The Hunted & the Hind: Editing sometimes means losing the good bits

Another post about The Hunted and and Hind, including a big deleted scene this week. I have just finalised the audiobook with Callum and so it will be going up to Findaway Voices in the next week or two and appearing at all your favourite online retailers soon after that.

Audiobook cover, The Hunted and the Hind

Hunted is the third in my 1920s London trilogy that began with Lost in Time. They are historical books with a paranormal twist and Hunted is the one with the most paranormal shenanigans and therefore, for me, the most difficult to write. Eventually it came in at just over forty thousand words, edited down from just over fifty.

It was so, so painful to cut out all those words I’d hammered out in the early mornings last summer and I really felt like I’d wasted my time. I’d got sucked down a rabbit-hole of too much fantasy world—in all my other books, not just the 1920s ones, the paranormal world is glimpsed from this one and is supposed to be a tip-of-the-iceberg type arrangement where neither characters nor readers can see all of it. But at the end of Shadows on the Border, poor Sergeant Will Grant got sucked through the border (or maybe he jumped through?) after Fenn, who was returning home. I knew I wanted them to be together, but I also felt it was a cop-out to just have them pop back into 1920s London from Fenn’s world at the beginning of the next book as if they’d hidden in a cupboard for a while and then re-emerged.

I ended up writing quite a bit of what turned into backstory or maybe an alternate timeline set in Fenn’s world. A few of the scenes have ended up in the finished book, but a lot of them were cut—this one for example and the one below. And the not-popping-out-of-a-cupboard problem was solved by having them re-emerge from Fenn’s world in Egypt and having a two week journey back to England.

Luckily this has given me lots and lots of deleted scenes to share! The only thing I kept in the final book from this one is the lim-moss that provides the lighting. Here it is! And do keep an eye out for the audio book in the next few weeks if you are an audio type of person!

