Angie Thompson's Blog

Am I early…ier than usual this month? Yes, I am. But I think I hinted last month that I might have something special coming, and here it is!

You guys, it’s my first ever paid submission! And I honestly didn’t realize saying that was going to give me such a rush. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never been paid for my writing before—I’ve sold ebooks and print books on my own and been accepted into anthologies with a royalty-split agreement. And it’s not like I’ve never had my writing picked for anything—I’ve won story contests, even one with a non-monetary prize, and been chosen for anthologies with only a certain amount of space. But somehow…just the feeling of having someone say “I like your work enough that I will give you money for the privilege of publishing it” feels very special in a way I never anticipated. ❤️

So, today I present my first ever paid submission, published this week at The Alchemist’s Cabin. I do need to give a small disclaimer that this is not, as far as I know, a Christian publication, and I can’t personally vouch for the rest of the pieces they’ve published, but I definitely felt God’s tug on my heart to submit, and I’m looking forward to seeing what He chooses to do with it. So if anyone has a moment to pop over and read it, and maybe leave a like or a comment or forward it to someone you think would enjoy it, it would mean the world to me. And whether you read it or not, I pray your day is filled with the kind of blessings you weren’t even looking for and maybe didn’t even know you wanted. 😊

Another Gathering

On the eve of his outlaw clan’s annual Gathering, a young thief’s world is rocked by an unexpected encounter, causing him to question everything he thought he understood about his world—and the king who rules it.

The Alchemist's CabinAnother Gathering“I want to go with you.” Elfred kicked his feet as he sat at the bottom of the cot—feet that still didn’t quite reach the floor, despite his recent surge in growth…Read more4 days ago · 12 likes · 4 comments · The Alchemist's Cabin and Angie Thompson

Have a wonderful month!

~ Angie

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Hey! Once again, I’m breaking normal format to bring you something different. But you know what—I’m not going to apologize. In fact, I’m going to let myself keep experimenting and trying different ideas and giving you the absolute best I have to offer in a given month. Sometimes that might be a standalone short, other times it might be a mishmash of random thoughts, and sometimes I will absolutely continue to bring my characters in and let them create their own special brand of chaos. But I think you and I will all have more fun if I go with whatever I’m most excited to give you, whether it fits in the existing mold or not. Besides, we all know that defying molds is kind of my thing, yes? 😂

Anyway, this month, it’s a short story that I wrote for a contest and then couldn’t resist sharing here when it didn’t win. (Which, totally fair—no complaints, and I got some very nice feedback, along with a cute story which I wouldn’t have thought of otherwise. I really love the little story bits my brain throws at me sometimes!) 😊 Oh, and speaking of which, look forward to next month when I get to share a story that did get chosen for an actual paid publication—my first ever, if you don’t count royalty-split deals. I was seriously not expecting to be chosen for that one, and I can’t wait to share it with you!

But back to this month’s story—here you go! This is honestly my favorite kind of thing to share, when I can just drop a tiny little finished package into your lap and walk away grinning. I hope you enjoy! Oh, and happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️

The deserted basketball hoop was my first hint of the threatening storm. Not that the weather itself was stormy; it was mild for early February, with only a hint of a breeze. And it wasn’t as though my brother would have left the hoop for anything short of active lightning before his hour of practice was up. If he hadn’t honestly enjoyed the sport, I might have worried about his conscientious insistence on finishing out his practice regardless of conditions. But just now, I was much more concerned about its highly unusual absence.

I parked on the street, just in case the timing was the only thing broken and Val would still want the hoop later, then gathered my things and hurried into the house. Tyler was at his desk in the corner of the living room, which eliminated some of the worst possibilities, and I drew a relieved breath. He looked up, and his face creased with the warm grin that still gave me butterflies after almost a year of marriage.

“Hey, babe. How was your day?”

“Not too bad.” I kicked my shoes into the basket on top of both pairs of Val’s, and the worry that had dimmed in the light of Tyler’s smile roared back to life. “Everything okay with Val?”

Tyler’s expression tightened, and he gave something between a shrug and a head shake that was an answer in itself.

“No idea. Came home and went straight to his room. Didn’t want to talk when I asked. He might talk to you, though…”

I headed for the stairs without bothering to shed my coat, my worry kicking up several notches. Maybe it was being raised by an older sister with a tendency to ramble and a bent toward oversharing, but I could probably count on one hand the times Val hadn’t been willing to talk about what was bothering him. Granted, he’d been more reticent with Tyler at first, but my then-boyfriend had quickly proved himself, and ever since we’d been married, I couldn’t think of a single topic Val had been willing to talk about with me that he wouldn’t broach with Tyler.

At the top of the stairs, I stood and breathed for a moment, putting my composure back in order. If Val wasn’t talking, something had touched a deep wound, and starting out frazzled and flustered and trying to force an explanation wouldn’t help. I whispered a prayer and knocked gently, and after a few seconds of silence, Val answered in a strained voice.

“Yeah?”

“Val, it’s me.” I waited a moment with no response before trying again. “May I come in, please?”

I could almost hear him swallow through the door, but after a few more long seconds, he offered a “yeah” so soft I almost missed it. With a sigh of thanks, I gripped the doorknob and slipped into the room.

Val lay on his stomach on the bed with his head buried deep in the pillows. He hadn’t changed out of his school clothes, and his backpack lay unopened on the floor—even more red flags for my methodical brother.

I crossed to the bed and sat next to him, running a hand gently up and down his spine. A little shiver ran through him, and I waited a moment before attempting to speak again.

“Rough day, kiddo?”

Val groaned softly, and I licked my lips and tried to chart my course. I knew almost nothing about parenting a sensitive fifteen-year-old—but I had known even less about parenting a grieving four-year-old when he’d been handed over to his equally grieving sister without any kind of instruction manual. Somehow by God’s grace I hadn’t ruined him yet, and my heart sent up another silent prayer that this wouldn’t be the time.

“Val…” I whispered the word, trying to force down the lump that threatened to clog my throat. “I can’t help if you don’t talk to me.”

Val’s breathing hitched, and he choked into his pillow, but he still didn’t answer in words, and my heart sank further. I tried to think back over the years to the times I’d seen my brother like this. It was an extremely limited sample, but every instance I could remember had involved some form of teasing or insensitive comment—and Val’s unwillingness to admit that Mom was in some degree at fault for it. And suddenly it hit me that, while the gaudy hearts and overflow of chocolate had taken over the store aisles the day after Christmas, we were almost on top of the one day that had given both of us the most grief in our eleven years together.

“Is it the holiday, Val?”

His shoulders stiffened and slumped, as though he’d considered a denial before accepting the inevitable, and my heart broke all over again. Mom had been an amazing person—both memory and objective fact testified to that. But she had also been a deeply impractical one in some ways, and the names of her babies topped that list. I had gathered my own collection of weird looks and verbal jabs over the years, but the burden of Philomena was nothing compared to the weight that Valentine had been saddled with.

Val shifted on the bed so that part of his face was visible, and the words finally rushed out.

“Phil, I don’t know what to do.”

“Just talk to me, kiddo. We can figure it out. I promise.”

We had always figured it out—from the year he was five and first experienced the teasing of his classmates to the year he was ten and discovered it was no longer the thing to gift paper valentines to the entire homeroom. I spoke with as much confidence as I could muster, hoping desperately that this new wrinkle could also be smoothed out.

“I—I wanted to give—Kayla—something special this year.”

I had nearly panicked last spring when Val had come home from a class field trip and asked how old he had to be to have a girlfriend, but after some long family discussions—and some nearly as long with Kayla’s parents—we had worked out a trial arrangement where their time together was always spent in the company of one family or another. And I had to admit that the experiment had been a success so far—the teens had never complained about the extra layer of scrutiny, and their blossoming relationship was developing a deep root of real friendship that would hopefully stand them in good stead through whatever might come next. But I couldn’t help wondering what he’d thought I thought he was doing as he slaved over yards of purple paracord, braiding collars for her beloved pet goats.

“I know. You’ve been working on it for weeks, remember? It’s a perfect present for her.” A sudden chill brushed my heart, and I tried to force down the quiver in my voice. “Did something—happen? With Kayla?” I had so hoped my sweet brother would be spared the heartbreak that had marked my own early attempts at romance, but he was shaking his head hard.

“Not Kayla. Junie.”

