Time Enough for Drums, by Ann Rinaldi, 1986, Book Review

Ann Rinaldi has become a household name in YA historical fiction, and this is one of her most acclaimed books. It’s been on my reading list for some time. The year is 1775, and fifteen-year-old Jemima Emerson is a headstrong young lady. She’s not a bad child; she simply doesn’t think before she acts, and Mr. John Reid, her tutor (and a hated Tory), is determined to turn her into a lady. She resists with everything she has.

But war has a way of making one grow up. Jem’s brother, Daniel, fulfills a commission under General Washington. Her merchant father sacrifices much to supply the army. Her mother writes essays under a pseudonym that appear all over the American colonies. And her boyfriend, younger brother, and servant all leave to fight. Her sister moves away and marries a British officer. All these events have consequences. Then the dangers of war come directly to Jem’s home town of Trenton along with the occupying British army. In the meantime, the tutor Jem so despises ends up being more than he seems.

This is a tremendous coming of age story that takes place during the American Revolution, one of my favorite historical time periods. There were so many forces at work, so many players, so many changes, and so much at stake. It’s fascinating! Ms. Rinaldi does a tremendous job boiling it all down and illustrating how all those factors came to affect one family. And the independence theme comes through loud and clear, both on a national level and a personal one.

Ms. Rinaldi’s greatest strength, however, is the strong characters she creates. Jem is a complex girl living in a complex time, and John Reid is the perfect counterpoint for her. Just like Jem, I couldn’t stand him at first. But the interaction between them kept me turning pages, even if the romance that develops between them was a bit predictable. Their strong bond serves to emphasize the horribleness of war.

I would rate Time Enough for Drums in the 12+ YA category because of that same horribleness. It’s not overwhelming, but it’s all-encompassing. War is always terrible, and in this case, the details are probably best left to an older audience. It also has a few mild profanities.

Highly, highly recommended historical fiction.

An Exciting New Launch!

Today I’m celebrating!

I’ve been at this self-publishing thing for less than two years, so I don’t have a long history with any of my related friends and contacts. And despite the large number of indie books that have crossed my path during this time, I’ve recommended very few of them. Timothy Davis, however, was one of the first to contact me. Would I read and review his book, Sea Cutter? Of course I would.

And I did.

And I loved it.

So I read it with my boys.

And they loved it too.

Tim and I have kept in contact ever since, so when he let me know that Sea Cutter was going to print, I was thrilled! Then I saw the book and my jaw dropped. It’s gorgeous!

This story is one of my favorites. I’ve championed it before (read my review), but when I saw the hard copy, I had to help spread the word. My boys, ages ten and seven and true fans of “Mr. Davis,” wanted to help. Great idea! Since they’re the intended audience, their opinions should weigh more heavily than mine. Here’s what they had to say:

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I know Mr. Davis is one of your favorite authors. Can you explain why?

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Because we’ve emailed him and he emailed us back. And I liked his characters. Wayland is my favorite character because he loves Nat so much, even though Nat tells him lies.

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‘Cause he writes good books. He can do a long book!

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We read the Kindle version of Sea Cutter together last spring. What did you think when you saw the real book?

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Cool! I like it better than the Kindle version because you can actually see the cover and hold it in your hands. It looks really cool!

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I like the broken up ship on the cover.

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Can you remember what happens in the story?

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Nat wants to go to this one island [Perlas Grandes] because he thinks his dad is there, and his friend Wayland brings him. Wayland is an adult. But Nat lies a lot. And Wayland goes overboard in a storm.

He makes a nice friend named Paulo. And Snake is the bad guy.

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What was your favorite part?

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When they got thrown into the whirlpool of death!

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The whirlpool of death!

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Would you recommend this story to other kids your age?

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Yes, because it’s full of adventure. You never know what’s going to happen next. And the ending has a great surprise.

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Me too, because it’s a good story.

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So there you have it, straight from the experts. If you want to hear more, M-Man also reviewed the book on his blog. And now, in a nutshell, the reasons I like Sea Cutter:

The instinctive good story-telling, the cliffhangers, the positive values and clean language, the adventure, the historical setting, the way it made my boys excited to read, the beautiful new look, and the excellent editing. This is one indie that matches the quality of the Big Six publishing companies.

And finally, the crucial question: Where can you get a copy? Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered!

Paperback - $8.98 US Amazon UK Amazon

Ebook – $2.99 Amazon Smashwords Barnes & Noble Apple KoboSony

The Time Pirate: A Nick McIver Time Adventure (Book Two), by Ted Bell, 2010

Nick’s adventures continue. The Nazis have invaded France, Poland, Belgium, and Holland. England has declared war on Germany. Winston Churchill is the new Prime Minister of England. America has promised aid to England. And the first of four tiny Channel Islands has fallen to the Nazi invasion. Will Nick’s island be next? Not if he can help it!

With is friend Gunner’s help, Nick rebuilds the old Sopwith Camel biplane that his father flew in the first World War and learns to fly it—then stages a one-man, uh, one-boy bombing raid on the Nazi airbase on the neighboring island. He blows it sky-high.

Isn’t a twelve-year-old boy a little young for such an accomplishment? Don’t his parents know what he’s up to? Would the adults Gunner, Hobbes, and Lt. Hawke really condone, even aid, his involvement? Not where I come from! And perhaps not then, either, but sometimes we forget in our modern society that very, very young boys used to hunt, used to enlist as drummer boys, used to strike out on their own. And every war, it seems, draws boys as young as fifteen and sixteen who lie about their age and sneak into the ranks. Perhaps this isn’t quite as unrealistic as it seems at first glance. Either way, it’s fiction, and rousing good fiction. Quite appealing to today’s boys who don’t have such opportunities.

Not only is danger pouring in fast and strong in 1940, the pirate Billy Blood makes another appearance, and the action shifts to 1781. If you know your history at all, you realize what an extremely important year that was for the American colonies, for it brought about the surrender of General Cornwallis at the Battle of Yorktown and ended the Revolution. But Washington could not have led his troops to victory if the French Admiral Francois de Grasse had not cut off Cornwallis’s retreat. And wouldn’t you know it? Billy Blood has it in for de Grasse. He’s amassed a huge pirate armada to ambush the Admiral on his way to the Chesapeake Bay to assist Washington. When Nick finds out, he realizes that if Washington doesn’t win at Yorktown, there will be no America to come to England’s rescue in 1940. He aims to make sure that happens.