Deleted Scene

Cover of The Hunted and the Hind

Will leaned his head back against the wall. It was lovely to be properly warm. He didn’t think he’d been warm in all of his body at once since they’d come through the Border. “I fell.” He stated the obvious. “I fell and I put my shoulder out. I, er. I rather lost track for a bit.”
Fenn was looking at him with that steady, slightly unnerving gaze. “Come, Will. Come and bathe.” He extended a hand and Will grasped it, grateful for the help getting up. Fenn was in some sort of loose robe affair, not quite dressing gown, not quite thobe. Will still wore the remnants of his slacks and shirt.
“Let me help you?” Fenn asked him.
“Yes. All right.” He could do with the help. Fenn stepped close and put his hands inside the padded coat, on his shoulders as he slid it off down Will’s arms. He laid it on the stone bench beside them. Then he started to unbutton Will’s shirt, fumbling a little with the tiny mother of pearl buttons. Will half-shut his eyes and enjoyed not having to think of anything. “That should probably be burned.” he commented as Fenn laid that aside too. “It all should, really. I’ve been wearing it for days”.
“It is certainly not in the cleanest of conditions.” There was a smile in Fenn’s voice as he put his hands on Will’s belt. “This next?”
“I can do it.” Will’s voice was not quite steady as he took over. There was something very comforting about letting Fenn look after him. Dangerous, his hind brain told him. Dangerous to get used to it.
“Very well.” Fenn waited for him to push his trousers down and step out of them and then started unbuttoning his combinations, gently easing them over his duff shoulder. “There. It hurts?”
“Not as much as it did.” He scrunched his face up. “I’m almost getting used to it, it’s been in and out so much.” He carefully pushed his underwear down to his ankles and stepped out, naked.
“Come.” Fenn took his elbow and guided him down some shallow steps in to the pool. The warm water lapping higher around him was an almost erotic pleasure. He sighed. The pool was about chest depth and large enough to comfortably float and splash about. There seemed to be a sunken stone bench around the edges. Fenn drew him to it and sat beside him. The light was coming up from underneath.
“What’s causing the light?” he asked, with idle curiosity.
“We call it lim-light. It’s a kind of moss. We use it everywhere – you just need a little piece of it and it spreads steadily. Very convenient.” Fenn laid his head back on the edge of the pool and sunk down a little further, shutting his eyes. “Graces, I missed this. Your people do not have good baths, Will Grant.”
He sounded so complacent that Will chuckled a little. He could feel the aches soaking out of him already. He splashed Fenn with a small wave that lapped over his face, making his silver eyelashes clump together as he laughed softly and opened his lids a little, directing his sleepy gaze at Will, eyes still protected by that inner eyelid. “It is true. You know it is true. Since, since the Romans! You have not had proper baths.”
Will snorted at that. “You aren’t allowed to read my mind in order to be smug at me.” He chided.
“It was on the surface. You were shouting.” Fenn shut his eyes again, glimmer of humour fading. “You did not ask me about Keren.”
“No.” Will was solemn now, too. “No. I didn’t. I just assumed. When you didn’t come back. Is he still alive?”
“No. No, he is not. He tried to escape when he realised that I could not come back and the carnas got him by the shimmer, out at the Eastern Point, where I first went through. Malach said it was quick.” He passed a hand over his lashes, rubbing dampness off them. “I loathe Malach. I always have. They are always so reasonable.” He sat up and pushed off with his feet, moving to the other side of the pool, unable to stay still. “I understand their position. Of course I do. But to use my sibling to force me in to something I would have done regardless.” He put his hands over his face. “I am at a loss, Will.”
Will stood too and went over to him, waist deep in the warm water. What could he say? There was nothing to say to a man who’s brother, little more than a child, had been killed by those things. And for no reason. Just another senseless death. He found that he had said it aloud. “A senseless death.” He put his hand on Fenn’s shoulder, a firm, comforting grip.
Fenn moved closer, resting his head on Will’s shoulder, his hand on Will’s neck to hold him close. Will brought his other arm around him and clasped him tightly, in silence. It was perfectly peaceful in the cavern, like this. No sound except the deep green lapping of the water and the steady breathing of two people who had lost more than either of them deserved. Fenn stepped back a little, opening up the space between them. “For all that you have done for me, Will Grant …” he raised his gaze from the surface of the pool and met Will’s as he stretched out a hand and very lightly touched Will’s wet shoulder. The water droplets glimmered with lim-light as he removed his hand. Will shut his eyes briefly at the intensity of the sensation. When he opened them again, Fenn was watching him. His nictating membrane was open in the dim light of the cavern and the beech green of his eyes was as startling as the first time Will had seen it. Neither of them moved. They were both breathing as if they had been running. “For all that you have done for me, Will … I am thankful.” His voice was lower than before.
He dropped his eyes to his fingers as he raised them out of the water again to Will’s shoulder, running them slowly down over his pectoral to his nipple. Will watched too, biting his lip and concentrating on keeping his breath steady. The long, elegant fingers circled around the little peak, pearled with water. “Fenn.” He said.
“Will.” Will could hear the hunger in his voice, hidden under a smile.

The Hunted and the Hind is now in audio

The Flowers of Time: Jones and Gender

Let’s talk about gender with regard to Jones in The Flowers of Time today, just because, including a deleted scene.

The Flowers of Time, cover

It got to the point as I was writing where I felt there was altogether too much pondering and self-examination by Jones in the early part of the book. Although she’s doing a lot of self-examination, there’s another part of her that just wants to get on with things. And I began to feel as if I was making her an info-dump type of character and the book was becoming a bit more of an examination of how she felt about herself than a road-trip with botany and monsters who melt people.

So… generally speaking, Jones is pretty grumpy at having to make any sort of choice about gender. She never really had to think about it before she went to London. She was extremely reluctant to carry out the death-bed promise to her father to travel to England and try out being a lady of good family. Coming home to the mountains was a huge relief and she now has mixed feelings about her budding friendship with the Mertons if it means she has to behave in a particular way to meet their social expectations.

She’s a bit confused all round, really, and she resents having to put thought in to these messy, human relationships rather than concentrate on her work. She’s definitely a person who sees her mind as important rather than her body. I love her dearly and it hurt a lot to have to delete this scene about her deliberations–it had to go because it was slowing down the pace of the story. It was part of her growth as a person and it still definitely happened in my Jones-head-cannon!

