

Dr. Schwarz sighed, his face a mask of solemnity. "As I told you," He began, "his heart will stop for a few seconds after I give him the treatment. Therefore, I will turn off the alarm to prevent any unnecessary commotion from the code team rushing into the room. Ideally, his heart should restart on its own, but there is always the possibility that it will not, and we will have to restart it. This is why I need the code team close by, and this is why I need to do this in the hospital."

A tense silence hung in the air as father and son processed this information. The steady beeping of the monitor seemed to grow louder, filling the small hospital room with an eerie sense of fear and anticipation as the doctor reached up, turned the heart monitor off, and picked up the syringe.

“Doctor Schwartz to bed A STAT!” The urgent voice through the intercom stopped his movement. He put the syringe back on the bedside table, wrenched the curtain between the cubicles, and nearly knocked the nurse off her feet by pushing the table out of the way. “Sorry,” he yelled, and to get to Bed A faster, he ran across Reni’s cubicle, yanking the curtain that separated her bed from Bed A.

Anna's hand trembled as she clutched the syringe, her heart racing. With a sharp inhale, she dropped the syringe onto the table, not caring about closing the curtain between the two beds. She didn't waste any time as she sprinted after the doctor.

“Hi,” the skinny, sick-looking young boy with an Oxygen tube coiled over his face smiled at Remi. “What a commotion, huh? I’m Konrad by the way.” He greeted Remi in English.

“Hi, Konrad, I’m Remi. Yes, typical ER buzz,” she smiled back.

“You’re not from around here,” he said. I haven’t seen you before.”

“No, I live in the Bronx. I’m just staying with my aunt for a few weeks.”

“Nice to meet you, Remi,” Konrad said. Maybe we’ll see each other again. It’s such a small town, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other.”

“Yeah, it’s small, but I love it here. The mountains are so beautiful.”

“See you around,” Konrad said when he spotted the nurse walking toward Remi’s bed.

“Are you ready?” Anna asked Remi as she reached for the bedside table and picked up the syringe. She closed the curtain between the beds.

Remi was familiar with the effects of steroids. When Anna injected the medication into her IV line, she was expecting a headrush and a feeling of warmth all over her body. But this time she felt something different. As soon as the medication entered her bloodstream, she felt a pleasant tingling in her body as it spread. She was curious and followed the spread of the drug from her hand to her arm then to her chest, head, belly, and then her legs. She felt warm, but not as much as other times.

Before she could ask why it felt different than other times, they heard another urgent intercom call and Anna ran out of the cubicle. Remi felt drawn and tired. The tingling passed quickly, and she started to feel better. Taking a careful deep breath, she happily noticed that the tightness of her chest had completely eased up, although it was unusual for the medication to take effect so fast, she was happy to feel the almost instant relief.

“Is everything all right with that patient?” Remi heard Konrad’s voice from the next bed, speaking German.

“He’ll be okay, don’t worry,” the doctor replied. “Let’s get your treatment going. Are you ready?”

“I’m as ready as I’d ever be,” Konrad said, his voice sounding cheerful but with an undertone of worry.

Remi heard the light rustling of bedsheets and the doctor’s voice. “All in. Now, we wait. It takes a few minutes before your heart stops. Don’t worry, it’s not going to feel too bad.”

Emily entered the cubicle and plopped down on the chair. “How do you feel?” she asked Remi.

“Surprisingly well,” Remi mused, taking off the nebulizer mask, smiling. “I don’t even need this anymore; my breathing is so good that I could run a marathon.”

“Thank God!” Emily sighed. “I was so worried and so sorry. It was my fault.”

“Please don’t worry, Aunty Em! You didn’t know. Cat dander is not on my allergy list because we didn’t know either.”

“Well, there is some good news. Cathy, from my volunteer group, is picking up Midnight today. She will care for the cat until Marley is in the hospital, and we’ll stay in the guest house until I arrange a thorough cleaning of the main house. The cleaning company is great, they will get rid of every piece of dust and cat dander in the house.”

Thank you!” Remi smiled at her aunt when suddenly, she felt a painful thud in her chest as if her heart flipped and bumped against her ribs. Everything turned dark in front of her eyes, and her mind sank into nothingness.

The loud alarm of the monitor made Emily jump, and she frantically scanned the screen which showed a flat line instead of the rhythmic heartbeat. She pulled the curtain open and screamed. “Help! Somebody help us, her heart stopped!”

