I had never been drawn to female characters who relied on men to rescue them, hence my fascination with the Lady of Mercia, who had ridden into battle with the Mercian army and fought fearlessly alongside the men. But this time, it would be enough to write about a woman who fought for her own future, not that of an entire kingdom. I tried to picture my main character, but all I saw was a blank face, hair color indistinct and clothes not easily identified as from any particular historic period. I was stuck, and Angela’s email wasn’t helping. She was asking for an outline for the new book, something she could pitch to prospective publishers, who were more skittish than ever.
I couldn’t say I blamed them. Everyone was trying to survive in this uncharted landscape where the indie writers were quickly overtaking traditionally published authors and whipping the publishing houses into a panic, forcing them to focus on the next big name or unique idea and not waste their resources on projects that might not appeal to the masses. Previously, the literary community would have balked at publishing erotica, but after the success of some very naughty books, everyone was looking for the new queen of S&M. Perhaps I should set my story in an eighteenth-century brothel and write about the life and times of a sweet-natured yet business-savvy whore who claws her way to the top and becomes a force to reckon with in pre-Victorian London. I chuckled at the thought. That would actually be fun to write, but ultimately, that really wasn’t me, and I didn’t want to write something I wouldn’t be proud of.
I found a pair of wellies that fit and pulled them on, leaving my own shoes in the mudroom to change into later, and stepped outside. The morning was brisk, the air damp on my face, but it felt good to be outdoors. It’d been a while since I’d taken a walk in the country.
I was about a quarter mile from the house when I heard someone coming up behind me. I thought it might be Yvonne and Len but was surprised when Kyle appeared at my side.
“Good morning. Do you mind if I join you, or were you hoping for a solitary walk?”
“I don’t mind in the least,” I replied. “To be honest, I’m glad of the company. I know I was being fanciful, but I thought I heard the ringing of a bell last night.” I hadn’t realized that was what I thought that odd vibrating noise was until the words were out of my mouth.
Kyle looked down at me. I could now see that his eyes were hazel flecked with gold. He smiled sheepishly. “I heard it too.”
“Is it possible for the bell to ring when it’s windy?” I asked, hoping we’d both heard something perfectly natural.
“Given the weight of those things, I’d say not, but maybe this is a particularly small and light bell,” he said with a shrug. “Only one way to find out.”
“Lead the way,” I said, and we set off toward the reservoir, the fallen leaves slippery beneath our feet. The forest smelled of earth, wet wood, and something more organic, like rotting mushrooms.
“Do you live in London?” Kyle asked.
“Yes. Hammersmith. What about you?”
“Yes. I have a flat in Islington. I’m thinking of moving to the country, though. I thought this retreat would be an opportunity to see how the other half lives.”
“Well, if you’re planning to purchase a Tudor mansion with acres of land and a live-in staff, then I think you’ll really enjoy the other half’s lifestyle,” I joked.
“I was thinking more of a small cottage,” Kyle said. “Playing lord of the manor is not really my style. I’m a simple man.”
“Do you use anyone as inspiration for your main character?” I asked. I’d never considered writing from the point of view of a man. Of course, there were plenty of male characters in my books, but as mine were works of nonfiction, I presented the information without trying to view the events through the lens of their perception.
Kyle grinned. “My mother. She was a detective sergeant before she retired. She’s one of the smartest people I know. Nothing gets by her,” he said. “And she has a unique perspective on life that she’s always happy to share with me.”
“What does your father do?”
“Dad was a pathologist. That’s how they met, over a dead body.”
“Romantic.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “None of my relationships began so dramatically. Maybe that’s why they didn’t last.”
“Well, let’s hope we don’t trip over a corpse,” I teased, but I had to admit that the closer we got to the reservoir, the more my unease grew. There was something disquieting about a whole valley submerged, the remnants of villages where people had lived for centuries slumbering beneath the placid surface of the water. It made me think of all those disaster movies where people went about their business, unaware that a tidal wave was about to swallow everything in its path and put an end to the lives they’d so carefully created. Of course, the villagers had been moved before the valley was flooded, but the images in my mind were all too real and frightening.
I stopped short when I finally saw it through a gap in the trees. The tower rose about three feet above the water, a crumbling stone finger, its surface slick with moisture and dark with slime. The bell was rather small,