Junie. The name was vaguely familiar, and when I concentrated hard, I could just make out the face of a girl from the church youth group—big eyes framed by round glasses, limp dirty-blonde hair, and outdated thrift-store clothes. Had Val found himself in some sort of uneven love triangle? I couldn’t imagine it, but—

“Some guys were—were teasing her today. After I walked Kayla to homeroom. I guess they thought I was too far to hear. Or maybe they wanted me to. I don’t know.”

“Okay…” I gave up trying to fill in the blanks, and Val drew a shaky breath.

“They said they bet she—she wouldn’t get anything this year—since Cupid was spoken for.”

The words punched me in the gut, but Val rushed on faster, more desperately.

“I want Kayla to feel—special. But I—I started because—all the girls should feel special—and now they’ll feel worse, and—and—”

He hid his face in his pillow with something suspiciously like a stifled sob, and my heart shattered as the truth swept over me. I had caused this. Mom might have started things by tying his name to such a fraught holiday, but it had been my idea to help him “own” that inheritance by giving carnations to every girl in his class. Only now I’d apparently made him responsible for the emotional well-being of those girls in perpetuity and forced him to choose between the girl he truly liked and what he’d been explicitly told was his legacy.

“Oh, Val.” My voice broke as I leaned over and buried my face in his hair. “This is all my fault.”

He made a little noise of protest but couldn’t actually argue. Of course he couldn’t. I had projected all my own insecurities and romantic failings onto a class of middle-school girls and saddled a serious ten-year-old with bridging the emotional turmoil of a centuries-old holiday—what on earth had I been thinking?

Father, how do I fix this?

“Hey, guys.” Tyler’s cautious words reached my ears before the silent prayer had finished. “Can I join?”

Val scrambled up to a sitting position, and Tyler took a seat on the bed, squeezing my hand in a gesture of comfort that I didn’t half deserve. Val gave the dilemma more calmly and succinctly than he had to me, but before I could explain to Tyler how badly I’d botched things, he was rubbing his chin with his thumb in the way that always meant a good idea was coming.

“Help me out, Val. The carnations were never meant to be romantic, right? I mean, you weren’t offering to date every girl in your class.”

Val’s forehead creased, and he shook his head slowly.

“Then tell me what they were for.”

“To—to show the girls they were special—whether they had a boyfriend or not.”

“And has that changed? Are they not all special now that you like Kayla?”

“Sure they are.”

“So what’s stopping you from telling them? Just because some jerks think you can’t have a girlfriend and still be nice to other girls?”

Val’s eyes widened, and his lips parted, closed, and parted again before he answered.

“You don’t think—Kayla would mind?”

“I think you should call her. Give her a chance to tell you what she thinks before you assume—or take the word of someone who doesn’t know her at all.”

“You think she would—”

“Call her. And then tell us what she says.” Tyler stood and tugged me up from the bed, and Val scrambled for his backpack. I followed Tyler into the hall but paused at the top of the stairs.

“Wait. What if this doesn’t work? What if she—”

“Hey.” Tyler tipped my chin up to look at him. “Think I know better than to promise for a teenage girl? Her dad told me last week she’s been dying for an invitation to help.”

“Help?”

“With the carnations. It’s one of the first times she noticed Val—and one of the first reasons she liked him.”

The reversal of feelings was too much, and I sank onto the top step and buried my face in my knees as a wave of gratitude and leftover guilt swept over me. Tyler was next to me in an instant, kissing my hair and cradling my head against his shoulder as I tried to stem the flow of tears that I didn’t want Val to hear.

“Hey, now, none of that.” Tyler’s tone was infinitely tender, as though he could somehow see into the depths of my soul. “You raised a good kid, Phil. Caring goes a lot deeper than romance. And whether it’s Kayla or another girl someday, somebody’ll be proud to call him her Valentine.”

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Hey, everyone!

Just a short update today, and not in my normal format. Maybe it’s payback for what I put Brady through in my last Chronic Warrior Chronicles episode, but this week it’s my turn to be “regular sick” on top of my normal issues. 🫠 Speaking of which, the next episode of the serial starts February 6th, so if you’re interested in that, you can hop over to that publication to read the first episode and sign up for new chapters as they publish! (Although fair warning, if you try to jump straight from Episode 1 into the upcoming Episode 10, you might get a bit of whiplash—some things have happened in the in-between.)

The Chronic Warrior Chronicles

But since a large portion of the country (including me) is in the last stages of preparing for the impending snowpocalypse—or, you know, a few unimpressive inches of snow…who knows? (The weathermen in my area certainly don’t seem to.)—I thought it might be the perfect time for a little sneak sale. Unfortunately, I can’t get you print books before the storm, but if you still have power to your devices, you can take $2 off any ebook order on my store free! That could translate to two free short stories, one free novelette, or just $2 off any larger ebook or combination. And it’s applied automatically to any qualifying order, so no codes to enter. I hope you enjoy, whether you get snow or not! ❤️

Shop the Sale!

Oh, and in honor of the snow and cold, I’m making What the Cat Dragged In entirely free for a few days only (meaning you can get it on top of the $2 discount above!). If you like stories about cute little kids, unexpected heroes, and holding onto hope when things seem darkest, pop over and give it a shot!

What the Cat Dragged In

Stay safe and warm, everyone! See you again soon!

Angie

Thanks for reading Angie Thompson's Author Updates! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

Since I’m in the middle of all the family celebrations right now, I’m not going to try to do something interesting with my characters this month; instead, I’m going to share a new short story that I wrote earlier this month for the Substack Christmas Story Advent Calendar. It was a fun and interesting challenge—every author had to write a story beginning with the last line of the previous author’s story. If you want to check out the rest of the stories, you can find the publication link here. It was a blast to be part of!

Christmas Story Advent Calendar

And if you prefer to read on e-reader or just want your own copy of the story, you can get it free on my ebook store here:

Download A Christmas Return

Whatever version you read, I hope you enjoy! Have a very merry Christmas, and I’ll see you next year! ❤️

A Christmas Return by Angie Thompson

It all started because of a bookmark. Oh, there were other links in the chain, of course—a sappy movie marathon, a miserable cold, and the fact that I’d even taken the job in Clayford to start with—but none of it could have happened without that bookmark.

Of course I’d seen odd things used as bookmarks before. Most librarians had. Some even made lists of the funniest ones and posted them different places online or in person at the library. I had dreams of doing that someday, but the handful of entirely uninteresting receipts, one or two hopefully clean tissues, and a maple leaf that might have just accidentally gotten caught between the pages hadn’t even been enough to start my own list yet.

Not that the lack of “twenty odd things we’ve found in books” material was my biggest disappointment with the Clayford library. I’d snatched up the job posting like it was the last hot toy of the season, sight unseen and still in its box. An honest-to-goodness head librarian position, and the fact that it was a sole librarian with no other staff only made it more alluring in my mind. I’d all but floated into Clayford with a head full of dreams and a notebook full of sketches, only to find that the place was like a muddy rut that had dried right over the wheels of the library and maybe everything else in town.

Some of my hopes had withered a little the minute I got a glimpse of the building. It was old—very old—but not old enough to be historical or at all interesting. The room was completely square, with no enticing little nooks and no natural light at all unless you held the book return slot open at just the right angle. And it was tiny, with the bookshelves bolted to the floor so I couldn’t move them if I wanted to and almost no space to bring in any brightening touches.

Not that I hadn’t tried. After that first disheartening tour, I’d rolled up my sleeves and gone to work with a will. I’d hung an inviting curtain over the children’s section—too inviting, as it turned out when five-year-old Jaxon Ross decided to hide behind it and sent his mother on a frantic search all the way down to the highway. That had gotten me reported to the mayor, who was also the volunteer fire chief, and the curtain had been labeled a fire hazard and ordered down permanently. Next I’d tried tucking my collection of vintage Winnie-the-Pooh dolls artistically along a top shelf, and two-year-old Mila Sutton had promptly tried to climb up after Piglet and pulled a heavy volume of fairy tales down on herself. Finally, I’d settled for a modest pot of mums on my desk, only to be informed by a sheepish teenager that his mom was allergic, and would I mind…?

In their own way, the people of Clayford had been nearly as disappointing as the physical space. They didn’t like change; I was learning that the hard way. Even moving half the DVD collection off the shelf by the front door to make room for a small display of seasonal books brought complaints. One of my first purchases from the library’s meager budget had been a sturdy box and an attractive set of comment cards asking what the library could do better. This was one innovation Clayford had embraced with all its heart, and every time I moved a book so much as an inch from its hallowed position, a slew of comment cards was sure to tell me I ought to put it back.