More from the author

Read a Chapter Month 3

 Contemporary fiction

ON AMAZON

An incoming tide strews debris of self-recrimination, regret, and remorse for their unintentional culpability in jeopardizing the life of an immediate family member. Whether altering destiny, attributing to demise, or precipitating a debilitating accident—no one is exempt from heartache:

Aileen Stanton - for getting sidetracked on her watch

Gertrude Stanton - for her preoccupation

Ox (James) Babcock - for loaning a ten-dollar bill

Grand dame, Lillian Wright - for engaging in an illicit affair during the Roaring Twenties

Birdman, Drake Lynch - for wielding his power of persuasion

Career mom, Perla Moreno - for her momentary lapse in judgment

The guesthouse provides a home away from home. For some, a refuge for healing. For others, a retreat for cultivating hopes and dreams. For the invited reader of adult fiction, a portal for stepping into the 1970s in close proximity to those who survive the ravages of a guilt-wracked conscience and struggle to find meaning in the suffering they've caused.

Welcome to Aileen's Guesthouse. Dinner is served at six o'clock sharp.

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Having pre-heated the oven, Ox slid his mom’s meal prep inside its jaws. After wearing himself out from pacing back and forth in the family room, he picked up the receiver from a beige Princess phone on an end table by the sofa. Dialing the number to the beachfront flophouse, his heart thumped over the ten-to-one odds of Jenkins chewing his ass for hunting him down. One of the other two blockheads in-residence answered in an alcoholic haze. Unseen, digging a pinky inside his ear. “N-a-a-h! He ain’t here.”

Great! Not a helluva lot to go on.

 If his brother didn’t follow through by tomorrow afternoon, the day before Christmas Eve, Ox’s window of opportunity for picking up Aileen’s bracelet would nail itself shut. For that sole purpose, he’d already jumped on the bandwagon to accompany his dad to Someplace in Time for a Thursday evening of merrymaking with three wise men.

***

On Tuesday evening, Jenkins ripped open the envelope to extract his paycheck. Reaching for his wallet inside one of the frayed back pockets of his dungarees, he slid the check inside the bill compartment while slipping the ten-spot he’d coerced from Ox out of its mooring. That, he folded and shoved into the coin pocket, the one half-tucked into the left, front pocket of his jeans. Jenkins stuck it out until Neville Saunders left the filling station. On his own until closing, he made a phone call.

At nine on the nose, Jenkins locked up. Driving over the hose, the bell chimed as he peeled rubber onto Old Post Road, hell-for-leather on his way to Charlestown Beach Road, the offshoot his great-grandfather and Lillian Wright had taken to access the Breachway for their romantic interlude. Forlorn at this hour in the freezing cold of the upcoming winter solstice, the boonies provided a haven for whatever rocked your boat.  

Jenkins dimmed his headlights when he spotted the familiar ’70 Mach 1 off the main drag. The Candy Man! Mustn’t keep him waiting. He maneuvered his crate into a clearing behind the sleek racehorse. Dousing the lamps and killing the engine, he stepped out. Sashaying up to the Mustang muscle car, its V8 engine idling, the driver rolled down the window partway. Jenkins pulled the rabbit out of his pocket. Money and product exchanged hands without a word spoken between them.

At five bucks a bump for cocaine, Ox’s tenner enabled him to snap up two. Poverty-stricken, he couldn’t afford to go the whole hog and pop for a gram of blow, the equivalent of twenty-five bumps. From force of habit, he’d nickel-and-dime it until his well went dry. Before Jenkins hiked his bony ass back to his car, the Candy Man muscled his coupe onto the chewed asphalt and disappeared from view.

***

Colder than a witch’s tit, in the twenty to twenty-five degree range and dipping, Jenkins started the engine and goosed the lever on the heater to full blast. He switched on the overhead light. Irritable from depraved deprivation, he couldn’t wait to sample the stuff. Prepared for times like these, he opened the glove compartment to pull out his resources: an unviable URI student identification card; small, flat mirror; a used straw he’d whittled down to three inches or thereabouts.

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

Tempted to organize both bindles of white powder into lines for snorting, dire financial straits predicated dosing out one of them into two short lines onto the mirror he’d placed on the passenger side of the bench seat. Inserting the straw into his left nostril while holding the other shut, Jenkins snorted a line of coke. He repeated the procedure for his right nostril. Barely rolling down the window on the driver’s side, he tossed out the wrapper for a wind gust to carry off somewhere.