I really enjoy all the history in these books. They’re very unique in that Nick finds himself in the thick of action in World War Two as well as at some important points in the past. In this case, readers gets a first-hand look at the Battle of Yorktown and many of its key players. Shucks, Nick is running messages for them! That is, when he’s done blowing up pirate ships.

I must issue a word of caution. There are a lot of mild profanities. Billy Blood has a foul mouth. Of course it’s much tamer than reality, but he’s quite consistent. And book two seemed to me a little more graphically violent than the first–violence Nick is actively participating in. He strafes Nazi officers who “slump over.” He guns down an Indian who is attacking him. Gunner shoots a pirate in the temple. There are several scenes where “blood pools around his boots,” or something similar. And there are also many third person descriptions of the violence of war: the Nazi bombing of a port city, the shooting of 400 starving horses, the dismembered and unburied dead lying about Yorktown.

The Time Pirate is not for the young or squeamish. It’s right on the edge, but I would let it slide for my own kids once they reached twelve-years-old. It’s certain to please today’s boys who still dream of becoming heroes.

The Mighty Miss Malone, by Christopher Paul Curtis, 2012, Book Review

I loved this one! The Mighty Miss Malone has everything in it that I appreciate about children’s literature: style, humor, beauty, depth—even history! I have absolutely no complaints about the story. It does have some incorrect grammar and spellings, but that’s because it’s written from the firsthand perspective of twelve-year-old Deza Malone. I don’t like such inaccuracies in books written for young children (like Junie B. Jones, by Barbara Park), but by fifth grade, the approximate reading level I’d give this one, most students have mastered these skills to the point that they will recognize and laugh at the imperfections. In this case, it adds richness.  And is the cover not adorable?

A 1930′s Hooverville.

Deza lives in Gary, Indiana with her parents and older brother, Jimmy, right smack in the middle of the Great Depression. Times are tough. Mrs. Malone has a steady job cleaning the house of a wealthy white family, but Mr. Malone’s employment is intermittent at best. They can’t affort to bring Jimmy to the doctor to find out why he stopped growing, Deza’s cavities are so bad her breath reeks and she stuffs camphor-soaked cotton balls in her back molars to numb some of the pain, and the family is reduced to eating buggy oatmeal. Then tragedy strikes. Eventually, Mr. Malone goes off in search of work.  Then Mrs. Malone looses her job. She and the children “ride the rails” to Flint, MI in an attempt to find Mr. Malone and end up living in a “Hooverville,” a shack village at the edge of town.

A great Depression bread line.

This is a startling look at the Great Depression and a great way for today’s kids to gain insight into that period of history. It’s told from a Black perspective in a day and age when Blacks were basically considered sub-standard citizens and contains many moments or racial prejudice. When Jimmy steals an apple pie, Mrs. Malone is hugely relieved that it wasn’t from a White windowsill, a resulting lynching being implied. The snobby White woman Mrs. Malone works for holds Negroes in contempt and the “letter of recommendation” she writes shows it. There are also multiple references to the derogatory phrase being a “credit to your race.” But in a great cultural irony, it also features the historical boxing match between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling (One could write a book about the implications of that match!) and shows the tremendous affect it had on both black and white Americans.

Joe Louis and Max Schmeling

Overall, the book is clean, historically accurate and beautifully written. Mr. Curtis includes an afterward that sheds some additional light of the boxing match and the history of the time. Then he claims “we haven’t come very far” and compares the plight of today’s “15 million poor Americans” to the Great Depression, calling welfare reform “immoral” and “selfish.” Such political posturing marred this tremendous book for me. Granted, we are in an extended recession, but unemployment today hovers just under the 10% mark. In the GD, it touched 25%! Another 25% could only get part-time work, and pay cuts crossed the board. People were starving to death. Today, we have a welfare subculture, including third generation recipients, and when I walk through the government-subsidized housing in my town, the “poor” have cell phones, pricey exercise equipment, cable, and plasma tvs–luxury items I’ve gone without for years to get ahead on bills (while funding them for others). Can I submit that personal choices and family structure have much to do with economic station? I, for one, still loudly call for reform.

Sorry for ranting like that, but that afterward really rubbed me the wrong way. But I can give my 100% support to a fabulously told story.

Orphan of Destiny (The Youngest Templar), by Michael P. Spradlin, 2010, Book Review

Of the three books in The Youngest Templar series, Orphan of Destiny was my favorite. At long last, Tristin reaches England. Pursued by Sir Hugh, he hides out for a time—in Sherwood Forest! Robard takes on his full role as Robin Hood (Robard Hode), the Thane of Sherwood, complete with a cast of thinly-veiled characters that have been building the entire series: Friar Tuck, the maiden Maryam, Will Scarlet and Little John. Tristin and Robard even have a standoff with the evil Sheriff of Nottingham. It’s a fun little aside built right into the series that actually makes sense. At the end of the book, it is suggested that the story of Robard and the Sheriff may not work out quite as simply as Robard thinks it will.

But of course Tristin can’t stay in Sherwood. After a brief stay, he continues on to Scotland in search of Father William, the priest to whom the grail must be delivered. And of course you can guess who waits for him. Sir Hugh. But the end isn’t completely predictable. Well, mostly it is, but it’s a good ending. A satisfying one that concludes an exciting, sword-swinging adventure series.

This book isn’t completely squeaky. After flirting with profanity for two books, this one contains a couple OMGs and a few colorful words that toe right up to the line without quite stepping over. The content, like the rest of the series, is completely clean, with the exception of some mild violence. And again it has moments here and there that make me roll my eyes, like when Tristin is handed the mantle of leadership by much more qualified men, or when something is hugely predictable, or when I can totally see through a writing gimmick. But overall I’d rate these as decent and engaging for high middle grade/low YA readers, especially for boys or lovers of Robin Hood lore or medieval history. I’d probably enforce a fifth grade+ limit in my own house.

Trail of Fate (the Youngest Templar, book two), by Michael P. Spradlin, 2009, Book Review

This is the second book in The Youngest Templar series. If you are unfamiliar with the first one, read my review.

Wow!  Michael P. Spradlin knows how to write a cliffhanger! I need to write this quickly and start the next book. It’s sitting here beside me.