Deleted Scene: Jones’ Preparations

So by the time the Mertons arrived, she was ready. They took a week to make their own preparations for the mountain trails, but Carruthers and Merton seemed to be competent and she left them to it, mostly spending her time with Miss Merton. Initially she felt that it might be a chore, but her initial impression of Edith as a correct English Miss had become modified as the days progressed and she showed her around the lakes and rivers of the city. Jones had always liked Srinagar. It was one of the places she and her father crossed through fairly regularly, both to send communications south to Bombay and several times to take a house there for a few months. Miss Merton’s excitement and pleasure in the scenery and her interest in talking to the residents and attempting to learn their language as she spoke with them meant the time went much more quickly than Jones had anticipated.

Likewise, the party seemed perfectly content with her natural choice to dress as she pleased. Carruthers’ young assistants simply accepted her as a male. She didn’t have much to do with them regardless, but it was pleasant not to be looked at with askance as she had feared when she had seen Miss Merton’s face on the road outside Srinagar. Edith had quickly schooled her expression, and her treatment of Jones had not changed. She had invited her to call her by her first name that evening and that seemed a mark of confidence in their budding friendship. Neither had Carruthers and Merton spoken to her with any caution or disapproval and their example had led to the rest of their party treating her as she wished, which was to essentially ignore her sex and rather pay attention to her thoughts and wishes.

It was very nice to feel that she might have made a friend in Miss Merton. They had been few and far between in her travels with her father, particularly with women, simply because they had been almost constantly in motion and when not in motion, absorbed in the work. She had never had the opportunity before simply to have a friendship that was not also complicated with the bonds of family- as with Dechen, Sonam, Amit and Kishor- or overshadowed by her discomfort at being forced in to female apparel as she had been on her long round trip to England.

Thinking about it now, she had a led a lonely sort of existence based entirely around her father’s obsession with the cause of her mother’s death. And it seemed that Jones might be taking up his mantle. Did she want that? She wasn’t sure. But she was sure that she needed to know what had been driving his obsession. He had been such a rational man. It seemed ridiculous that he had died believing in magic. That he had believed in it all this time and not said a word to her.

Her whole life has changed. Not only did she lose her father; but when he sent her to England ‘to find her roots’ he actually cut her off from her life in the mountains…her source of independence and strength.

She had to re-evaluate her sense of self and the way other people saw her whilst she was in England. And now she’s home, but because the Mertons are following her she may not be able to settle back in to her comfortable old way of doing things where she just toddles along thinking about history and people and plants. She’s gaining friends and a social network. But she may have to give up some of her independence of thought and self-definition as part of that social contract.

I do want to revisit this part of the universe at some point in the future because I do love the characters; but in the meantime there’s also a short story called A Small, Secret Smile that is almost stand-alone if you’re feeling brave, but probably makes more sense if you’ve already read the book.

The Flowers of Time is available in ebook, audio and paperback

"Jones was written perfectly. As a non-binary person I felt seen, and may have shed a tear once or twice"

"I loved Flowers. It's sweet and sexy, but also fascinating and creepy!"

Now in audible.

A determined lady botanist and a non-binary explorer make the long journey over the high Himalayan mountain passes from Kashmir to Little Tibet, collecting flowers and exploring ruins on the way. Will Jones discover the root of the mysterious deaths of her parents? Will she confide in Edie and allow her to help in the quest?

It’s a trip fraught with perils for both of them, not least those of the heart.

A stand-alone f/enby romance set in the Lost in Time universe, in the Himalayas in 1780. About 50,000 words.

Buy here

The Fog of War, out today!

And…we’re off! The Fog of War is live today! I am so grateful to everyone who has reviewed and let me drop in to their blogs with posts and such-like. It’s a sapphic, historical, paranormal, romantic mystery set in rural England in 1920.

To celebrate today, I’m hosting a party at the Lester Towers facebook group with lots of friends dropping in to say hi and offer giveaways.

I’ve also got a Rafflecopter draw running from the 13th-17th of August with a chance to win a $10 Amazon gift-card if you fancy throwing your hat into the ring.

Finally, I’m doing a bit of a blog-tour talking about the characters, settings and the history behind it and you’ll be able to find the other posts listed on my website as they come out this week. I’ve already visited Anne Barwell’s blog to talk about the village of Bradfield, Elizabeth Noble’s blog to talk about where I’d go if I could time travel and The Sapphic Bookclub to talk about the women-led hospitals in WW1.