Three minutes later, the euphoric rush hit him with an accompanying jolt of energy and mental acuity. With his high tolerance for turbocharging, he knew his altered state wouldn’t last for more than fifteen minutes. He’d ride it out for a while, then head home to smoke some weed to tone down withdrawal symptoms and reduce his craving to squander the second helping so soon. His work here being done, Jenkins shoved his implements back inside the compartment and put the spare one-inch by one-inch wad of wax paper inside the fold of an outer pocket on his jacket. 

In short order, he experienced a hard landing. Inside the toasty rattletrap of his ’64 Chevy Bel Air sedan, fatigue outpaced his intention to drive off just yet. Leaning his head back against the tatty upholstered seat, his eyes closed of their own volition for sack time in the dead of Tuesday night.

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Read a Chapter Month 2

 Children's book

ON AMAZON

"A magical journey celebrating Christmas traditions around the world."

Join Molly and her enchanting guide, Jingle, on an extraordinary magical Christmas adventure around the world! From Germany’s intricate nutcrackers to Mexico’s glowing lanterns, from Australia’s sun-kissed beaches to Finland’s peaceful snowy villages, Molly explores the diverse ways families celebrate the holiday season across the globe. With each new friend she encounters, Molly discovers that while traditions may differ, the true spirit of Christmas—love, joy, and the warmth of family—is universal.

Perfect for children and families alike, this heartwarming story brings the wonder and magic of global holiday traditions into your home. It’s a delightful reminder that Christmas belongs to everyone, everywhere, fostering understanding, curiosity, and the joy of shared traditions across cultures.

A chapter from the book

Stop 1: Germany – The Land of Nutcrackers

Molly saw the soft glow of a lantern swaying outside a charming stone cottage, so she went towards it. As the wooden door creaked open, a wave of warmth embraced her, carrying the sweet aroma of cinnamon and baked apples.

Standing before her was Liesel, a cheerful girl her age, her golden braids neatly tied with red ribbons. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she stepped forward, a welcoming smile on her face.

"Hi! My name is Liesel! Come inside, I want to show you something special!"

The cozy interior glowed with candlelight, casting flickering shadows on the rustic wooden walls. Liesel lead Molly to a wooden cabinet filled with beautifully crafted nutcrackers—each one unique, with intricate details and colorful uniforms.

"These nutcrackers aren’t just decorations," Liesel explained.  “They’re symbols of good luck, protecting homes and bringing happiness during Christmas."

Molly listened in awe as Liesel explained the meaning of the little wooden figures. She ran her fingers over the smooth wood of a majestic nutcracker soldier, imagining it springing to life, its painted eyes twinkling as it stood guard over a grand holiday feast.

She could almost hear the sound of festive music and the laughter of children as the nutcracker protected the home, just as Liesel had described.

The girls happily joined Liesel’s family for a joyful holiday meal. Molly tried a yummy, spicy fruit cake called stollen, covered with soft powdered sugar. The sweet, warm flavor made her feel cozy and happy, like she was part of something magical. Just as the meal was ending, Liesel kindly gave Molly a little nutcracker dressed in a bright red uniform.

.“Take this with you,” Liesel said with a gentle smile. “So you’ll always remember the special Christmas magic in Germany.”

Molly carefully hugged the nutcracker against her chest. Its smooth wooden surface was cool and comforting in her hands. A warm feeling grew inside her, making her happy — she realized she had discovered something really wonderful about Christmas in Germany, and she knew she would hold onto this memory forever.

Just as Molly was thanking Liesel and her family for a truly wonderful evening, she wondered where her journey would take her next.

Suddenly, a cheerful, familiar sound rang out, and Molly heard Jingle’s voice. "Are you ready for your next adventure?" he asked, his tone brimming with enthusiasm.

Molly’s face lit up with a big grin. She couldn’t wait to discover what kind of Christmas magic awaited her on her next fantastic journey!

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Read a Chapter Month 1

 Renaissance historical fiction

ON AMAZON

England, 1587. Beth Dudley serves as a quiet maid in the grand halls of Bodsworth Manor, where loyalty to Queen Elizabeth is law—and hiding a Catholic priest is treason. But when Beth learns the truth about her employer's secret faith and uncovers a crucifix near a brothel, she is pulled into a deadly game of cat and mouse.

Reverend Holbrook and the brutal Sir Richard Bayne arrive to expose heretics and make examples of sympathizers. As Beth becomes entangled in a covert network protecting hunted priests, she must navigate dangerous secrets, shifting alliances, and unravel a past far more complicated than she ever imagined.

Beside her is Gareth Montgomery, a stable hand with a firebrand heart and dreams of freedom, and Nicholas Owen, a carpenter with a quiet mission—and everything to lose.