Adding insult to injury, sometime in the not terribly distant past, someone who was certainly not me had installed a small self-checkout system near the front door, and whether they had resisted it in its infancy or not, Clayford certainly used it now, with only a handful of people even bothering to glance toward my desk—far fewer than the number who actually deigned to ask for my help with anything.

To top it off, the town seemed to have already chosen an unofficial librarian-in-residence for all practical purposes, and it most certainly wasn’t me. Harlan Tucker was the town mechanic and always left a distinct odor of oil and tire rubber behind on his visits, which were more frequent than my sensitive nose appreciated. He had a ridiculously eclectic taste in books and the worst propensity in town for loaning them out to other people—although it was a grudging point in his favor that he never balked at paying the fines that the secondary borrowers accrued. But the worst was that he seemed to be always doling out advice and recommendations from and about the library, if the number of times I’d heard “but Harlan says” were to be even half believed.

Why would anyone in Clayford want the help of a librarian when they could go across the street to the auto body shop and find out everything they wanted to know? I’d asked myself the question in jest on dozens of occasions, but I was beginning to wonder in earnest why they hadn’t just transferred the library to Harlan’s shop a long time ago and spared the expense of heating the extra building. Of course, the county library board would probably have had something to say about that, but I had so hoped that my position here would be at least a little more than a figurehead, even if I couldn’t effect any real change. But this was Clayford’s library, not mine, and they had let me know it very effectively.

On the whole, my first four months on the job had been an abject failure, and the Monday before Christmas had certainly felt like the rotten cherry on top. Mr. Michaelson’s granddaughter in Tallahassee had had to reschedule his weekly FaceTime call, and he’d grumped around the library for an hour, knocking over every book that wasn’t arrayed rigidly in line and asking every three minutes if I was sure Ann wasn’t waiting already. Mrs. Hart had returned a ruined copy of a popular middle-grade title that her son Jenson had dropped in the slush and stormed off angrily when I couldn’t provide an immediate replacement. On top of that, I’d forgotten to mark the book damaged before I checked it in and had to disappoint an eager Olivia Hope when she came to claim it. Two comment cards complained that the dull green of my sweater made them sick; another claimed that the modest string of soft twinkle lights I’d hung above the door would give someone a seizure, and they hoped I’d be the one sued instead of the town.

I had a raging headache by the time I locked up that night and told myself the usual end-of-day chores could wait till tomorrow, no matter how many comment cards complained. But unfortunately for the neglected books, I woke up the next day in the grip of the worst cold I could ever remember. Between sneezing and coughing fits, I managed to call the mayor’s office and inform him that the library would not be opening, and he expressed his regrets but at least had the decency to hope I got well soon before warning me that electric blankets were a major fire hazard and I shouldn’t leave a space heater on while I was sleeping.

I spent a miserable three days curled up in my bed, soaking through all the tissues in the house and half the toilet paper besides. Mayor Adams never questioned my declarations that the library would be closed again, which only told me that I must have sounded every bit as awful as I felt, and probably twice as contagious. I huddled under a pile of non-electric blankets and drifted in and out to the sappy strains of a Hallmark movie marathon on my computer.

It was mid-morning on Christmas Eve when I finally started to feel better. My cough was still annoying but much less frequent; my nose dripped a little but wasn’t pouring like before; and for once, my joints and muscles were screaming at me to do anything but lie in bed. I got up and puttered around the house a bit, made a lunch that wasn’t canned soup, rested a little, then considered my options.

The library was officially closed—had been scheduled to be closed today and tomorrow anyway, so no one would be looking for me there. Still, I had left the children’s shelves a mess, half a cart of nonfiction unshelved, and the book return partially full, and my librarian’s soul rebelled against the thought of leaving that disorder any longer than absolutely necessary. I’d have enough comment cards complaining about the library being unexpectedly closed for three days just before Christmas; couldn’t I at least avoid the ones about its state when it reopened?

I weighed the possibilities for a few minutes more before bundling up in my warmest coat, not bothering to change out of my messy bun and sweatpants, and trekking through the newly fallen snow to my car. After a quick stop at the drugstore to replenish my sadly depleted supply of tissues and throat lozenges, I made my way to the library and crept inside.

My eyes stung against the fluorescent bulbs, and I hesitated only a moment before trading out the stark glare for the milder glow of my desk lamp and the softly fading twinkle lights. I straightened the shelves with the help of the emergency lantern, making myself a mental note to replace the batteries right away, just in case Mayor Adams ever found out I’d used it, then unloaded the book return and settled at my desk to finish the check-ins—all back-dated to the night I’d last left it, of course. Clayford might have an awful habit of returning books late—and worse, of lending loaned books to each other so they couldn’t even be tracked properly—but I certainly wouldn’t let them suffer for the fact that I’d been away so long.

I’d probably overestimated my own strength a little, and by the time I got to the end of the pile, I was nearly ready to fall asleep on my desk. I had just decided I’d brave the comment cards and reshelve the new returns on Monday when a corner of paper sticking out of the last book caught my eye. I thought at first it was a wrinkled page and automatically moved to straighten it, but when I opened the book, I found that it was a bookmark—or more accurately, an old letter that had been used in place of a bookmark.

Probably no librarian could have resisted the lure of that letter; certainly I, with my brain still half-muddled from congestion and Hallmark movies, stood no chance. The pen strokes were heavy and deliberate, the paper deeply creased and yellowed with time. That was all the closer I examined the outward trappings before the words swept me away.

Dear Lily,

God does work in funny ways. Remember when I used to say the library gave me shivers, all so neat and fussy? Never dreamed I’d be setting behind your desk writing this back in those days. Everybody misses you, the kids most of all. They’re all lined up like beggars when I close the shop, though I can’t help half as much as you would. Think of me writing the names of all them books when I couldn’t even write my own name till you got hold of me! They been making me read stories too, even if I do trip over the big words, and today we read one on a man writing his wife just to say he loved her. Got me thinking on how I’d never yet done that for you, so thought I’d oughta do it now. Get well and come back soon. We all sure do miss you.

Your Elmer

I lost track of the minutes as I sat there, engrossed in the wonder of the letter. Lily must have been a librarian—if not in Clayford, then somewhere—and as much as my heart warmed at the hinted romance, it cracked a little at the thought of a line of children waiting at the library door, demanding their stories from the substitute if they couldn’t get them from the librarian herself. The picture was unquestionably out of date, and yet there was so much in it that had been my dream—so much that had always made up the heart and soul of a librarian in my mind.

Order and neatness were a means to an end, but that end was to help people, to inspire them, to lift them above their troubles for a moment and show them the way to something more than they’d known before. How I had wanted to be one of those librarians, and yet I couldn’t help feeling that Clayford would be just as happy—perhaps happier—if I were to replace myself with a reshelving robot and allow them to go on just as they had for who knew how many years before I’d come.

A few hot tears trickled down my cheeks, and I came back to myself with a start and folded the letter away before I could ruin it with my foolish sentiment. Quickly drying my cheeks, I looked back at the book to find that it had been tucked away at the end of Buck’s Christmas Day in the Morning—certainly old enough and appropriate enough to have been the very story Elmer had just been reading. Had the letter been lying there all this time? Had Lily never received it—never known just how deeply her influence had penetrated? Hallmark had me firmly in its grip again, and I was beginning to imagine all kinds of tragic possibilities when a glimpse of the thoroughly modern poem on the next page stopped me in my tracks.

I flipped hastily back to the copyright, and my suspicions were confirmed. The collection had been published only two years ago and certainly couldn’t have belonged to Elmer or Lily—not unless the note was some elaborate forgery. Which had been left barely visible in a library book—to fool the librarian into taking it to—the media? And once it got there, someone would—

Now I was being ridiculous. Maybe I’d overexerted myself and was suddenly spiking a fever. No, quite obviously the letter itself was old but had only recently been left inside the book. Perhaps it was a family heirloom picked up in a bout of absent-mindedness, or thrust in carelessly by a child as the first scrap that came to hand. Whatever the case, it did not belong to me—not until I’d done my part to find the owner.

Waking up my sleeping computer, I scanned the barcode again and pulled up the book’s circulation history. It had been checked out three times in its short lifespan—once last year and twice in the last two months. Last year it had gone to Rosemary Lane—her patron record showed a sweet-faced old woman, but a quick internet search revealed an obituary from June. She might have been of an age to know Lily and Elmer, but there was no asking her now. None of the children listed in the paper were local; perhaps I would try to track them down after Christmas and see if they had any interest in the old letter.