Tristin, Maryam and Robard survive book one’s shipwreck, of course, and wash up on the shore of France. There, they become entangled in a conflict involving a local religious sect, the Cathars, and the Catholic Church, which culminates in a standoff high in the Pyrenees Mountains. Tristin also becomes entangled with a mysterious, enchanting young lady who captures his heart. However, his mission remains. He must get the Holy Grail to England. But just as he looks to succeed, the trio is captured. The book ends with unsettling hints about Tristan’s heritage, an unholy alliance between Sir Hugh and the Queen Mother, and the stroke that will kill Maryam. AAHHHGG!

So, the adventure is exciting. How’s the content? Pretty innocent. There are some battle scenes, including killings, led by the teens, and Spradlin goes right up to the edge while still avoiding profanity, but I would not discourage my own kids from this read. It’s high-action and loaded with medieval historical context.

There are a few details that stretch reality. Tristin was raised by monks, then after being a knight’s squire only a year and a half, he emerges this incredible leader that even more experienced men follow. And Angel, the little yellow mutt, is endearing but almost smart enough to be human. Both a bit unbelievable. And, a point I’d discuss with my own kids, Christ and Mohammad are put on equal plane and gifted by the same God to lead their religions (Maryam is Islamic). That doesn’t add up. But overall, Trail of Fate gets the okay. I’d say it’s best for age 10+.

And now, on to book three…

Keeper of the Grail (The Youngest Templar series), by Michael P. Spradlin, 2008, Book Review

In Keeper of the Grail, Michigan native (yay!) Michael P. Spradlin offers the first installment of what promises to be a fabulous trilogy. I love epic stories, and the Middle Ages is one of my favorite periods of history. Throw in a little mystery, a hint of Robin Hood, a knight and a Crusade and you have the makings of a winner in my opinion.

Young Tristan grew up in a monastery with no idea of his background. When a regiment of Templar knights seeks lodging with the monks, he suddenly finds himself employed as the squire of Sir Thomas, second-in-command. His duties take him to the Holy Land, fighting in the Crusades under King Richard. But when the king’s forces are overrun, Tristan gains an even weightier duty. He must carry the Knights’ greatest secret–the Holy Grail–to safety. But Tristan has made a dangerous enemy. An enemy who seems to know something of Tristan’s past. An enemy who will stop at nothing to steal the Grail.

When I left Tristan, he had just been swept overboard. I can’t leave him there. The story continues in Trail of Fate and Orphan of Destiny. I’ve added both to my must-read list. While The Youngest Templar series isn’t stand out amazing, it’s clean and solidly written. I recommend it to middle readers and anyone else who loves fiction set in the Middle Ages.

Read my reviews of book two, Trail of Fate and book three, Orphan of Destiny.

The Candle Star, by Michelle Isenhoff, Chapter 3

If you’re new to The Candle Star, you can start at Chapter One.  Each week, I’ll also link to the last week’s post.

The Candle Star

by Michelle Isenhoff

Chapter Three

Back in her room, Emily was pleased to find her trunk setting at the foot of her bed.  She dropped the mums into the pitcher of water and splayed out the skirt of her traveling suit.  It was stained, wrinkled, and smeared with muck from the stable – not at all suitable for dinner.  She couldn’t abide the thought of any Yankees looking down their nose at her.

She opened the trunk and pulled out a beautiful, gray taffeta dress with sleeves as wide as bells and dripping with lace.  Layer upon layer of ruffles made up the skirt, which flounced wide over a crinoline petticoat and a pair of frilly pantalettes and fell several inches below her knees.

It was the most expensive dress she owned, the one her father had ordered special from Paris, but how was she to get it on by herself?  Her maid, Lizzie, always assisted her, draping the gown carefully over her head, fastening buttons, tying bows just right and pinning her curls.  But Lizzie was young and willful and had been forbidden to make the trip with her.  Emily’s parents were afraid Lizzie would run away in the free north, so old, reliable Zeke had been sent instead.  But what good was a doddering old man when dressing for dinner?

She wriggled out of the traveling suit with some trouble and stepped into the undergarments.  Getting the elaborate dress over her head proved much more difficult, but with a few grunts and a lot of willpower, it finally settled in place.  She did her best to tie a proper bow behind her back, but it looked sadly wilted, like a vase full of daisies too long without water.  Nothing like the crisp, perfect knot Lizzie always tied.

She moved on to her hair, glancing into her hand mirror with dismay.  Her curls had pulled free of their combs and straggled in wild disarray.  She reached for her brush, pulling it through the locks with long, unpracticed strokes, but her hair lay on her shoulders limp and dirty.

At home, she wouldn’t have given any more thought to her appearance than a mule would give to its tail.  What did the wind and the woods care how she looked?  But here her pride was at stake.  And at the moment, that was all she had.

A knock sounded at her door, and a woman called out, “Miss Preston?  Isaac sent me to remind you that dinner is in five minutes.”

Emily recognized the rolling voice from the kitchen.

“Miss Preston?”  The door opened and a young, red-haired woman peeked inside.  She was hardly more than a girl.  “So you are up.  I thought perhaps you fell asleep after your long trip.”  The woman took in Emily’s sloppy appearance.  “Oh, dear.  I believe you could use some help.”

She crossed the room uninvited and began tugging and adjusting the gray dress.  She corrected a button, pulled the back hem free from where it had tucked under the pantalettes and retied the bow.  Then she reached for the brush and with a few practiced twists fastened the curls in a simple style.

Emily admired the effect in the mirror.

“I’m Shannon, by the way.  I use to wait on Lady Pennington back in Ireland, but now I clean for Isaac and sometimes help with dinner.  I’m very pleased to meet you.  I hope we’ll be friends.”

Emily frowned at the maid’s informal overture and the disrespectful use of her uncle’s first name, but Shannon didn’t seem to notice.  Instead, the maid gave the bow one final tug.  “Dinner will be waiting,” she called as she left the room.

Emily took one last, approving glance in the mirror and adjusted her arrogance.  Just let any person in this hotel try to find fault with her now!

In the dining room, several guests were already seated and Shannon was busy taking orders.  As Emily stood near the stairs wondering where to go, a black woman pushed through the swinging kitchen door and delivered two steaming plates of food.

Isaac waved.  “Emily, I saved you a place beside me.  Come.”  He pulled out a chair for her.  “I’ve already ordered.

“Breakfast and lunch are served only to guests, but a few nights a week we open our dinner hour to the public,” he explained as she scanned the busy room.  Five other tables were occupied, including one nearby seating Mr. and Mrs. Bronner.

Smiling, Shannon brought them each a plate loaded with mashed potatoes, green peas and a thick pork chop.  The whole plate was covered with steaming gravy that tickled her nose as she waited for Isaac to finish saying grace.  As the prayer went on, his low tones were overpowered by the familiar sound of a southern voice.