As persecution escalates and the noose tightens around the manor, Beth must risk everything to protect the innocent, outwit her enemies, and save the man she loves. But in a world ruled by fear, will faith and love be enough?

Of Heaven and Hellfire is a sweeping tale of courage, conscience, and the quiet heroes history almost forgot.

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Bodsworth Chapel was sparse, with soaring, clear glass windows, a few dozen pews, and a polished wood pulpit. Beth took account of the household in attendance at Sunday service. It was strange to see the pew reserved for Lord and Lady Sheffield empty. She peered behind her at the array of manor servants and noticed Gareth’s absence as well.

Beth’s mind did not drift as usual during the long, drawn-out sermon, for the prospect of seeing the village, despite Gareth’s taking exception to her company, kept her alert and attentive. Grateful to escape Kat’s watchful eyes, Beth slipped away as the congregants filed out the door.

Free and unnoticed, Beth saw Gareth waiting by the stonewall farthest away from the chapel and churchgoers. A massive horse, no less than sixteen hands and black as a moonless night, stood beside him, a packsaddle straddling his wide back. Warm air puffed from its nostrils as the animal shook its silken mane and flicked its tail, keeping the biting flies at bay.

Beth approached, and Gareth greeted her with a cool nod.

Ignoring the slight, Beth set the woven basket down and stroked the horse’s muscled neck.

“He’s beautiful,” she said as the gelding bobbed his head at her touch.

“His name is Blackthorne. I’ve cared for him since he was a foal.” Gareth gave the horse an affectionate pat and untied a water jug from the packsaddle and handed it to her. “Here. Drink. I’ll get more along the way.”

Beth took a large swallow and handed him back the jug.

The autumn sun spread across the surrounding hills in a palette of golden fields and russet hills, warming the brisk, clean air which filled Beth’s lungs as she inhaled deeply, grateful to be away from the smoke of the kitchen fires. The silence was welcome, too. Idle conversation would only foster a false camaraderie, meant only to fill the space between them. Yet, the silence was short-lived.

“Have you family back at Abury?” Gareth asked, kicking a stone as they walked.

“I’m an orphan.”

Gareth paused, then said, “No brothers? No sisters?”

“None.”

“Sorry for that.”

Beth shrugged. “Don’t be. It’s hard to miss something you’ve never known.” The lie left her mouth with practiced ease, and she continued. “My family worked at Abury as far back as my grandparents. That much I know. They died of fever when I was quite young. I don’t remember them at all. Lady Barrell and the undercook raised me with great care, and I am forever grateful.”

Gareth let out a long whistle. “Ah, the fever. It nearly took half the village a few years back.”

Quietness again settled between them, and Beth swallowed hard as she stared down at the brownish grass growing between the carriage ruts. Recounting her past always brought up a bygone of drifting specters, a resurrection of shadows without form or feature.

Gareth’s tone brightened. “I’m the oldest of the Montgomerys. I have a younger brother, Rafe. Someday I’ll leave Bodsworth and strike out on my own. Become a tenant farmer. Maybe travel abroad and make my fortune. I believe my destiny to be my own, you see.” His boot struck another stone, sending it down the road farther than the first. “Once my brother is old enough, he’ll take my place at the manor—if Father allows it . . .” His face darkened as he looked away.

Beth had never considered venturing out alone. The thought was peculiar. Could such freedom ever be possible? Gareth was secure within a family, one that needed him, yet it did not satisfy him. Instead, it hemmed him in like a funeral shroud. If he understood the pain of not having a family, perhaps he would not be so quick to get away from his own.

As they made their way, Beth’s upturned face basked in the sun’s warmth. The late autumn frost slipped off leaves and blades of grass like a dressing gown. Winter’s blast was sure to follow and promised a treacherous mix of ice, mud, and snow, making journeys to the village less frequent and fraught with danger.

After a while, the gurgle of a quick-moving river overtook the monotony of Blackthorne’s clopping hooves. Beth watched as Gareth assessed the swift current. He pulled back on the harness, and Blackthorne’s gait slowed to a halt.

“Good time to refill,” he said, untying the water jug and nodding at the river. He led Blackthorne off the road to a patch of brown grass where a few stubborn tender blades still poked through. “Stay here.” He thrust the harness rope at Beth and trampled down the riverbank, thick with brush.

Blackthorne shifted beside her, tail swishing lazily. Hand on her hip, Beth watched as Gareth scrambled along the whooshing gray water, his skillful steps quick and light. Finally, he stooped and refilled the jug, but instead of coming back, he set the clay pot between two stones and walked farther down the river.