Verena Ross had checked out the book at the end of November; she was a youngish mother of four kids, including the one who had hidden away in my curtain. Would she welcome me to pry into her family history if the letter wasn’t hers? Or if it was, would she be angry that I’d waited to be sure? I had no idea what Clayford’s baffling etiquette would demand I do in this instance. I’d never met Mrs. Ross’s husband, but I thought someone had mentioned he was a firefighter, and they certainly had an in with Mayor Adams. Perhaps the mayor would have some ideas—after the holiday, when he wouldn’t be afraid I’d try to claim time-and-a-half from having snuck in to tidy the library on Christmas Eve.

The third borrower, just two weeks before Christmas, had been Harlan Tucker, and I gave up in despair. I was not going to traipse across the highway to ask a know-it-all mechanic to once again prove that he could do my job better than I could. Even if he did have deeper knowledge of the town and its residents—even if he could probably point out Lily and Elmer’s family on sight—even if the comment cards would excoriate me for not turning to him in the first place—my word, was I getting tired! I should absolutely go home…I should probably not drive like this…I should maybe get up and walk to wake myself up…I should definitely not put my head down on my arms on the desk…

“Miss Shemanski?”

Something was jostling my arm, and a vaguely unpleasant scent hung heavy in the air. My head was foggy…but I wasn’t in bed…where on earth… Icy cold slid across my forehead, and I yelped and launched backward—straight into the cinder-block wall of the library, though my office chair took most of the force and immediately snapped me back to my place at the desk.

Harlan Tucker stood on the other side, hands raised in a placating gesture, a look of half-confusion and half-worry frozen on his face. What on earth? I had fallen asleep at my desk; that much was obvious, but—then what? Was I still dreaming? Or had I somehow selected his contact number from the patron information screen and left some sort of rambling message that I wasn’t coherent enough to remember?

“Sorry. Sorry to bother you, ma’am.” He spoke in a soft, soothing tone, as though trying to calm a nervous animal. “I was just headed home and saw the footprints going in and not coming back. Heard you’d been sick and wanted to be sure you were okay.”

By the time he’d finished, my face was burning hot in a way that had nothing to do with fever. Of all the ways to be found—of all the people to be found by—of all the states to be in when it happened! Everything from my messier-than-messy bun to my sweatpants and fuzzy socks to the trail of liquid that had dripped from my nose onto my sleeve as I slept—everywhere I looked only deepened my embarrassment.

“I’m fine.” Of course a coughing fit chose that instant to attack, and my nose insisted on running in sympathy. I grabbed a tissue from my desk and blew hard. “I’m so sorry. I was just headed home—I only stopped for―” I had no idea how long it had been. “I’m not—actually working, honest. I just wanted to—to―”

“Hey, easy. I’m not judging.” Harlan lowered himself to sit on the edge of my desk, glancing around the dimly lit library. “You sure you’re all right? Want me to leave?”

“Yes! No. I don’t care.” And now I couldn’t even manage damage control without piling on the awkwardness. Something in the back of my mind whispered that I’d watched this scene play out more than once recently, but I squelched it hard. I’d made enough of a mess of this situation without my fuzzy brain trying to make it into some ridiculous romcom.

I grabbed for my bag and started to stand before the power light on my computer alerted me that I hadn’t gotten as far as shutting it down before I dozed off. I held my breath as the library program booted up, painfully aware of the last screen I’d had it on—but in a moment of small mercies, my access had timed out, and I worked on closing the programs as fast as I could.

“I love this little place.” Harlan spoke so softly I nearly missed it, but when I glanced up, he was looking at the twinkle lights and not at me. “Didn’t have the greatest life growing up. Library was more my home than home was sometimes.”

For the first time since coming to Clayford, I felt a thrill of something like connection with Harlan Tucker. I didn’t share his experience—I’d grown up in a great family—but I too had adored my home library. And it sounded like he had been one of those children I’d dreamed of reaching, if he’d only been born a generation or two later. Maybe it made sense that everyone looked at him as the heart of the library, if he’d been a part of it for so long.

“I wish I could make a difference like that.” The words slipped out before I knew it, and I wasn’t sure if I was sorry or not. Harlan looked surprised, as though he hadn’t expected me to speak at all, and I couldn’t help remembering the little ways I’d found to avoid him on most of his visits to the library.

“Doesn’t take much, Miss Shemanski. It’s the little things that make all the difference.”

“Oh, I know it!” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that the congestion and sleepiness were still dulling my inhibitions, but I couldn’t bring myself to care enough to stop. “Little things like shifting books, and twinkle lights, and the color of my sweater, and all the thousand and one other things I can’t get right no matter how hard I try!”

“Whoa, slow up, ma’am! What’s all that about? I never heard tell about any of those things, except your lights up there. I think they’re nice.”

Somehow those words shattered the dam, and the whole story poured out like a flood—all my hopes and dreams in accepting this position, the complete failure of all my attempts at change, the strong opinions on everything that had flooded the comment card box, and even the way that his name was invariably brought up when I tried to offer a word of suggestion. When I finished, I buried my face in my hands and immediately had to reach for another tissue to wipe my streaming nose. Harlan Tucker didn’t respond for a moment, then to my complete shock, he suddenly burst out laughing.

“Oh, ma’am!” It took him a few seconds to choke out the words, and he shook his head, still chuckling. “That’s Clayford for you. Stubborn and opinionated as all get out, but when they take you in, they’ll hold on for life. Give it time, Miss Shemanski. You’ve got the right stuff in you. You’ll make this place your own.”

“You really think?” My voice shook a little, but Harlan’s nod carried nothing but confidence.

“I do. Mrs. Evandale didn’t have a lot of new ideas, and I think we’ve all gotten a little bit stuck in our ways. We could use somebody to shake us out of it. Don’t let a few setbacks stop you. You got more grit than that—just like my aunt Lily.”

“Your—who?” I sucked in a breath at the name and barely held back another coughing fit.

“Aunt Lily. Great-aunt, really.” Harlan’s smile softened as he traced the edge of the desk. “She’s the one that got this library going in the first place. Built it up from nothing. She had real grit, Aunt Lily did.”

Without a word, I slid the letter from the side of my desk and placed it in his hand. He looked puzzled for a second, but then his face cleared.

“Left it in a book, huh? Bet I can tell you where too. It was Uncle Elmer’s favorite story. Not that I ever knew them, but my cousin Joanne—Lily and Elmer’s daughter—used to tell me all about it. Maybe because I loved Lily’s library so much. She’d have been appalled at the things I leave in books sometimes, though—especially when a call about a part comes in.”

He tucked the letter into an inside pocket of his coat, then glanced toward the untouched Christmas display.

“I wonder. If they’re all so set on what Harlan thinks—and I don’t know why they should be—but I wonder what they’d do with a shelf of what we like together?”

“You think—we have that much in common?”

“I think I’d like to find out.” Something soft might have flashed in Harlan’s gaze for just an instant, but it was gone before I could even be sure of it. “But if you don’t have a place in your heart for Dr. Seuss, I might have to talk to the library board.”

“Which Dr. Seuss book, if you could only pick one?”

Harlan groaned as if I’d stabbed him.

“How can you make me pick? That’s what libraries are for, isn’t it? All right. Green Eggs and Ham. And you?”

“One Fish, Two Fish.”

“So maybe a shelf of ‘also likes’, then.” Harlan grinned, and I giggled, then had to stifle another coughing spasm. I fumbled for a lozenge, and Harlan looked up at the clock, just barely visible in the glow of the twinkle lights.

“We best be getting you back home, ma’am. You’re worn out, and you’re not quite over being sick yet. If you’re tired of bed, I’d suggest curling yourself up on the couch tomorrow with a good book.” He reached for the Christmas anthology still sitting on the edge of the desk and slid it toward me with a wink. “Think I’ll follow you back just to make sure you get in safe. You ready to go?”

“Almost. Give me just a minute.” I glanced toward the bathroom, and Harlan stood with a nod.

“I’ll wait for you outside.”

When I left the bathroom again, Harlan was gone, but I could hear the low rumble of his truck waiting on the street. I shut off the lamp and the twinkle lights, slid my laptop and the book into my bag, and was fiddling with the lock on the door when I noticed another corner of paper, this one sticking out from the top of the comment card box. My heart sank a little as I reached for it, but somehow I couldn’t help myself.