The Fog of War

The Fog of War by A. L. Lester, First in the Bradfield Trilogy, part of the Border Magic Universe
  • Publisher: JMS Books LLC
  • Editor: Lourenza Adlem
  • Release date: 14 Aug 2014
  • Word Count: 50,000 words
  • Genre: Sapphic, found-family, historical, paranormal romantic mystery set in 1920s England.
  • Content Warning: Mention of domestic violence.

The quiet village of Bradfield should offer Dr Sylvia Marks the refuge she seeks when she returns home from her time in a field hospital in France in 1918. However, she is still haunted by the disappearance of her ambulance-driver lover two years previously ,and settling down as a village doctor is more difficult than she realised it would be after the excitement of front-line medicine. Then curious events at a local farm, mysterious lights and a hallucinating patient’s strange illness make her revisit her assessment of Anna’s death on the battlefield.

Lucille Hall-Bridges is at a loose end now her nursing work is finished. She felt useful as a nurse and now she really doesn’t know what to do with her life. She hopes going to stay with her friend Sylvia for a while will help her find a way forward. And if that involves staying at Bradfield with Sylvia…then that’s fine with her.

Will the arrival of Lucy at Bradfield be the catalyst that allows both women to lay their wartime stresses to rest? Can Sylvia move on from her love affair with Anna and find happiness with Lucy, or is she still too entwined in the unresolved endings of the past?

The first in the Bradfield trilogy, set in the Border Magic universe.

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Fog of War banner

Excerpt

It was a beautiful late August day when Sylvia motored down to Taunton to collect Lucy from the railway station. The sun shone through the trees as she followed the lane down the hill from the village and the sky above was a beautiful summer blue. She had left the all-weather hood of the Austin down and wore a scarf and gloves against the wind, topping her trouser outfit off with her new hat, which she pinned firmly to the neat coil of her long hair.

Walter had watched her fussing with her appearance in the hall mirror, stuffing his pipe. “Are you sweet on her?” he asked, somewhat acerbically.

“It’ll be cold with the hood down,” she said, crushingly.

“Yes, yes, so it will be.” He turned his attention back to his tobacco, face straight. “Be careful on the bends.”

“I will,” she said. “She’s a beast to drive, smooth on the straights and handles well on the corners, but I’ve no desire to end up in the ditch.”

The Fog of War. Historical, paranormal, 1920s England

She’d bought the big Austin coupe late last winter when she’d got fed up riding her motorcycle out to some of the more remote houses she was called to in the dreadful weather. It was huge, far bigger than she needed really, although the back seat was useful to transport a patient if she had to. She still preferred her ‘cycle, but it wasn’t exactly suitable as a doctor’s vehicle. Not very staid at all. The Austin wasn’t very staid either, in that it was huge and expensive; but one of the benefits of a private income was that she could afford it; and so why not be comfortable?

She pondered all this and more on the drive down to Taunton, mind floating along with no real purpose. She loved to drive and for some reason it calmed her thoughts and allowed them to drift.

It would be lovely to see Lucy again. As Walt had said, she was a sweet little thing. Although Sylvia didn’t want to revisit the grim minutiae of some of the worst times at Royaumont, it would be lovely to reminisce about some of their happier moments of camaraderie. It had been four years of extreme stress and grim terror lightened with moments of laughter and fun. Working with a team of competent women all pulling together for one purpose had been extraordinary. She’d never experienced anything like it before and she doubted she would again. She was delighted some of the staff had set up a regular newsletter so they could all  stay connected.

And so what if Lucy was sweet on her. Sylvia wasn’t interested in that kind of complication anymore. She didn’t want to cause gossip in the village for a start…although she supposed people wouldn’t make any assumptions about two women living together these days after so many men hadn’t come home from France. But anyway, even if it wouldn’t cause gossip, she didn’t think about Lucy like that. And she doubted Lucy thought about Sylvia like that, despite Walter’s teasing. He was stirring the pot a little to see what bubbled up, that was all.

Those musings took her to the station.

The train was on time and was just pulling in as she got out of the car. She walked out onto the platform as the smoke was clearing and through the clouds, she made out Lucy.