“Where are you going?” Beth called to him, irritated he had ventured so far away, but she received no answer as he disappeared around the bend.

Anger surged through her. It was unsafe to leave her alone and unaccompanied on the open road. With the painful memory of Peter’s slap, she pulled Blackthorne to a small tree and wrapped the rope around a low branch. She may have been a lowly servant, but she wasn’t Gareth’s, and she refused to be ordered about, especially if following those orders left her vulnerable.

Mindful of the thorn bushes, Beth made her way down the bank, following Gareth’s path. With determined steps, she strode past the water jug and around the river’s bend. There she found Gareth, boots in the shallows, with a wooden spool and a fishing line, casting into the dark, gray water. Death was the punishment for poaching. All fish in the waterways belonged to the manor house, and the punishment for thievery was as swift as it was certain.

Beth watched as Gareth tugged the line and twirled the spool, pulling a squirming trout from the water. He was reckless. Rude. Full of himself. But as he gently removed the hook and placed the fish in his satchel, his tenderness gave her pause. She watched as he cast the line again. Clearly, the risky endeavor was not new to him. In no time, he had hauled up another fat trout. It was clear now why Gareth was not keen on her company. A potential witness to his crime only brought more danger.

Satisfied, he rolled up the line and turned to leave, catching Beth’s angry stare. He sauntered over with a brazen grin. “Not to worry. Lord Charles won’t miss two fish,” he said, giving the bag a gentle pat.

“His lordship will have you swinging from the highest limb if I tell the warden,” she answered, just as boldly.

Gareth stood and brushed his hands on his breeches. “You won’t tell,” he replied smoothly, scrambling back up to the road.

Beth grabbed the water jug and followed him. “Won’t I?”

Gareth turned and leveled his eyes at her. “You didn’t stop me. You didn’t yell for help. You did nothing. I’ll say you were in on it. I’ve given it plenty of thought.” Gareth took the jug from her and secured it to the saddle.

“You’re a thief and a liar,” she snapped.

“Call me what you will,” Gareth said, untying Blackthorne and leading him back to the road. “But we all do what we must.”

Beth’s temper eased to a simmer as they made their way in silence, passing harvested orchards and duck-filled ponds, cows grazing in meadows, and wheat fields cut to the quick; the wheat berries already hulled and ground into coarse flour for the winter months ahead.

Soon, they came upon a small farmhouse with a thatched roof, a cowshed, and several outbuildings. Neatly stacked stone walls lined the surrounding fields, freshly harrowed. Without warning, Gareth stopped at the cobbled path leading to the farmhouse door. He eyed the road up and back, then let out a long whistle between his thumb and forefinger. A moment later, the wooden door creaked open and a slight woman with graying hair appeared in the doorway. Gareth was already hurrying down the path toward her.

Dressed in a simple frock and apron, she took Gareth’s shoulders and assessed him up and down, then folded him in her arms in a tight embrace. Beth watched the reunion with a pang of longing. A memory stirred of warm bread and acceptance but was gone as quickly as it’d come.

They shared a few words before Gareth handed her a trout from his bag, and with a quick peck on his cheek, the woman took the fish and closed the door.

“Your mother?” Beth asked when he returned.

Gareth nodded and adjusted Blackthorne’s harness. “My family struggles despite my position at the manor house. Times are hard. Winter will only make it harder. I help when I can.”

Beth pondered his words and the sagging thatch on the cowshed roof. “Why not give your mother both fish, then?”

Gareth’s jaw tightened as he led Blackthorne on without an answer.

Eventually, the countryside boasted larger farms, outposts, and tanneries, and before long, the winding cart road turned into a proper street, swarming with people as they entered the village.

They walked amid the routine of peasant life, a swirl of bustling commotion. Women hurried on their way with tasks and errands to complete. Some bore baskets brimming with produce, while others maneuvered carts laden with nuts and berries gathered from the forests. Horses dragged hay wagons down mud-thick streets as children darted in and out of the chaos with playful abandon. Conversations mingled together over the calls of vendors hawking their wares.

“Edward Hasting’s wife birthed another babe last night. That makes ten now, I think,” Beth heard a woman say.

“At this rate, who can keep count?” another woman said, and they both exchanged rueful glances.

The stench of horses, mules, and sheep blended with the aroma of baking bread. The pungent scent of wood smoke puffed from stone chimneys. Along the way, they collected the items on the list, including string, a marking gauge, an awl, yards of white cloth, and olive oil. As Beth added the items to the hamper, she thought it strange that carpenters would need cloth and oil to repair a library.