I smoothed the card against the door and squinted at the bold script in the glow of the nearby streetlight, and a lump formed in my throat that had nothing to do with the lingering cold.

Lose the comment cards, ma’am. Folks’ gripes don’t stick near as long if they don’t set them in writing. Lily’d be proud to see you at her desk. You’ll do just fine.

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“Loe, are you sure you’re all right in there?” Jaelyn rubbed her hand in nervous circles across her swollen middle as she leaned forward a bit in the rocking chair to study the place where her brother’s legs disappeared into the odd, illuminated wall.

A distracted hum was Loegan’s only response, and Jaelyn sat back with a sigh, casting a worried glance toward the closed office door. This technology was so different from the cogs and steam that Loegan understood so well—who knew what kind of unsuspected dangers lurked within the depths of the odd tracings of wire and tiny pegs. She ought to have considered more carefully before she suggested the course of action, but Loegan had held her so hard when they’d met in the hallway, had closed his lips so hard on the subject of what had happened to him since she’d seen him last.

The spark in his eye when she’d mentioned the notes she’d seen the last time she’d been here had become almost dangerous when he’d seen the possibilities—and surely the author wouldn’t allow him to be hurt here, whatever she allowed in his story. Jaelyn’s jaw hardened, and she lifted her chin, turning pointedly away from the closed door and bending close to watch Loegan again.

“There!” Her brother slid free of the hole and replaced the missing panel, then fiddled with the odd board full of letters he’d found tucked into the mass of cords somewhere. Something flashed on the wall, and a new picture appeared, parallel with the softly falling leaves on most of the surface. “Done. We ought to be able to snoop on her machine as much as we like now.”

“Try what she’s been searching. It was quite illuminating last time.”

Loegan tapped a few keys, and a list began to scroll on the screen.

“What’s that grouping?” Jaelyn pointed to a hidden section, and Loegan squinted at the note.

“It says ‘research for my contest story; not to be shared because Katja reads this newsletter.’ Should I try to open it anyway?”

“It would serve her right.” Jaelyn scowled but shook her head. “No. She has your life in her hands as it is. Don’t tempt her any further.”

Loegan shuddered and moved on to the next item.

“Something about—eye injuries and blindness in history?”

“Oh, I hope that’s not about us!” Jaelyn’s face washed suddenly white, and she fell back in her chair with a look of horror.

“Ignore it, Jae—there’s nothing else here to show that she’s thinking of us. Dozens of references to her thesaurus—I’m beginning to wonder if she actually knows any words. More injuries, and something about medieval remedies? That can’t be about us. How to stop boots from squeaking, and lists of types of criminals? What on earth is she writing now?”

“I’m not sure I want to know.” Jaelyn shook her head as she cast a wary look toward the author’s closed door.

“There are a few things here tagged with ‘share.’ Should we leave those untouched, just to spite her?”

“No. Though I am starting to wonder if she knew we’d be seeing this. But go ahead and say them. Or else she’ll come out and lecture us, and I don’t think I can take that from her today.”

“Well, one of them is just a sale. The note says some people have probably seen it around multiple times already, but for the rest, it’s got hundreds of indie books—whatever those are—all for $0.99 or free through Cyber Monday—whatever that is. She recommends that you check it out—but I’ll leave it to whoever’s listening how much they trust her judgment.”

Black Friday Book Sale

“And there’s a different link if you want to see her books only.”

Quiet Waters Press Store

“Is that all?” Jaelyn glanced back toward the hallway, but their door remained closed, and Loegan shook his head.

“No, she says to watch this space to for something special coming in early December. There’s some sort of Christmas story collaboration in the works, and if any other Christian authors want in, they can get the details somewhere around here.”

Christmas Story Advent Calendar

“Anything else?”

“Just one more. It’s not a link—it looks like it might be—a picture of some kind? Oh.”

The sudden change in Loegan’s tone had his sister turning to look at him, and her breath caught as she took in the sight.

“I—I suppose whatever’s happened—you can’t say she’s entirely forgotten us. You and Eben anyway, whatever she’s planned for me.”

Jaelyn shook her head and blinked hard against the sudden moisture in her eyes. The door clicked open behind her, but she lingered where she was a long moment, taking the picture in with wistful, hungry eyes before wrapping her arms around her brother and hugging him hard as the room faded to black.

Character art by Leraynne S. on Fiverr

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Hey, everyone!

No character shenanigans this month, because I’m just barely crawling out of the trenches of this month’s projects—namely, setting up a new shop and getting all the links switched over on my website. Oh, and, you know, the little task of publishing a new short story collection. You know…small things like that. 😂

So, first things first—why a new shop? Well, mainly because I’ve finally decided to take the plunge into selling print copies direct. But that meant switching over to a shop that will take care of all the tax implications for me (because that is a headache I am not ready to deal with). So, meet my new shop on Fourthwall!

Visit the Shop

From here, you’ll be able to buy ebooks and have them delivered just like on my previous Payhip shop. But you’ll also be able to buy print books (signed or unsigned) for a dollar less than they appear on Amazon! (Although the price doesn’t include shipping, so if Amazon is the better value proposition for you, that’s just fine too.)

And to celebrate the grand opening, I’m offering a dollar off my new short-short collection (ebook only at this point—I’m still working on the print). You may have already read some of these on my website, but there’s a brand new one (Defect) that’s exclusive to this collection. And for this week only, you can get the full collection for only $0.99!

Here’s what’s included:

Daring. Devotion. Duty.

A desperate stowaway gets more than she bargained for while an older brother finds an unexpected way to take up his father’s mantle. A pair of injured friends receives a holiday surprise as a determined sister searches for ways to make the most out of little. A Norwegian resistance fighter learns a lesson in sacrifice while a pair of spy siblings reconnect over a mission gone wrong and a young workman struggles between duty and dreams.

Heroism, honor, and heart fill the pages of these seven stories, each less than 2,000 words.

Buy Worth Another Thousand

Oh, and if you happen to be a Christian lady who’s also a writer, sign-ups for our November writing camp are now open. I’d love to see you there!

King's Daughters Writing Camp

And I think that’s it for now… I’ll see you again next month—hopefully with something a little more creative. 😅 Happy reading!

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“Please forgive the mess in here.” Jaelyn swept an armful of maps and loose notebook paper off one of the chairs in the cluttered room and motioned the barefoot girl behind her to sit. “Oh, my dear, you’re freezing! Here, take this.” She snatched up a shawl that had slipped behind the chair and wrapped it around the younger girl’s trembling shoulders, and Maiwenn hid her face in it for a moment before looking up with brimming eyes.

“Aren’t you—aren’t you afraid I’ll spoil it?”

“Not in the slightest. I only wish you could take it back with you—to wherever it is you’ve come from.” She shot a black look toward the as yet unpainted door nearest the office that the girl had stumbled out of, then turned to survey the piles of construction scraps littering the floor. “I’m sorry this place isn’t in better shape. She’s built at least three new doors since I was here last, and that when she’s barely stepped foot out of one of the old ones for a month. I can’t tell you what any of that means, except that she intends to bring you to a better end than the place you’re at now. Whether she’ll accomplish it or not is anyone’s guess. But if she will pull us out here with no instructions—”

Jaelyn leaned against the wall and began sifting through the pile of paper.

“I wonder if you’d know your story if you heard it. You’re a bit too young to be a mother in space, I’d think.”

“I—I’m not a mother at all.” Maiwenn curled her feet deeper under her tattered skirt, and Jaelyn nodded.

“I thought not. Would your story take place in a royal court in an Italian-inspired setting?”

“I don’t know what that last part means, but—I’ve never stepped foot in a royal court in my life.” Maiwenn shook her head in bewilderment, and Jaelynn flipped a few more pages.

“A wetland setting reminiscent of the British fens in the time of the Danelaw?”

“I do live in the fens.” The girl’s eyes widened in recognition, but Jaelyn’s brow furrowed as she surveyed the rest of the scribbled sheet.

“Well, I’m not going to read the rest of this because I don’t half understand it, and I don’t think it applies to you at all. You’re quite beautiful, my dear.”

“Oh, no.” Maiwenn curled into herself a little as she ducked her head. “I’m too big and clumsy—ever since I was a baby. And I’m not half as pretty as my sisters.”

