Melancholy settles over me as I think of Kelly marrying again. Thesledgehammer slips a little on my shoulder, and I move it to a more comfortablespot. My limbs feel tired, and I yearn for the old copper tub I once used and asteaming, hour-long soak. But there’s no copper bath in my new home. Almostthere now, I hear my St. David’s neighbors bustling about, preparing for theevening ahead. For a moment, I fantasize I’m one of them. But some daydreamsare too much even for me to entertain.
None of these good Welsh people carry a sledgehammer as aweapon. They don’t levitate above the train station or have visions of JamesScarlett’s demise. I sit on my front step, drop the hammer between my feet, andreview the scene in my mind. Experiencing it all again.
He stands before the fireplace in the parlor of Griffin House,and the mirror over the mantel reflects the room behind him. I cannot discernhis age, for the lamps are turned down low, but he wears an eye patch and theright section of his face is missing, the bones barely covered with a thin veilof skin.
Sir Death lurks in the hallway, winding his watch as he waitsfor his cue. A figure enters the parlor, lifts a small pistol, and shootsScarlett in the head. I see the killer in the looking glass, and it’s the mostdisturbing revelation of all. I’ve learned something about visions, however.They are but a fragment of time and truth and what is done with this knowledgeis left up to each Visionary. Even demigoddesses are allowed to choose who theywill become.
Although I spared my brother today, I cannot speak for tomorrow.
Pale skin. Platinum hair. And silver eyes in the mirror.
Acknowledgements
My children were fairly youngwhen I first started this project and now most of them are approachingadulthood. Back in those days, it was especially difficult for me to find theright balance between parenting and writing. Yet I could always count on anight out with my critique group to help me improve my craft and keep mysanity. I owe so much to these talented ladies. They have been a constantsource of support, writing advice, and wisdom. Many thanks go to: RuthCraddock, Adrienne Monson, Jennifer Greyson, Rebecca Rode, Angela Brimhall,Karen Pellett, and Karyn Patterson. I also appreciate Jenilyn Freestone, KristyPeterson, and Kay Haynie for reading through early drafts and not letting thispainful experience effect our relationships. You are all the best!
Angela Eschler of Eschler Editinghas shared valuable insights with me on this story and several others. Herknowledge of writing, and the whole publishing industry, is outstanding. I usewhat you taught me on a daily basis, Angela.
And I owe an enormous debt toKira Rubenthaler, editor extraordinaire at Bookfly Design, for taking so muchtime on my manuscript. Working with you has been a wonderful experience, Kira.I highly recommend your services to anyone in need of awesome story insightsand precise grammar.
My thanks to James Egan ofBookfly Design for this amazing cover. I loved watching Hester come to lifeunder your skillful hand.
I greatly appreciate Bob Houston at Bob Houston eBookFormatting for answering my questions and coming to my rescue time and again.You have been a true example of graciousness and professionalism.
About the Author
Quinn Coleridge grew up in thePacific Northwest, where she learned to love rain storms, green, growingthings, and reading books by a crackling fire. As a young adult, Quinn venturedacross the pond to England, another green, rainy place. While there, she met aman with the prettiest eyes, and they later got married and had lots of kids.(She blames the eyes.)
Now their family of eight livesin a place with little rain or greenery. They have two dogs and two cats whichthe man with the pretty eyes never even remotely wanted, although he’s a goodsport about it. Crackling fires are a rarity at Quinn’s house these days, butit’s seldom boring. And she still loves books.
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Cheers!