“What’s left?” Gareth asked as Beth slipped the list back inside her apron.

“Nails,” she said, “two buckets’ worth. We’ll need to find a blacksmith.”

Gareth stiffened. “I know where to find nails,” he snapped, his face set in a rigid scowl.

Beth flinched at the edge in his voice, unsure what had triggered the gruff response.

A few blocks down, they came upon a blacksmith shop. Outside was a worn sign with a crude carving of a horseshoe and mallet. A few horses tethered to the hitching post near the entrance whinnied and snorted for attention. The double doors to the shed were open, and Gareth and Beth stepped inside.

“Good morning, Father,” Gareth called out over the clanging of metal.

Beth’s eyes widened.

George Montgomery stood at the enormous bellows. Both hands gripped the long wooden handle as he pumped the air in and out like a tremendous lung. The coals glowed dull black to fiery red as the air breathed new life into the hard lumps.

Gareth’s father was a broad, formidable man. His muscular arms pulled the handle with ease. He wore a sleeveless shirt, long breeches, and a heavy leather apron. A thick cap protected his head from wayward sparks.

“Good morning,” Gareth shouted again at his father to no avail.

In the corner sat a young boy, no older than ten years, sorting a crate of finished hand tools. “Gareth!” he yelled cheerfully.

“My brother, Rafe,” he told Beth as the boy left his post and ran to them, his face glowing with delight.

Beth smiled, a wistful ache blooming inside her as the boy bounded toward his brother.

Gareth playfully tousled the lad’s sand-colored locks. “Father, has you working harder than a pack mule, I see.”

“I don’t mind,” Rafe answered, eyeing Beth with interest. “It beats mucking the cowshed for Mother.”

The whooshing bellows stopped as Gareth’s father approached.

“This is Beth, her ladyship’s maidservant,” Gareth told his father before he could ask. “We’ve been sent for supplies.”

“We need nails, sir, if you please,” Beth stammered awkwardly.

George grunted, then turned his gaze to Gareth. “Master Telford stopped in yesterday for new horse bits. Mentioned you’ve been much preoccupied with things other than your stable duties.” Soot darkened his cheeks, and his penetrating eyes expressed much disapproval. “He speaks of a girl who visits the stables frequently.” His dark eyes flicked back to Beth.

“It is the maidservant, Kat, from the kitchen, Father, and I don’t encourage her.”

Beth stiffened. Perhaps Kat’s designs on Gareth were more advanced than she’d thought.

George grunted again. “Yet she still comes,” he growled. “She is an unwelcome distraction. Make yourself indispensable. It is the only way to rise in the ranks.”

Gareth pulled back his shoulders. “I don’t intend to rise in the ranks, Father,” he answered, a sharp edge in his voice. “I wish to make my way in this world. I’ve told you that many times!”

Beth swallowed hard as the two men locked eyes, both stubborn and unyielding. Gareth’s carefree spirit and sense of adventure clashed with his father’s grounded, practical nature. Between them stood a gulf.

A hollowness settled over Beth. She had no memory of such arguments. No father’s voice rising in anger. No guiding hand to offer advice—nothing at all.

The opening door and the arrival of two men interrupted the battle of wills. Beth’s blood ran cold. The cleric and the lord who’d struck Peter stood before her. Their eyes surveyed the humble shop as if it were an insult.

“No one has shod them!” the lord shouted at George, motioning to the horses outside.

“There is work ahead of you, sir,” George said, his tone switching from that of an angry father to a diplomatic tradesman. He gestured to the pitchfork in the forge.

The old cleric stepped forward. “My name is Reverend William Holbrook and this,” he nodded at the scowl-faced man, “is Sir Richard Bayne. Her Majesty commissions us to enforce the penal rule of Protestants.” He peered at young Rafe, who half hid behind his brother. “The boy did not mention the urgency of the matter when the squire delivered our horses?”

“The boy did not,” George answered, his face flushing.

The scowling man, Richard Bayne, suddenly lunged at Rafe, brandishing the boy by the neck scruff. Rafe let out a yelp as Bayne flung him to the dirt floor. He raised a gloved hand to punish Rafe further, but Gareth grabbed Bayne from behind and threw him onto the trestle table. Nails and farming tools scattered across the ground.

Bayne sprang from the floor; his eyes crazed with shock and rage. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Gareth. “Boy thinks he’s a hero!”

Beth wanted to scream for the fighting to stop, but as with when the man had slapped Peter, she found herself rooted in place, her battering heart the only part of her that moved.