“They just disappeared,” it said.  “I don’t understand it.”

Emily’s heart leaped!  She peeked with one eye to see who had spoken and discovered a young man seated at the next table, neatly dressed and sporting a full beard.  His hair was parted on one side and combed in a wave over his forehead.  He sat with two friends who appeared rough and unkempt.  As she watched, one of them replied, “We’ll go south tomorrow, down to the river.”

“Amen,” Isaac finished and started in on his plate without another word.

Emily took a few small bites but continued to cast glances at the next table until she caught the eye of the well-dressed man.  “Excuse me,” she broke in, “but I overheard you talking, and it is so good to hear someone from home.  I declare, I was beginning to feel all alone in this godforsaken state.”

Isaac frowned at her impulsiveness, but the gentleman flashed a gallant smile.  “Well I’ll be!  A Dixie flower in the middle of Michigan!  Isaac, where have you been hiding this delightful child?”

“Good evening, Jarrod,” Isaac said with a polite nod at his guest.  “This is my niece, Miss Emily Preston, from Charleston, South Carolina.  She arrived today.  Emily, Mr. Jarrod Burrows, a regular patron of mine.”

Mr. Burrows bowed politely across the tables.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Preston.  And I know exactly what you mean about leaving civilization for these northern climates.  One can get to feeling a bit forlorn.”

“Are you from Carolina, Mr. Burrows?” Emily asked.

“No, miss.  Virginia born and bred.”

“What are you doing so far from home?”

“I run sort of a detective agency, you might say.”

One of his companions choked, and the other slapped him heartily on the back.  Emily could see the Bronners glancing in their direction.

“How intriguing!” she burst out.  “I’ve never met anyone in your line of work.  What are you investigating?”

“Emily, let’s allow Mr. Burrows to finish his dinner in peace,” her uncle warned.

But his reluctance only made her redouble her efforts.  She pretended to pout, her mouth puckered like gathers in a skirt, but her eyes danced.  The look worked on her father every time.  “But I do so want to know what Mr. Burrows is about.  I may ask, mayn’t I?”

Mr. Burrows smiled, charmed by her childish petulance.  “Certainly she may, Isaac.”  He explained, “A friend of mine back home had a valuable piece of property stolen from him.  He has hired me to recover it for him.”

The Bronners now stared openly at them.  Emily pretended not to notice their lack of etiquette.  “How very noble of you, Mr. Burrows, but couldn’t that get dangerous?”

“A very real possibility.  That is why I have brought along my companions, Joseph Sturgis and Edward Satterfield.”

Both mumbled a greeting.

Mr. Bronner set down his napkin and cleared his throat.  “Would this property have taken flight of its own accord?” he interrupted.

Mr. Burrows chuckled.  “That would be something, wouldn’t it, sir?”

But the elderly man wasn’t put off.  Fire snapped in his eyes as they bored into Mr. Burrow’s.  “Property indeed!”

Satterfield leaned back in his chair and picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail.  “That’s what the law calls this particular item, and we have every intention of returning it to its rightful owner.”

The tension in the room mounted, and Emily searched the face of each speaker.  What were they talking about?

Mr. Bronner shifted his gaze to Satterfield.  “How, sir, does thee reconcile the law and your Christian faith?  The man thee seeks was made in the very image of God.”

Satterfield leaned forward threateningly.  “God ain’t black,” he growled.

Mr. Burrows stood and offered the elderly couple a conciliatory smile.  “I really had no intension of disrupting your meal, and I do apologize.  It was tactless of me to discuss business at the dinner table.”

“Business!” Mr. Bronner scoffed, also rising.  “Son, thee is nothing but a common bounty hunter!”

A sudden gasp escaped Emily’s lips.  The men were slave catchers!

Mrs. Bronner spoke quietly, “Our nation is founded on the truth that all men are created equal.  Yet thee would condemn a man to a life of bondage?”

“It ain’t so hard to do, ma’am,” Satterfield said, leaning back and exchanging amused grins with Sturgis.

Mr. Bronner seemed gentled by his wife’s example.  “Forgive me,” he said to the men.  “I am a man of peace.  But I am also a man guided by the Word of the Lord, and I will not break bread with those who seek to enslave another.”

Before following her husband from the room, Mrs. Bronner gave them a gentle nod.  “I will pray for each of thee tonight.”

Sturgis nodded.  “Please do that, ma’am.  Maybe we’ll catch that darkie and get back to ‘Ginnie all the sooner.”

Throughout the conflict, the guests at the other tables had fallen silent, eyes downcast, eating with earnest concentration.  When the Quaker couple was gone, Mr. Burrows turned to Emily’s uncle.  “I apologize, Isaac.  I didn’t mean to drive away customers.”

Isaac appeared grave.  “Gentlemen, you are always welcome in my establishment, but I must insist that you keep your business to yourselves in the presence of my other guests.”

Mr. Burrows nodded shortly.  “Agreed.”

Emily looked her uncle up and down with disgust.  How could he chastise Mr. Burrows?  The man had done nothing wrong.  Had her uncle been so long in the north that he had forgotten his roots?

She, at least, wasn’t bound by her uncle’s wishes.  Turning back to Mr. Burrows, she continued, “I imagine runaways keep you pretty busy.  We lost one off our place this year, too.”

“Emily,” her uncle warned, but she ignored him.

“These Yankees don’t understand how things really are.  They get all the wrong ideas from that book, Uncle Tom’s Cabin.  They don’t realize the Negroes have need of direction and provision.”

As she spoke, Ezekiel stood at the side of the room and never fluttered an eyelid, but the black woman who helped serve the meal glared balefully in Emily’ direction.

Emily was undaunted.  “I hope you catch that fellow.  Sometimes the slaves get a little rebellious, like a spirited horse, and they need a firm hand.”

Sturgis and Satterfield snorted contemptuously.

“Emily, that will be enough,” her uncle commanded.

A sudden baying erupted in the back yard.  A glance out the window showed two rangy bloodhounds loping through the carefully manicured garden.  They stopped, nosing about in a patch of purple asters.  Dirt and blooms began to fly beneath huge paws.

With a muffled oath, the bounty hunters jumped up, stumbling in their haste.  Mr. Burrows rose also.  “It’s been a pleasure,” he said with a swift bow.  “If you’ll excuse me.”