“I certainly hope there’s a lesson there,” Jaelyn muttered under her breath. She continued flipping through papers for a moment, then looked up with a gleam in her eye. “Well, I say if she won’t give us any instructions, we ought to take things in our own hands. Here are some of the most interesting searches she’s made and bookmarks she’s saved recently—perhaps they’ll give you a glimpse of what’s going on in her mind—just be aware it’s a frightening place sometimes!

Several searches to find when the phrase “a good sport” was first used

The text of “Wrecked but not Ruined” by R.M. Ballantyne

How to make a fish trap

The history of looms and butter churns

Gold rushes in the early 1900s (crossed out with a note of “not workable”)

How to find repeated words in a document

Futuristic trends for married last names (scribbled out with a note of “way too much of an unnecessary rabbit hole”)

How to tell whether sliced ham has gone bad (labeled “NOT for a story” and obviously in this stack by mistake)

Pages upon pages of Breton names

Historical methods of cooking eggs

And if that’s not the most oddly specific question that I don’t know why anyone would need to know—”

“Did you say…eggs?” Maiwenn’s cheeks flushed with a bit of color, and Jaelyn nodded.

“That’s what it says here. Is that something in your world, do you think?”

“I—perhaps not, if she actually means the eggs to be cooked.” The girl looked away with a grimace, and Jaelyn opened her mouth, then shook her head.

“She also has notes about a plan to write more consistently outside of her superhero serial—I’ll believe that when I see it—and notes about getting ready for another writing camp—I don’t want to know what kind of a mess this place will be in when that comes.”

Two doors popped open in the hall, and Jaelyn sighed as she laid down the papers.

“I suppose this means she is paying some kind of attention and wants us to leave before I spill too many of her secrets. I’m sorry I have to send you back into that—” She shivered as a chilly breeze wafted into the hall from Maiwenn’s door. “—but I promise you things will work out for good in the end. Whatever happens, you can cling to that.”

The younger girl rose without a word and disappeared into the cold and fog, and Jaelyn looked after her a moment, then slipped through her own door as the hallway faded to darkness.

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“I’m still—not sure I understand.” Katja Lindstrøm turned to more closely survey the narrow porch with its comfortable furniture and the illusion of a yard stretching out in front of it, and Jaelyn sighed as she settled back in her chair.

“I know. I still don’t understand why she’s sent me to explain instead of doing it herself, or why she’s brought me here at all when everything in my world seems to have ground to a halt at the worst possible time.” She sent a scathing look over her shoulder toward the closed door to the author’s office, then shook her head. “But I suppose I’m glad for the chance to help—not her, but you, or anyone in the same position I am. Shall we begin on the questions, so you can go home?”

“Questions?” Katja pulled back with a suddenly guarded look, and a hint of a smile quirked the corner of Jaelyn’s mouth.

“Not many. And not difficult ones, I hope. And you ought to know, nothing you say here can return to your world in any way, so you’re in no danger.”

The other girl’s face still radiated deep suspicion, and Jaelyn’s smile deepened as she began to rock calmly.

“Tell us where you live. Generally, in the world, I mean. And in what time?”

“Norway.” Katja eyed her warily, as if watching for a trap. “And it’s—1943, I think? Or perhaps ‘44—I’m not sure how I’ve forgotten.”

“And what do you do there?”

“I’m a nurse.” Her suddenly blank look was replaced by a defiant glare, as though daring Jaelyn to challenge the truth of that statement, but her interviewer remained unaffected.

“Only one more question, Katja. In the last few days you’ve lived, is there anything special that you’ve learned?”

Katja’s eyes opened wide, and she clamped her lips tightly shut, but then she looked down at her hands, and her expression became soft and thoughtful.

“I suppose, if anything, it’s that things—that we—that people in general, I mean—are not always what we appear on the surface.” She raised her head quickly, appearing fearful that she’d said too much, but Jaelyn only nodded and motioned to the hallway.

“Thank you for sharing with us. You may go now; the door should be open.”

“Wait—that’s all?”

“Yes, the author’s instructions said she’s in a hurry to prepare for an in-person event, whatever that is, but she was inspired to write your story by a dear writing friend who had never seen a book heroine who shared her name, and since it mercifully allowed itself to be kept short, she’ll share it with everyone below. Which means our part is done for now. Godspeed!”

Norway’s resistance was strong today.

Katja Lindstrøm could taste the defiance in the air as the tram ground to a stop and the crowd began to shift around her. She had counted five red hats already today, and two more now boarded the tram and took separate open seats—alone but united in their boldness. The woman beside her gathered her bags and stood, and Katja caught one last glimpse of the daring pattern of her mittens—King Haakon’s symbol with the motto “Alt for Norge” stitched into the border—and felt again a little thrill of envy.

If only she dared make some outward sign, even just a paperclip on her lapel, to proclaim to both the Germans and her countrymen that she too refused to be cowed. But Fjellrev had told her often how vital her work was, and to stop the flow of information that passed through her hands would be a far greater blow to her country than the wounds to her own patriotic spirit from her scrupulously inoffensive attire.

Still, Katja couldn’t help squirming inwardly at the injustice that she, who had risked so much for Norway, could not exchange a knowing smile or a conspiratorial nod with a stranger on the street, simply because the visible marks of resistance were denied her.

If they only knew…

The tram lurched unsteadily as a late passenger clambered aboard and nearly fell into the seat next to Katja, and as she turned, the blood froze in her veins. Of all days to run against Ole Solstad—a known Quisling—a vile collaborator—her whole soul rebelled at the thought, and only the strictest control kept her from shooting to her feet.

It was the cruelest of injustices on a day when her spirit already strained against the bonds of enforced conformity. The Katja of two years ago would have braved arrest and even imprisonment rather than spend a single second in his company, but the Katja of today could only sit rigid, clinging to the thought of Norway, Norway, Norway while trying to imagine away the obnoxiously heavy breathing of her seatmate, hoping with all her soul that the other passengers would not view her apparent lack of revulsion as even the slightest degree of tolerance.

In what she supposed was a small mercy, Ole didn’t attempt to speak to her—she was sure she could not have borne that. He coughed a few times and shifted uncomfortably in his seat—how she hoped the other passengers were offering a hint of the icy displeasure she longed to pour forth!

It was bad enough to have grown up with a traitor—though who could have guessed that such dark inclinations lurked in the heart of the gap-toothed playmate who was always at the center of every plan? Not that those memories softened her feelings toward Ole—if anything, they made the silent recriminations heaped on his head every time he was forced upon her notice all the more bitter.

The tram ground to a stop at her corner, and Katja jumped up and fumbled for her bag, wanting nothing so much as to escape from the taint of Ole’s presence, but when she straightened again, he was before her, moving much too slowly toward the exit, and Katja nearly screamed in frustration. For a brief second, she considered staying on until the next stop, but Norway needed her at her post even more than Dr. Eriksen, and no Quisling would stand in the way of that.

She followed Ole Solstad off the tram, keeping far enough behind that the edge of her coat couldn’t brush his uniform, then pressed into the crowd of hurrying people and soon lost sight of him in the throng.

The band around Katja’s chest loosened a bit as she made her way through the streets to Dr. Eriksen’s office, and by the time she hung her coat in the cramped living space that also served as his reception room, she had nearly recovered her usual cheerfulness. This was the place where her best work was done—both her regular work as the doctor’s nurse and her secret work as a vital link in the chain of XU, funnelling crucial information to both the active resistance and the High Command in exile.

A note on the desk proclaimed that the doctor was out on an early house call, so Katja took her time straightening the little room and was humming to herself over her broom and dustpan when a hesitant knock sounded. Katja’s brow furrowed a bit—most everyone knew to simply walk in—but she set the broom aside and opened the door with a smile that stiffened instantly.

Ole Solstad stood before her with eyes closed and hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe as though he hadn’t a care in the world. How dare he follow her here—into her domain—into her sanctuary? Had he somehow received a hint of her activities and come to poke his rat’s nose around in hopes of reporting her to his Nazi masters? Well, let him; even if he smashed her lunch pail to pieces and discovered the false bottom, all the messages she’d received had been safely passed on. She knew the names of none of her contacts but Fjellrev—for all the good that alias would do them—and had never seen a face to recognize it. No, whatever happened to her, Norway was safe, and Katja lifted her chin and addressed the unwelcome visitor with her coldest reserve.

“May I help you?”