George grabbed the firepit poker and took two daunting steps toward Bayne.

“Cease at once!” the cleric shouted. Everyone halted as if the very words held the queen’s power. “Have our horses ready by day’s end,” he told George, then turned to Sir Bayne. “Come. We’ve no time for folly when graver sins await judgment.” His tone was that of a master bringing a dog to heel. “We must hurry to the priest discovered at the Hastings house. Have the men bring fresh horses.”

They turned to leave, but the reverend suddenly stopped. His cold, granite eyes settled on Beth. Her heart raced as he gave her a long, curious look. “You are the girl from the road. The one with the careless driver.”

Beth nodded, her words lost to her once again.

“Did you find your way to . . .” he paused, “Bodsworth Hall, was it?” His voice was calm, disarmingly so, as if the current situation was beneath him.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered softly.

He turned to Bayne with a humorless smile. “Come,” he said, and the two men departed.

George wasted no time in assessing Rafe. “Are you hurt, son?” He held the boy by the shoulders and studied his face.

“No, Father.”

Satisfied, George’s voice took on a more admonishing tenor. “Why did you not tell me about the horses?”

Gareth stepped forward and wrapped a protective arm around his brother. “He made a mistake, Father. That is all. I am sure he’s sorry. Am I right, Rafe?”

Rafe rubbed his tear-stained face as his head bobbed up and down, his eyes bright with fresh tears. “I am very sorry, Father.”

George’s chest swelled like a bellow, and he sighed, patting Rafe’s tiny head. His eyes narrowed at Gareth and Beth. “If I am to get those horses shod today, I’ll need help.”

* 

As Beth lugged water from a nearby stream, she was doubly glad to have chosen her work shoes that morning for the walk and not her Sunday latchet slippers. Gareth and George worked at a punishing rhythm, hammering out the horseshoes, while Rafe fetched a meal from his mother, happy to be free of work for a while.

“I feel for Edward Hastings,” Beth heard George tell Gareth as she emptied the bucket into the water barrel. “The priest’s fate is sealed. He’ll go to the tower and die horribly. Edward will most likely pay a heavy fine, maybe worse, and with all those children and a new babe, I don’t know how they’ll manage.”

Gareth turned to Beth. “The cleric said he remembered you from the road.”

She set the empty bucket down and sat on a stool to rest. “Yes. They stopped me and my driver, Peter, on the road to Bodsworth.”

“They stop everyone,” George added sourly. “No one is without suspicion.”

Beth was about to speak of the violence Peter had endured, but little Rafe burst through the door, breathless. A woven basket hung from one arm, and a loaf of bread was tucked under the other. His face was pale, and his eyes were round with fright.

“Rafe? What is it, son?” George said.

“They’ve brought Master Hastings to the scaffold! They mean to flog him! The old man with the pointed hat demands everyone in the village bear witness!”

George paused for a moment and then slipped off his gloves. “Damn them! May God give Edward the strength to bear it.” He shook his head. “We cannot ignore the cleric’s ruling.”

Beth looked pleadingly at Gareth. Witnessing such inhumanity was more than she could bear.

“All must attend. It is demanded,” Gareth said to her before she could say the words. “The queen’s men will take account of those who don’t obey.”

George closed and bolted the smithy doors, and they joined the throng of villagers surging toward the crossroads, the heart of village life. Gareth’s mother appeared, long-faced and tearful, and took her place beside her husband.

“Father made me come!” Rafe wailed, burying his little face in her apron.

She wrapped her arms around the boy and gave George a wary look. “Can’t I take him away from here?”

George’s eyes swept the crowd, and he shook his head. “No, Agnes, you know they’ll take notice of who’s missing.”

The crowd’s restlessness grew. Beth watched in terror as soldiers dragged Edward Hastings from his hovel near the village center. She glanced down the road at the pitiful structure—its roof gaping with a hole that sufficed as a vent for the cooking smoke. The walls, crudely packed with mud and stick, could have belonged to a livestock shed. She could scarcely imagine how twelve souls dwelt in such misery.

Edward was a mere husk of a man—shoulders rounded, arms scarcely thicker than tinder sticks. Blood dripped around his mouth from the beating already delivered by the soldiers. His dazed wife stumbled behind him, still in her stained birthing smock, with a trail of crying children behind her. A tiny bundle wrapped in cloth wailed in the crook of her arm.

A man leaned closer to George. His sour breath stank of ale.

“They found the priest an hour ago giving the babe a baptism,” he said in a low voice.

“Twas not a problem last week. Only saying the Mass was forbidden,” George replied.