The smaller dog still ripped into the flower bed, but the larger one had moved on.  He snuffled about the tea roses and stopped to water the hedge as the two men charged out the door.  Emily barely stifled a giggle as one of them lunged for its collar.

Isaac stood up from the table and cleared his throat.  “Emily, would you accompany me to my office, please?”  He wasn’t smiling.

“Of course, Uncle,” she beamed.

In the office, Isaac closed the door and crossed his arms in consternation.  “It seems you’ve sufficiently recovered your energy from your trip, my dear.  You put on quite a presentation out there.  So I believe tomorrow will be soon enough to assign you some chores.”

Her smile vanished and her face opened in shock.

“I know your mother has not raised you to be extremely industrious, but I believe a bit of labor is beneficial.  So tomorrow you will accompany Shannon.”

“You cannot be serious!”

“I assure you, I’m quite serious.”

Emily balled her fists at her sides and felt warmth creep into her cheeks.  “Uncle Isaac, I am not a slave!  And my parents did not send me here to be treated like one.  I absolutely refuse to spend my whole day laboring!”

“No, no, you misunderstand,” he explained with a lifted eyebrow.  “It’s just for a while in the evenings.  You’ll be far too busy attending school to help during the day.”

Emily’s mouth popped open and her eyes bulged like a sausage that’s been squeezed too hard in the middle.

The corner of her uncle’s mouth began to twitch again.  “Pick your chin up off the floor, dear.  You couldn’t possibly have thought I’d hire you a tutor.”

Speechless, she whirled to leave, but he stopped her.  “One more thing.  Jarrod Burrows could charm the stink off a skunk, but I don’t want you consorting with him.  So no more performances like that last one, please.”

She met the command with stony silence, her chin up and her eyes flashing.  She would consort with whomever she pleased.  When she found her voice it came out strained.  “I will be writing home about this,” she seethed.  Contemptuously, she looked him up and down.  “I cannot even fathom how you can be my uncle, you…you Yankee!”

He gave her a grave stare.  “Oh, my dear, we are so much more alike than you would ever care to admit.”

Chapter Four

The Candle Star, by Michelle Isenhoff, Chapter 2

If you’re new to this serial, you can start at Chapter One. 

The Candle Star

by Michelle Isenhoff

Chapter Two

“I’m really very tired,” Emily said curtly.  “I’d like to be shown to my room.”

“Of course.”  Isaac opened the front door.  In a glance, she took in a spacious lobby with several chairs scattered across a floral carpet.  A wide fireplace climbed the wall between two windows on her left, and to the right sprawled a large desk where hotel business was conducted.  An office was visible behind it through the open top of a Dutch door.

Just past the desk, her uncle led her through a second door that opened into a short hallway with four rooms set opposite each other.  “These are my private quarters.  This is another door to my office; my bedroom is beyond.  You’ll be across from me, with Zeke next to you.  The rooms aren’t large, but no guests will disturb you.

“I’ll bring your trunk in as soon as I can round up some help,” he offered, ushering her into the bedroom.  “Settle in and rest.  Dinner is served at five o’clock.  Tonight we’ll take it with the guests.”

He closed the door firmly, and Emily was left alone.

She stood in the center of the room and spun in a slow circle.  It was about as accommodating as a woodshed – nothing like her luxurious bedroom at Ella Wood.  Just a wardrobe, a desk, a table with bowl and pitcher, a chipped chamber pot and a bed draped with a quilt as dingy and faded as death.  The only color in the whole room came from an ugly rag-rug pitched onto the floor.

A knock interrupted her survey.  “Miss Emily, I has yo’ bag.”

“Bring it in please, Zeke.”

He entered as gently as a lamb and placed it on the bed.  “Does you need anything else, miss?  This ol’ back sho’ could use some rest aftah dat rattlin’ train ride.”

“I’m fine, Zeke.  Go lie down.”

He nodded, easing the door closed behind him.

Emily sat and pulled the bag onto her lap.  Rummaging inside, she drew out a book of poetry her mother had given her at the train station.  With a grimace, she shoved the volume to the bottom of the bag, exchanging it for a penny novel smuggled to her by her best friend, Sophia.  This she slid beneath her pillow.  Reaching in once more, she located a small watercolor of Ella Wood painted in springtime bloom.  It was her best work yet, and she displayed it on the desk to remind her of home.

With nothing left to occupy her, Emily flopped back against the shroud of a quilt and watched the light reflect off the water in the pitcher and frolic on the ceiling.  But like a ghost that wouldn’t stay dead, her indomitable curiosity rose up inside her.  She wrestled with it only a moment before slipping from the room.

Zeke’s snoring filled the hall with a soft rhythm, like gentle waves sighing against the sand of Charleston Neck.  With a furtive glance, Emily tried the knob of her uncle’s bedroom door.  It opened silently, revealing a room identical to her own.  With a snort of disdain, she closed it and moved on to his office, hoping for something – anything – amusing, but the knob wouldn’t budge.  She’d try again later.

She entered the vacant lobby.  An open stairway spilled from the second story, partitioning off a dining area in the back set with eight round tables.  Emily was drawn to a pair of French doors that brightened the room and overlooked a sizable garden at the rear of the hotel.  Her stomach rumbled as walked into the aroma of baking bread.

“No, I ain’t seen her yet, an’ I’s in no hurry to.”

Emily froze.  The muffled words drifted from behind the wall, accompanied by the clanking of dishes.

“Oh, Julia, you have everyone from the South stuffed in the same sack.”  This woman sounded younger, and her voice rolled with a foreign accent.

“I knows what I knows,” Julia stubbornly maintained.

“Well I’m impatient to meet her.  I have seven nieces and nephews of my own, and I enjoy them so much.  I’m eager to adopt Isaac’s as well.”

They were talking about her, Emily realized.  She pressed her ear to the kitchen door.

“I hope you’s right, Shannon,” but the voice didn’t sound like it held out any hope at all.

A clatter of pans met Emily’s ear, and then, “We’re almost out of stove wood.  Should I call Malachi?”

“He out fishin’ wid dat Willis boy.  Mr. Isaac gib him da afternoon off.”

“Then I’ll tell him when he gets back.  Do you have a bowl?  I think these potatoes are done.”

Emily lost interest in the conversation.  In fact, nothing in her new prison seemed to draw her interest except, perhaps, the lure of the still-unexplored second story, but a quick peek through the keyholes upstairs revealed eight more rooms remarkable only in their plainness.