Ole jumped as if startled and blinked at her dazedly for a second, then straightened himself with a wince. His hand began to move to his breast pocket, then dropped again, and his chapped, reddened fingers clenched tightly at his side.

“Is the doctor in?”

“He is not.” Dr. Eriksen would never refuse someone seeking help, no matter their side, and if the traitor insisted on waiting, she could not in good conscience refuse, but Katja had no intention of inviting him to it. “Shall I tell him you called?” The words were nearly forced through her teeth, but her position demanded at least that inquiry.

“I—” Ole rocked on his feet a little, blinking hard, then gave a slight shake of his head. “I—no—thank you.” He turned away, and Katja shut the door firmly behind him, then leaned against it, trying to still the sudden shaking of her hands. For all her bravado in the face of danger, the abrupt release of tension left her momentarily weak, and she breathed a prayer of thanks for the empty room as she hastened to compose herself.

The first office patient of the day arrived only a few moments before the doctor himself, and after that a steady stream of patients kept her busy until seven minutes after ten, when she was finally able to slip away to the curtained alcove that held the water dispenser.

If Dr. Eriksen had any idea of the use to which his nurse had put that curtain, or her purpose in suggesting that the door to what had once been a separate flat would improve the air by being kept open, he had never voiced it, and Katja supposed it didn’t matter, so long as he didn’t seem to mind her use of the dispenser at somewhat more regular intervals than might be anticipated by pure chance. She had just had a visit yesterday from her most frequent ten o’clock caller—the man with a single streak of mud across his glistening black shoes—but others might also stop, particularly with something especially urgent, so she retrieved a cup and drank it slowly, tapping her low heels in a way that an innocent passerby would read as simply boredom.

A low sound from just beyond the curtain drew her attention, and she waited a few seconds, but no shoes appeared beneath it. Katja hesitated an instant longer, then turned back toward the reception room, but when she reached the corner, she paused once more to look back. From this vantage point, something was visible in the corridor—not a shoe, but a hand, lying limp and still. Katja’s heart stuttered as the memory of Ole Solstad returned. If he had been waiting in the hall—if he had caught one of her informants—

A chill of fear touched her heart as her feet instinctively drew her back to the curtain. If Ole was still waiting—if her coming confirmed his suspicions—but he could make nothing of it! She was a nurse, and a nurse on duty—she had more right than anyone to investigate an apparently injured man in the hall. Drawing a fortifying breath, she slipped past the curtain—and stopped still in her tracks for the third time that day.

The man on the ground had not been hurt by Ole Solstad—not unless the wound was self-inflicted. Katja’s heart beat wildly as she knelt next to her childhood friend turned Norway’s betrayer and placed a cautious finger to his throat. The pulse was there, faint and rapid, and Katja swallowed hard. What was she to do now? The man was her enemy—her country’s enemy. They were at war—soldiers on the battlefield received no mercy, and yet—

And yet, she was a nurse—and she claimed to be a Christian. Did her love for her country—her hatred for its invaders—her loathing for her disloyal countrymen—did all of that count for anything against what she knew to be her duty to her fellow man—whoever he was?

Katja closed her eyes, a deep shudder running through her entire frame, then breathed a prayer and rose to fetch Dr. Eriksen.

***

A rare quiet had settled over the office. The doctor had gone out on a call, and no patients remained except Ole. Katja sat stiffly on watch at his bedside, torn between the guilt of having turned him away that morning and the guilt of having helped save the life of one who might yet turn again and destroy all she held dear.

Unable to stay still with the turmoil churning in her heart, she rose and began gathering up the hated, bloodstained uniform. The toe of one shoe peeked out beneath the untidy pile, shining black leather marred with a single streak of brown. Katja gasped and held both shoes to the light—no other spot betrayed itself. Mind reeling, she let her eyes travel helplessly from the telltale streak to Ole Solstad lying unconscious on the bed, half dead from loss of blood. Fjellrev had praised the owner of these shoes as one of their most valuable agents—but Ole—a Quisling—a traitor? After a moment’s contemplation, she buried the shoes again and examined the discarded coat, feeling carefully over every inch until she found a hidden pocket with a small notebook tucked inside. The coded script erased any remaining doubt, and Katja returned to the bedside, staring down at the pallid face on the pillow.

How could he do it? She had struggled just today against her longing for some outward display of defiance. And yet he had—what? Allowed himself to be branded a traitor and collaborator to gain information vital to his country’s cause? Borne the hatred of all his former friends in silence, because the truth was too dangerous to speak? Nearly died with whatever secret the pages in her hands contained, his memory forever shunned by those he had served with such selfless loyalty?

Ole’s head shifted restlessly, and his brow contracted in pain. Katja applied a wet cloth with a gentler hand than she had ever imagined offering to Ole Solstad, and his cracked lips parted slightly. Katja leaned close, and the half-conscious words breathed warm and weighty in her ear.

“Alt for Norge.”

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Oh, gracious—I totally missed last month’s newsletter and came close to missing this month’s too! It’s been a really busy couple of months, more for real-life stuff than for writing, including dipping my toes in the water of a couple of local craft fairs for the first time in years. (Which was fun. And tiring. And very, very hot. But still fun.)

But my characters—aside from the ones in the Chronic Warrior Chronicles—haven’t had a whole lot going on. Although I did make some progress in Mamie’s story—but I left her basically unable to complete a full sentence, so it’s probably not the best time to bring her out for a visit…

So, in lieu of what’s been my normal format lately, I’m going to steal a tag that I saw and loved on the lovely Katja’s blog. Since I don’t have a blog to do these on, I usually skip them, but this one was so fun and interesting—and also partly writing related—that I thought it might fit here, and I already had most of my answers thought through after reading hers. (Like Katja, I’m going to do this twice, once with books I’ve read and once with my own characters.) So here you go, and I hope you enjoy!

#1 - The Reading Version

1) Which fictional villain would be most likely to kidnap you and why?

I’m going to go with Davira from the Ilyon Chronicles. Seriously, that girl is scary. As to why, it wouldn’t take much, since just being a Christian is enough to get you arrested in her kingdom. Although it’d be much more fun if her reason for kidnapping me was because I’d somehow worked my way into the top ranks of the resistance, because then I’d have gotten to hang out with all my favorite characters before I got snatched.

2) Where would said villain take you?

Probably depends on why she kidnapped me. As a generic Christian, she’d probably just stick me in the prison at the arena, but if she thought she could get something out of me, she might put me in the palace dungeon instead.

3) Okay, now you’re in a fix. Which 5 characters (1 per book/movie/fandom) do you want to come rescue you?

I’m assuming from Katja’s answers that the one-per-fandom also applies to the villains, which means I can’t use anyone else from the Ilyon Chronicles, which is sad. But that’s okay, because I have plenty of other choices for this one. So, I will go with:

a) Randal Everard Baltimore (aka Reb) from The Reb and the Redcoats by Constance Savery

If you don’t know why, you obviously haven’t read the book. Let’s just say, the boy is absolutely brilliant at escape plans. And doesn’t give up or leave people behind, which is good, because I’m probably going to be about as helpful in an escape as his actual friend, Tim. IYKYK 😆

b) Caiden Blade from the Stormbreathers series by A.J. Sky

Because the fact that I can’t use the Ilyon characters doesn’t mean I can’t have dragons. I mean, no, Caiden isn’t a dragon, but he’s very tenacious when it comes to fighting for justice and rescuing people from tight spots. And did I mention he comes with a dragon? What’s that? I’m only allowed one character? Then think of Spirit as a method of transportation. Still not allowed? Well, I dare you to stop a camouflaging dragon from tagging along anywhere it wants to. 😎

c) Brent Peterson from the Accidental Cases of Emily Abbott series by Perry Kirkpatrick

Because come on, a spy would be totally useful in infiltrating wherever I was being kept. And Brent has to be one of the best, or his boss would probably have fired him long ago. Besides, I’m sure he’d find a way to snag Emily into the plot, and they make an amazing team every time. Hmm? He’s absolutely not allowed to bring anyone else along? I really believe he’s heard that before, but somehow it just keeps happening… 😇

d) Simon Lee from the AKA Simon Lee series by P.D. Atkerson

Because I can’t really think of a skill that’s needed to break me out of prison that this kid doesn’t have. Hand-to-hand combat? Check. Lock-picking? Check. Annoying the guards so badly they won’t see me slipping away in the chaos? Also check. Actually, I could have had my pick of a number of characters from this fandom, but Lee will always be the first choice for me. 😄

e) Dym Ingleford from Enemy Brothers by Constance Savery

No, I really didn’t mean to pick two characters from the same author, and I don’t know that Dym has any special skills that would help in an escape attempt, but what I do know is this. If someone he cared about was kidnapped, no matter how long it took, he would never, ever, ever stop looking. That is all. 🥰

4.) Explain why you chose these characters.