The man’s rumy eyes widened. “Everything Catholic is illegal now, my friend. Her Majesty decreed it two days ago after the trouble with the rebels up north.” He lowered his voice even further. “You’d think she would’ve given more time for news to spread and the law to take hold before making it treason.”

“Just as well,” Beth heard the woman next to them say, “the queen’s right to punish the clergy who keep the Mass in Latin and not allow decent folk to read the Bible in English. I heard the saintly relics taken from the abbey were only pig bones and lamb’s blood! Flogging is too good for him. That’s what I say!” She peered at George, Gareth, Beth, and little Thomas. “You aren’t Catholic now, are ya?” Her eyes studied their faces closely.

“I am not,” George shot back, planting his hands on his hips. “But what if I were? Is that what we do now? Turn on friends and neighbors?”

Beth looked at Agnes. Her face went pale as her husband trod on dangerous ground. Her eyes silently begged him to stop. Yet, he continued.

“I follow rules. Those who frequent my smithy know I’m a fair man. I abide by the Church of England, and for a year now we have lived in harmony, side by side, Catholics and Protestants alike. Her Majesty tallied loyal subjects over religion.” His voice grew louder as the surrounding onlookers listened in.

“I’d wager most of Surrey wakes on the morn and goes about their business thinking only of the day’s work. They pay no mind to how their neighbors worship or who they pray to when a child falls ill, a horse goes lame, or the village well runs dry.”

“Aye, aye . . .” murmured a few voices nearby.

Despair and anger rose in George’s voice. “They care only that their children are well, horses mend, and water is abundant, and whatever God answers that plea is the one for them.”

“What about the abbey that paid the manor tax on the backs of villagers and the travelers on pilgrimage fooled into buying useless relics?” a voice from the crowd challenged.

Before George could answer, two men pulled a wagon bearing a metal cage to the front of the crowd. Inside, an old priest with a puckered face rocked back and forth on his knees, murmuring prayers for a deliverance that never came. Soldiers dragged Edward up the scaffold stairs, tore off his ragged shirt, and bound his wrists to the whipping post.

Beth’s legs wavered beneath her, and she clutched her skirts, steadying herself.

Reverend Holbrook climbed to the top of the scaffold with measured steps and strode forth to the center of the platform. His black, ankle-length cassock brushed the rough planks as he clutched a leather-bound Bible to his chest. His pinched face turned to speak as the bound, bare-backed Edward whimpered behind him.

“Dutiful people of Surrey,” he began, his voice lilting and bright, as if addressing a wedding feast. “I bring to you a wretched soul in direct disobedience of Her Majesty’s penal decree of religious obedience.” He turned his gaze to Edward. “This man was found harboring a papist priest—one caught performing a secret baptism on this innocent babe.” His claw-like hand rose, a knobby finger singling out Mistress Hastings and the trembling family cowering before the crowd. “In times past, our most gracious queen showed mercy toward such heresy and treachery—but no more. Since Pope Pius, in his arrogance, has issued his Papal Bull of excommunication against our sovereign, Her Majesty shall henceforth show no leniency. From this day forward, all who refuse to acknowledge her as the Supreme Head of the Church of England, and persist in the idolatry of Rome, shall be deemed traitors.”

Holbrook stepped aside as Bayne reached the top of the platform, brandishing a whip made of long leather straps embellished with bits of metal.

“God be with him,” Beth whispered, dread coiling in her chest, as she swayed against Gareth. His hand slipped into hers, and she let it rest there, grateful for the comfort.

With the slightest of nods from the reverend, Bayne raised the weapon of torture high above his head and brought it down hard across Hastings’s back.

George shielded Rafe’s peeking eyes as Edward’s scream pierced the air like an arrow sprung from a crossbow. He twisted and bucked but could not escape the whip. Blood sprayed across the straw.

The bitter taste of bile rose in Beth’s throat as Edward’s skin flayed open before her with each brutal strike. Again and again, the whip fell as Mistress Hastings wailed.

Finally, her husband’s screams grew silent as he went limp. Yet, Bayne continued the punishment with crazed eyes and a sweaty brow until the reverend lightly touched his shoulder to stop him, but not before he landed one last strike.

In the deafening silence, the crowd dispersed as a few villagers cut poor Edward down and carried him off. Some good-hearted women tended to Mistress Hastings, leading her away along with her crying children. Soldiers pulled the wagon carrying the priest behind Reverend Holbrook and Bayne as they moved along with the rest of the queen’s retinue. The job was done. A harsh warning had been delivered. A message delivered in blood. 

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