That was it?  This was where she had to live until her parents chose to bring her home?  With a clown of an uncle, some woman who already hated her and another who wanted to make her a pet?

She leaned weakly against the last doorframe in the corridor.  She’d best start working on that escape plan right away!

She was distracted by delicate strains of piano music sifting up through the floorboards and settling on her like fine powder.  With a start, she recognized the sonata as one of her mother’s favorites.  How strange to hear it played so far from home.  And how welcome!  Could she dare hope that her uncle had hired dinner music?

Emily crept down the stairway and peered over the banister.  She had not noticed it as she passed through the lobby, but there, pushed up against the stairway wall, sat a small upright piano.  And to her utter astonishment, it was her uncle who sat before the instrument coaxing out music as sweet as brown sugar!  She listened, spellbound.

Isaac moved smoothly into one of Bach’s minuets and then to a pair of hymns.  Emily sank to the steps and closed her eyes, the familiar melodies conjuring up pictures of home.  When her uncle changed to the haunting strains of Beethoven’s Fur Elise, she could picture her mother seated before her beloved baby grand, hands skimming the keys, body rocking with the intensity of her playing.

Emily’s heart wrenched with a twist of homesickness.  When the music slowed and faded away, she sat immobile, saturated in memories that threatened to leak out and roll down her cheeks.

A round of applause erupted below.  “What a beautiful performance, Mr. Milford!  I didn’t know thee played.”

Isaac spun on the seat.  “Mrs. Bronner!  I didn’t hear you come in.”  He addressed an elderly woman perched on the divan behind him.

“Of course thee didn’t.  I wouldn’t interrupt such fine talent.”

Isaac gave her a quizzical look.  “I thought Quakers considered music vanity.”

“Oh, we do!”  She dropped her voice conspiratorially.  “But I was raised Methodist.”

Isaac chuckled and stood as the front door opened.  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bronner,” he said with a nod.  “Were you able to find another retailer for your furniture?”

A gray-haired man dressed all in black gave her uncle a dignified nod.  “I received orders for three more rocking chairs and a bureau.  Enough to keep me busy for several weeks.”

“And I enjoyed a lovely tour of the city,” Mrs. Bronner chimed in.

Isaac smiled.  “Then your visit has been a complete success.  Forgive my poor manners, but I have a few things I must attend to.  Will I see you both at dinner?”  At their nods, he closed himself behind the Dutch door.

As soon as it latched, Emily fled past the astonished couple and out the garden doors, sucking in deep breaths of air to keep her emotions in check.  But it was like holding a litter of puppies inside a shallow basket.  A few tears managed to escape.  She wiped at them angrily.  She would not cry!  Instead, she’d channel that energy and use it to get what she wanted.

She found herself on a flagstone patio.  Though in the midst of a city, the house had managed to retain a bit of space around itself, like legroom granted to a tottering old man.  The entire backyard was laid out in the geometrical shapes of a French garden and enclosed by a high brick wall.  She entered, following a path of crushed limestone.

The path wound through the different garden rooms, each bordered with clipped, shoulder-high hedges and planted with a unique theme.  The first boasted vibrantly-hued asters, zinnias and daisies all leaning heavily against each other on tall, slender stalks.  The next held only herbs, low-growing and fragrant.  Another grew blooms all ghostly white, winding into the hedge and surrounding a pair of white wicker benches.  Yet another displayed formal tea roses in every color, complete with a wrought iron table and matching chairs.

The garden was too perfect for Emily’s tastes, too tame.  Too forced and manipulated.  All these plants were compelled to follow to some gardener’s wishes instead of growing free and unhindered.  As she strolled down the path, she identified with them, for the same constrictions had recently been imposed on her.

For twelve years Emily Preston had been indulged and allowed to ramble at will, carefree and happy.  Suddenly her parents realized she would be marriageable in only a few short years and began to prepare her.  They controlled and contained her – just like the plants being forced into these boxes.  All the new rules made her want to run, to scream, to fly away!  How could she be held accountable for her sudden bursts of temper?

Emily entered the garden’s very last room.  Unlike the others, this one was choked with weeds.  They grew in random disarray, intertwining and bulging over the path.  Emily’s heart lightened as she identified many of the same wildflowers that grew it the fields of Ella Wood; Indian paintbrush, blue chicory, black-eyed Susans and the flat, feathery bloom of the yarrow.  She scooped up handfuls to brighten her room.

The path emerged near a stable at the back of the lot.  Peering inside, she saw that five of the stalls were occupied.  She recognized her uncle’s team at once.  A name plate nailed over the gray’s head read Barnabas, and the sorrel’s name was Mabel.  The stable also housed a pair of matched bays and a beautiful black riding mare.

Emily was drawn to the mare.  Its small ears were pricked forward, and it watched her with intelligent eyes.  As she rubbed its forehead, Emily wished she had a carrot in her pocket.  Instead, she offered it a clover blossom.  The horse was quite valuable and reminded her of Chantilly, her own saddle mare.  Did it belong to a guest, or could her uncle own such a fine animal?

Her attention shifted to the door of the very last stall.  It was closed, but no head showed over the top.  Instead, odd snuffling sounds issued from within.  Her curiosity aroused, she peered inside.  At the same moment, something rose up in an explosion of noise and brown fur.

Screaming, Emily stumbled backwards and landed on her backside in an empty stall, flowers strewn everywhere.  A huge, rangy hound stood with paws hooked over the top of the door, staring down at her with head tilted and floppy ears cocked as if it couldn’t quite figure out what she was.  It bayed again, long and throaty, and dropped back inside the stall.

“Stupid mutt!” she yelled, flinging a clod of mud that struck the door and disintegrated into a puff of gray powder.  She brushed straw and petals off her dress and gave the dog’s door a swift kick.  A second hound appeared, bawling out another long, wailing bellow.

She lurched backward and snatched up her bouquet, keeping a wary eye on the half-door, and stormed toward the exit.

At the door she hesitated, a devilish look narrowing her eyes and tightening her lips.  She waited till the dogs settled down before she crept back to their stall and scattered her flowers before it once again.  Then she turned the latch until it barely held.  If the dogs pounced on it even once, the door would fling open and they would be free.  And with any luck, the flowers would point to her!

With a devious chuckle, Emily hustled up the gravel lane to the front of the house, hoping the mongrels didn’t gain their freedom till she reached safety.  She paused only briefly to pick half a dozen mums from the porch’s flower border before entering.