Oh, whoops. Already did that. Moving on…

5.) Do you foresee any conflicts/problems within your rescue squad?

Hmm. I don’t think so. I feel like most of them are practical enough and chill enough to appreciate the skills and perspectives of the others. Although I can see Lee getting on everyone else’s nerves a bit, and possibly driving Brent a little nuts. (Because you are so one to talk, Brent…) But I feel like in general they would work well together and keep each other motivated. I definitely think I’d be in good hands here.

Which means we are now on to…

#2 - The Writing Version

1) Which fictional villain would be most likely to kidnap you and why?

Most of my villains (when I have them) aren’t exactly the kidnapping type, so my original instinct was to say Gerhard from Quiet Valor. But then I thought of a secondary villain from that series and realized said villain would also be a great choice. However, said villain is also a pretty big spoiler, so I’ll leave it at one of the two of them. As for why, if it’s Gerhard, I assume I have some skill that he thinks will be useful to him. If not, I assume the other villain intends to use me to gain power over someone else she wants to use.

2) Where would said villain take you?

If we were going with Gerhard, probably to an army garrison in Mitterstadt. If not, the possibilities multiply a bit, as the other villain is quite resourceful, if not as directly powerful.

3) Okay, now you’re in a fix. Which 5 characters (1 per book/movie/fandom) do you want to come rescue you?

Okay, I have to admit, this was hard, you guys! Especially because everywhere I turned, I was wanting to pick someone from Quiet Valor and couldn’t. Because so many of them would be awesome, even though it’s not even up for debate that Sallas would be my first pick. But here’s what I decided on instead…

a) Kevin from Code

Because the kid is a literal genius and also does not know the meaning of the word quit. Yes, he’d have to smuggle some of his own tech into this rescue operation, since the Quiet Valor world hasn’t developed computers yet, but I don’t think that’s against the rules, so I would like Kevin on my team, please and thank you. 😊

b) Lanz from Only a Treasure in Worth a Thousand Words

Yes, this is a short short, so we didn’t have a whole lot of time to get to know him. But I did establish that he’s an excellent tracker, and probably also a fairly good fighter, considering the environment we find him in. Plus he’s helped out in the infirmary out of necessity and so could probably handle any accidents that might occur along the way. That’s a lot of applicable skills for a character with less than 2,000 words! So, yep, I will be bringing Lanz along. 😉

c) Brady from The Chronic Warrior Chronicles

I would pick a day when he’s powered up, obviously. (Sorry for the aftermath, Brady…) But tell me x-ray vision is not going to be a major asset in finding me, especially if the secondary villain has me stashed who knows where. Brady comes. 🤨

d) Stephen, aka Steel Phoenix, from The Apex Guard

Eh heh heh…no one said they had to be active WIPs, did they? I have no idea how long it’s going to take me to write this one, but Stephen is definitely coming on this rescue mission. And not so much for his sweet personality (you know I love you for it, Stephen), but for his cybernetically rebuilt body that gives him super-strength and near invincibility. Hey, with all these stone walls around, somebody’s got to be able to smash through them! 😆

And this, friends, is where I got stuck for a long time. Sure, I have lots of other favorite characters from different stories. But for one reason or another, none of them seemed to fit as a member of a rescue team, or had a good reason for being there. Then, after nearly giving up, something reminded me of a character I’d written in a story within a story. So I give you the fifth member of my rescue team…

e) Jake Jetley from One in a Galaxy

And I am cracking up, because it is so funny, but it totally works! If you haven’t read the book yet, Jake is a character in Riley’s favorite TV show, but tell me you wouldn’t want to be rescued by a swashbuckling space adventurer if you had the chance! 🤣 Besides, in that kind of story the good guys always win in the end, right? So I’d be guaranteed to be rescued eventually.

4) Explain why you chose these characters.

Already did, again. Because why do it right the second time when you’ve already done it wrong the first time?

5.) Do you foresee any conflicts/problems within your rescue squad?

Honestly, not at all. They’re all super chill and sweet, so I don’t see what they’d have to argue over. Although they might have to hold Kevin back from doing something reckless without thinking things all the way through. Oh, wait—if it came to one of them having to be self-sacrificing or putting themselves in danger for the rest of them to finish the mission. Yeah, that conversation might go on a while, because they’d all basically throw themselves in harm’s way at a moment’s notice and wouldn’t be comfortable letting anyone else take that place. 😆

Okay, I know that was different. But hopefully it was fun! If you want to do the tag yourself, either with your own characters or other people’s, please be my guest. All the tag rules are on Katja’s blog—which I kind of fudged a little because this isn’t exactly a blog? But I had a lot of fun doing it anyway, and it gave me something quick that I could get out before the end of June.

Oh, and before I go, I have to mention—if any of you are Christian ladies who also write, you should definitely come and join our online writing camp! I’m going for 20,000 words this month, and hopefully some of them will not only be July’s newsletter but also something worth sharing about in an actual writing update.

King's Daughters Writing Camp

See you soon!

~ Angie

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“Oh…this again.” Anna sighed as she glanced around at the door-lined hallway, and Lev cocked his head slightly, listening and absorbing the atmosphere.

“Oh. This is the writing space?”

“I don’t know how you remembered that after all this time, but yes. Although it does look like it’s gotten a bit of an upgrade.” Anna slipped her arm into his good one and guided him to the long room at the end of the hallway, which currently resembled the porch of a rustic cabin looking out over a forest scene.

“You can describe this place? The sounds are outdoors, but the air is not.”

“You’re incredibly good at that.” Anna smiled as she leaned her head against his shoulder, but before she could begin to fit words to the space, the author burst from her office door and shot around the corner into the room.

“Sorry—sorry I’m late! It’s been absolutely wild around here, and I totally missed last month, but hopefully I’m back now!”

“That’s—kind of surprising, actually, since last time you left us here on our own.” Anna lifted an eyebrow, and the author sighed as she pushed her slightly disheveled hair out of her face.

“I wasn’t actually talking to you. I was talking to everyone else who’s been waiting for me—and you, but that’s still mostly on me. I got sucked into a massive house decluttering and reorganizing project that took me the better part of two months, and I’ve barely had time for doing anything writing-related except keeping up with the serial. Until today, when I finally got Depth of Mercy published—just half a year later than I was planning, but still, better late than never!”

“I suppose that’s why we’re here.” Anna’s eyes narrowed a little as her hand hovered protectively over Lev’s arm, resting in its sling, and the author winced, but a smile touched Lev’s lips.

“I like this title for the part of the story I think you are telling.”

“Thank you.” The author’s shoulders relaxed a little, and Anna gave something between a laugh and a sigh.

“Does this mean you’re finished with us now?”

“Not…quite?” The author grimaced apologetically, and Anna groaned. “But I really do think one more story will wrap up your timeline and let me leave you in peace. It’s just—not going to get done as fast as I was hoping, which seems to be the story of my life right now. But I’m trusting that God will help me get the stories He wants out on His timeline, and that’s the best I can do. So I hope you all enjoy this new story, and I’ll try not to get quite so far behind on my updates again!”

She turned and rushed back into the office, leaving the other two standing where they were. Anna blinked in confusion, but Lev chuckled softly.

“I think this was our dismissal. We are free to go?”

“We should be—except there’s nowhere for us to go at the moment. I think she forgot—”

Their door clicked open, and Anna shook her head as she led Lev back toward it.

“I can only hope whatever she still has planned isn’t as bad as the next one.”

“All other stories have wrapped up well so far. I think we can trust.”

The door closed behind them, and the screen went dark.

How far would you go to help an enemy?

Anna and Lev are enjoying a rustic fall hike when a rainstorm forces them into proximity with a testy teenager. When River’s disdain for technology in general and HALEY in particular provokes unexpected violence, Anna is more than ready to banish the troublesome acquaintance from her thoughts. But when the teen’s impetuous temper leaves her gravely injured, neither Anna nor Lev can abandon her to her fate. What will they be willing to risk to rescue the girl who’s wronged them?

A short story, previously published in Seize the World

Get Depth of Mercy

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