She was beside the guard’s van, directing the guard and porters to what seemed like an unnecessarily large pile of luggage. Despite the clement August weather, she was wearing an extremely smart velvet coat with a fur collar over a beautiful travelling suit that hung to mid calf, topped with an extraordinary confection of a hat.

She looked competent and sophisticated and exceptionally beautiful. Not at all the slightly scapegrace young person of 1916 who had persuaded the hospital powers-that-be she was a suitable candidate for France, although she’d been only twenty-one and inexperienced as a nurse.

Well. Gosh.

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Author expectations versus reality

person riding kayak
Photo by Aleksey Kuprikov on Pexels.com

I’ve been writing one way and another since Miss Lowe told me off for using ‘again and again’ repetitively in my story about a man climbing a mountain circa 1978. I don’t think I’ve ever really thought of myself as ‘a writer’ or an ‘author’. It was always something I was going to become in my future.

I’m fifty-one now and my first book was published about four years ago with JMS Books. I now have a dozen books and short stories out in the wild. The future is here… but I still don’t really feel like a ‘proper’ writer. It’s a strange sort of disconnection. I’m published, people bough the first book and presumably quite liked it because they went on to buy more. But I still don’t feel like a real author. Not that being published or not published is a distinction, at all- if you write, you are a writer. But for me it’s a confidence issue.

It’s not that I expected to lay on a chaise in a negligee a la Barbara Cartland and have a crowd of beautiful persons of all genders peel grapes to hand-feed me whilst I dictated to my pug. But somehow, I expected that by this point I would feel more at ease with the idea that people like my work.

I didn’t expect to spend so much of the time writing-but-not-writing. My non-family time is carved out with a pickaxe around medical and education appointments and the care of a severely disabled child. My own health limitations compound that. So sometimes I have three hours in the day to work, sometimes I have none.

The thing that has really amazed me, naively probably, is that I spend as much time on social media, marketing and networking as I do writing. I blog and I have Facebook, Instagram and Twitter presences that need keeping fresh. I don’t think there’s much point having them if you’re set on transmit the whole time and don’t interact. And I like interacting. I make graphics using Canva for my social media. I write my newsletter. I’ve just started experimenting with tiktok. I use Facebook mostly to chat with other genre authors rather than reader groups and I use Twitter to ramble about life in general rather than having a closely curated online personality.

Sometimes I feel spread very thin. On the other hand, if I don’t have enough head space for writing or for research, still being able to write and schedule a blog post feels like I have achieved something, even if it’s not another thousand words of my work in progress. For example, I’m writing this with a child sat beside me attempting to deconstruct my glasses and get me to watch Mr Tumble on her iPad. It’s unlikely I’ll manage many actual words, but a post like this I can pick up and put down as required.

A lot of my support network is online, particularly in these COVID-times. That was something I expected- I’ve had an online presence one way or another since the mid-nineties and as far as I’m concerned there’s not much difference between online friends and real friends. But sometimes it’s nice to sit in a room with actual warm bodies and kick ideas around.

I perhaps didn’t expect there to be such a community feel to writing. The first group I ever joined was a Goodreads writer group and I got such a lot of support from there that it really did give me the confidence to submit for publication. I don’t think I would have if they hadn’t been so supportive. (Thank you, if any of you read this). I think QRI and groups like it are a fantastic resource for authors to support each other.

We are essentially lone wolves, but it’s nice to have a pack when you need one.

adventure backlit dawn dusk
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The difference between writing in the 1920s and 1970s. And a bit about colonialism in historical romance.

With The Fog of War coming out in August I thought it might be interesting to blog about the differences between writing in all the different time-periods I seem to dip in to. I went straight from writing The Flowers of Time, set in in India in the 1780s to Taking Stock in England in 1970. It was a bit of a mind-jump.

Cover, Taking Stock

Firstly, the main difference between writing Taking Stock in the 1970s and my books before that point, was that there was no magic. Up ’til then, I’d written in the 1920s and the 1780s with a with a paranormal twist. My magical world lies underneath the real one and I try to be as accurate as possible with that. But by education I’m a medievalist focusing on Britain, so the intricate historical detail of the 1970s was all new to me when I began.

For the 1920s books, I took inspiration from family stories about living in the East End of London in the first part of the twentieth century and there was a lot of documentary stuff to read. I’m a Dorothy L. Sayers fan, too, so it was quite easy to get a 1920s murder investigation vibe going.