It must have been nearly time for dinner, but as she passed her uncle’s office she slowed.  She would dearly love a look inside his private room.  Surely, she could turn up some morsel of information to twist to her own uses.

She pressed her ear to the door.  All was quiet.  Glancing up and down the deserted hallway, she tried the knob again.

This time it turned.

She slipped inside, quiet as a falling leaf, and closed the door behind her.

Like the bedrooms, the office was plain, almost stark.  Aside from a desk, a chair and a small shelf of books, the only other furnishing in the room was an oil painting of a magnolia tree in full bloom.  In the corner, looking extremely out of place, were stacked five shiny tin buckets with half a dozen hammers placed in the top one.

Emily moved to the bookshelf and glanced through the titles: Pilgrim’s Progress, A History of the Great Lakes Region, Selected Sermons of George Whitefield, A Complete Guide to Managing Business Finance and a collection of poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  Her breath escaped in a long whisper of disbelief.  Did her uncle actually read this stuff?

She set down her flowers and bent over the desk.  In contrast to the tidy room, it looked like a dynamited paper factory.  Poking through the mess, she pulled out several handwritten receipts, a clipping from a newspaper advertising railroad stock, pages ripped from a ledger, a shopping list and stacks of hotel business.  A pried-up handful revealed only more of the same underneath.

She dropped the papers in disgust and tried a drawer.  Each was filled with the same papery clutter.  She recalled her father’s neatly organized desk at home.  How could her uncle run a business this way?

Disappointed, she gathered the mums.  The break-in had gained her nothing.  But as she turned away, something caught her eye.  Something that wasn’t quite right.

A gap appeared where two panels of the desk came together.  She bent closer and ran a finger over the opening.  It was a secret compartment.  One that would be completely hidden beneath the writing surface of the desk if only her uncle had closed it properly.  But thanks to his carelessness, she had discovered it!

She reached her fingers into the space and pulled out a brown, leather-bound volume with a star imprinted on its cover.  With a furtive glance at the door, she opened the book.

It was some kind of a journal.  She could tell by the dates written in the margins, but the entries made no sense at all.  They appeared to be simple lists; food, clothing, objects, names, places, and money amounts.  Nor had it been written in every day.  Not even every week.  Thumbing backward, she saw seven entries for July, two in June, several in May, then nothing till March, and only one in January.  Flipping back farther, she saw the journal ran for years.  What could it mean?

Glancing up at the clock on the bookshelf, she saw it read 4:40.  She had just enough time to dress for dinner.  Vowing to give the book more thought later, she slid it back into its hiding place, closed the compartment firmly and slipped into the hall.

Read chapter three.

Tales of a Serial Novelist – The Candle Star, by Michelle Isenhoff, Chapter 1

Today I’m adding a new feature to my blog.  Each Sunday, I’m going to post in a new brand new catagory, Tales of a Serial Novelist.  No, not tales of a serial killer.  I write children’s lit, remember?  I’m taking about resurrecting the serial.  (Nothing to do with Cheerios, either, guys.)

Charles Dickens was a master of the serial.  He published many of his novels in tabloids, one chapter at a time.  This is a very difficult thing to do!  Not only are you forced to regularly complete a chapter, you can’t go back and change them later.  He had to have a very, VERY good idea where he was going with each story.

I’m going to cheat.  Instead of publishing increments of a new story each week, I’m going to delve into one of my recent publications, The Candle Star (American historical fiction, ages 10+).  Every Sunday I’ll post the next chapter.  If you tune in regularly, you’ll read the whole thing in nineteen weeks’ time.  If you get impatient, well, click on the picture to the right and get the book.  Ready?   Here we go!

The Candle Star

by Michelle Isenhoff

1858

Chapter One

Emily Preston threatened to hate every moment of her holiday, but sometimes curiosity overcomes even the best of bad intentions.  She had to relax her indifference, just for a moment.  Palms pressed flat against the cool pane of glass, her blue eyes drank in the sea of buildings whizzing past.

Detroit surprised her.  She was certain she’d find a shambling frontier town, but the city was studded with hundreds of tall, flat-topped buildings that looked as if they’d been nailed into the ground by a giant hammer and abandoned at different heights.  Wide avenues rolled with respectable folk carried along in every possible kind of horse-drawn conveyance, their clatter muffled by the window.  And as the train circled the city, Emily counted no fewer than twelve church spires.

Of course the town wasn’t as gracious as Charleston, back home in Carolina, with its stately old homes and picturesque harbor, but a yearling colt could hardly be compared with the noble lines of a full-grown stallion.  Detroit had its own charm, a rough and vital energy that Emily could have found invigorating.

If she hadn’t been banished here.

“Miss Emily, i’s not proper, you squashin’ yo’ nose agains’ dat glass.”

Emily turned to the old black man with a haughty shrug.  “It really doesn’t matter how I behave, Zeke.  I don’t know anyone in this entire state.”

“Yo’ uncle be waitin’ fo’ you at the station, miss.  You makes a good firs’ impression.”

“My uncle,” she snorted.  “He’s lived here so long he’s probably as dull as the rest of these Yankees.”  She raised her voice, stretching out each syllable like a string of maple syrup.  “We’re practically on the frontier.  Michigan’s only been in the Union for sixteen years.  Why, I’m nearly as old as the state.”

She tossed her curls, pleased with the dark glances she was generating.

The old man gave her a stern look.  “You’s twelve yeahs ol’, miss, not sixteen, and you minds yo’ mannahs.”

“Oh, Ezekiel,” she pouted, “if my uncle dislikes me, maybe he’ll send me home.”

She’d never been away from Ella Wood before, and leaving the beautiful plantation had perforated her heart with a thousand holes, like the side of the smokehouse her brother had riddled with buckshot.  Her joy had gushed out all at once, and her confidence, so thick at home, was slowly seeping out and dripping off her toes with every step north.

She missed Ella Wood.  She missed the lazy fields dotted with Thoroughbreds swishing their tails and grazing hock-deep in clover.  She missed the shady smell of the forest that sprawled so thickly across the hills one nearly stepped on the game sheltered in its tangles.  She missed the spectrum of the sunset above the tobacco fields, turning them russet, then purple, then black.  She missed the liquid sound of music flowing from the slave cabins after dusk.

But that was all a million miles behind her now, lost in a moment of high spirits – a tantrum, her mother called it – which convinced her parents that she needed a change of scenery and a firmer hand.  So she’d been packed up and sent to her mother’s brother in Detroit.

