I am blogging progressively later, that's how you know I am up to something. As it is, I am up to many, many things this week. For the second installment of Pages of Pigments I am sharing something with you a little different. Something right out of London 1666. Lucky for you, I was a drama major. FYI, this bit hasn't come back from the editor yet. Sometimes, especially late at night my eyes fail me.
I. See. Commas.
If you haven't checked it out yet, here is Pages of Pigments Part I--where you can read the first 3 Chapters of the book. Make sure you enter the giveaway. It's posted here, as well at the first post. There are ways to enter everyday! I *want* you to win.
Freshly fallen leaves crunched below the toes of her cream slippers. Tufts of the crinkly foliage gathered near rocks and tree roots, but most of it still was attached to the branches overhead. Large pockets of leaves were still green, and they stood out among waves of yellow and red. The wind seemed to whistle through them like they were curved lips as they danced and shook all around her.
Lucia was lost, in her head, and in these never ending woods. There were too many sounds, too many smells. All slightly out of focus like an old photograph, like baby pictures she had forgotten were ever taken, even though they were of her. Everything was so dull, and far away, until a sharp crack sounded from behind. Her burgundy dress glimmered, catching the light as she whirled around.
“I beseech thee young miss. Do not be leery, for though I be neither friend, nor foe, I could never raise but a finger to your porcelain skin.”
It seemed hundreds of years out of place, but Lucia would know that voice anywhere. How could she have forgotten it? How had she not known him the moment she saw him again.
“Oh, I know thee well Leonardo Stone, Painter of Light, and thou hast spent many moonlights by my windowsill, singing verse to I; who was feigning sleep. Beseech me not. Though I know thou would not strike my flesh, I cannot say the same for my heart, for thou are betrothed to the fair Helena!”
It’s a very strange thing to relive your heart breaking the exact same way all over, splitting as if by old fault lines that had long healed and had since been forgotten.
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