They didn’t tell her the north was practically a different country, one that dispensed frowns of disapproval for traveling with an old slave.  Nor did they mention the discomforts of railroad travel, the tasteless food, the terrible service.  She’d just been tossed over the Mason-Dixon Line like a rabbit pitched into a kennel of hounds.

The track rounded a final bend and ended beside a busy waterfront littered with crates and barrels and coarse-looking dockhands.  A score of ships lined the river, scratching heaven’s floorboards with their bobbing masts, waiting to take aboard the raw timber that rose up in towers beside the tracks.

Emily watched a dog dodge beneath a team of drays that stood ready to haul away the cargo being unloaded from a slumbering steamship.  Beyond lay the murky green of the Detroit River, then the emerald plain of Canada.

The train shuttered and died, wheezing out a last breath of steam.  Moments later, passengers poured from its belly, covering the platform like a brightly-knitted afghan before ducking into the depot with its cinnamon-colored bricks.

“You keeps out of trouble till I fines our luggage, Miss Emily,” Zeke admonished as he joined the throng.

Emily remained seated until the crush in the aisle disappeared.  Through the window, she watched the whirl of people mixing and merging and sorting themselves out.  Loved ones called to each other and embraced, and in the most crowded moment she felt a powerful sting of loneliness.  But she adjusted her hat, securing both the headpiece and her courage, and stepped off the train.

The yard reeked of grease, coal smoke, horse manure and fish, but she eagerly stretched her legs.  From some distance on the river, the whistle of a steamship warbled in the breeze.  All around her, the city throbbed with its own importance.  Conversations flitted about like barn swallows, and a busy clop-clop testified to daily commerce taking place beyond the depot.  Overhead, the sky shone as blue as the eyes of the china doll on her bed at home, and the cheery autumn sun poured down gold at her feet in welcome.

A hatless man approached dressed in a cheap, brown suit.  It was unbuttoned and flapped in the breeze he created as he strode toward her.  His necktie was skewed, and his forehead spilled over with a riot of dark curls which he brushed at absently and ineffectually.  “Emily Preston,” he hailed.

She eyed him distastefully.  Had her uncle sent this buffoon to meet her?

“Yes, I am Miss Preston,” she answered curtly.

Amusement hinted in the crinkle of his eyes.  “Oh, it wasn’t a question.  You’re the only southern belle on the platform.  And a Milford through and through, I’ll add.”

Irritating Yank.  She pulled herself up to her full height and gave him a scathing look.  “Manners die out north of Richmond, I’ve noticed.”

The man bent in a sweeping bow.  “Miss Preston,” he said, smiling openly now, “I’m pleased to meet you.  I am your uncle, Isaac Milford.”

She gaped at him.  “You can’t be!”

He threw back his head and laughed.  “I assure you, I can.  Were you expecting someone else?”

She bristled.  “I was expecting someone more like my mother.”

“Ah,” he replied with a lift of his eyebrows, “someone refined and gentle and polite.  I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my sister and I inherited very few of the same qualities.  You’ll have to settle for blunt, tactless and stubborn.  Thoroughly insufferable, I’m afraid.”

Perfect.  At least he fit nicely into the theme of her trip.

Ezekiel approached just then carrying her carpetbag and his own small valise.  Two sturdy railroad workers trailed behind him bearing her iron-bound steamer trunk between them.

Isaac thumped the black man heartily on the back.  “Zeke, it’s good to see you.  How long has it been, fifteen years?”

The old slave grinned, revealing few remaining teeth.  “Long about dat, I ‘spects.  Marse Isaac, you sho’ looks fine all growed up.”

Isaac chuckled.  “Perhaps, considering the loose-kneed, gangly kid you remember.  Well, come along, you two.  My rig is parked out front.”

The “rig” was a large, open carriage.  Harnessed before it stood two hacks of indeterminate breeding; one gray, one sorrel.  The workers hefted the trunk onto the vehicle’s rear-facing seat, and Emily and Zeke settled across from it.

Isaac climbed onto the driver’s bench.  “All set?”

Taking her shrug as an affirmative, he flicked the reins over the backs of the mismatched team.  Emily vowed disinterest, but when the huge mills and dockside warehouses merged into rows of storefronts aproned in brightly-colored awnings, her traitorous curiosity got the best of her again.

They jogged around a corner and found themselves in the middle of an outdoor marketplace.  The road broadened to twice its normal width, and in its center stood two long, low, open-air structures filled with vendors and their wares.  In one glance, Emily took in a load of golden squash, a wagon displaying needlework and home-canned produce, a crate of squawking hens and three barrels of apples, each of a different color.

“This is Central Market,” Isaac informed them.  “Michigan Avenue runs straight out to the countryside.  Makes it convenient for the farmers to haul their goods to town.”

Next, they turned onto a wide avenue hedged with storefronts.  Some of the buildings rose up five or six stories, with giant letters between each row of windows spelling out their business.  Others boasted only two or three floors, with living quarters on the uppermost and gabled peaks above.  All stood with shoulders crammed together so tightly a hand couldn’t have passed between them.

“We’re almost home,” Isaac called out, rounding one last corner.

Moments later they pulled up in front of an old brick house skirted with a gray porch and set back from the road.  A row of brilliant mums grew before it like lace edging on the bottom hem of a dress.  In the exact center of the building’s face sat a red door, with two windows on either side and matching windows above.  The gravel drive curved into the backyard, and the front lawn boasted a sign with “Grand River Inn” painted in letters as curly as the locks on her uncle’s forehead.

Emily read the sign a second time.  A hotel?  Her uncle lived in a hotel?  How had her parents forgotten to mention this tiny detail?

Isaac must have read her confusion.  He explained with some pride, “This used to be a private residence, but I remodeled it into an inn.  It earns me a decent living.”  He offered Emily a hand down.  “I hope you will consider it your home during your stay.  It’s no Russell House, but there are those who’ve said it’s comfortable.”

Emily scanned the building with keen disapproval, like a judge about to sentence a felon.  “I suppose it would do if one was used to primitive accommodations.”

Her uncle seemed to struggle with a twitch that pulled up one corner of his mouth.  “I’m glad you’re here, Emily.  I’ve been looking forward to this opportunity to get to know my only niece.”

And that’s when her plan formed.  The idea had nudged her on the train, but only now did she see the possibilities.  She would make him regret that he had ever met her.  She’d make herself so obnoxious and hateful that he wouldn’t be able to endure her – and he would send her home!

Read chapter two.