Initially The Flowers of Time was supposed to be in the 1920s, too—it would have worked much better with plucky lady plant collectors toddling off around the world on behalf of Kew Gardens at that point in time and I already had a universe they could have slotted in to. However as I began writing, the characters got really bolshy and insisted they were from an earlier time period and we ended up in the 1780s. This is one of the disadvantages of discovery writing. Things can take a corkscrew turn quite quickly.

The Flowers of Time

The bolshy characters made a lot of reading for me, as not only was the geographical area very new to me but the history was as well. I started off reading about the East India Company from resources that were easily available to me—British historians—and then I moved on to contemporary accounts of people’s travels and finally felt I knew enough to read from Indian historians and get a proper understanding. Shashi Tharoor’s Inglorious Empire was particularly good for that. Contemporary accounts of women travellers in India the eighteenth century are very patchy and a lot of the story was based around Isabella Bird’s account of her journey across the Himalayas in the late nineteenth.

I was very conscious of not wanting my characters to be horrible colonialists–it’s one of the real risks of setting anything in British history. Everyone has some sort of connection to exploitation. Rich people trot around exploiting their empire in order to provide romantic heroines with fainting couches in pretty Georgian houses. Poor people join the army and serve in India or join the navy and collude in the slave trade. It’s easy enough to ignore all that. But does that make your main characters nice people with whom the writer and reader can empathise? Not so much, in my opinion. The Flowers of Time was hard to write for that reason and although I feel like I did a reasonable job, towards the end I felt like I maybe shouldn’t have been writing it at all because it’s basically about English people travelling through the sub-continent for fun.

I like the book because I love my characters–Jones, the non-binary academic in particular is very close to my heart. But I am very uncomfortable with the setting now and if I had given it more thought before I began to write I would probably have done it differently. On the one hand the sweeping adventures of the Kew Gardens’ plant collectors are fascinating and they were interesting to me because of my family background–my Mama used to work at the Botanical Gardens in Dublin. But on the other hand…they’re a perfect example of white people travelling all over the world ‘discovering’ things that have always been there.

I have a companion story wafting round in my head, focusing on the male secondary characters and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. One of them is an East India Company soldier. He’s busy mapping the Himalayas and is of course, queer and a nice person. But should I be writing it in that setting? Probably not. I need to think about it some more and maybe find a different setting for the story that will still dovetail.

Anyway, after all that soul-searching with Flowers and a spell in hospital for a month to try to get a handle on the Functional Neurological Disorder–which worked very well as quiet time to write away from the family thanks!–for some reason, I decided to set Taking Stock in 1972. Firstly, this made me feel old, because I was born in 1970. Secondly, it appalled my mother, who is still cross that the second world war is being taught as history. Thirdly, it’s almost impossible to find cover art for people that gives a 1970s feel without also feeling that one is advertising a Sirdar knitting pattern. Apart from that though, it’s fine.

Map of Webber's Farm by Elin Gregory
Webber’s Farm

A lot of the farming references in Taking Stock are from my own childhood memories—the sheep dipping scenes for example—and from talking to older friends and family. I pigeon-holed a friend who worked in the City of London in the mid-1980s and extracted stock-exchange information from him, and I found a fascinating contemporary documentary on YouTube about stockbroking in the early 1960s. It was much easier to find that sense of place that I think is needed in historical fiction, because the references were all to hand. I can happily google ‘what happened in 1972’ and have a whole list of things come up that my characters would have been aware of. And the same for the 1920s really – there are millions of words written about the years immediately after the Great War and the social changes that were happening.

Those social changes make it easier to write characters who are conscious about those things and more easily sympathetic to the modern reader without ignoring all the horrendous colonialism behind British history. The 1970s are even more so, in my opinion. It’s easy to write fairy-tale historical romance stories if you ignore colonialism, social inequality and bad teeth. But if you want to do it properly, you need to take all those things into account.

Despite having a paranormal twist in most of my books, I really think of myself as writing historical romance and I take pride in getting the history right. It’s a balance though, it has to give colour and a setting without throwing the reader out of the story either with factual errors—someone one-starred my first book because I shifted the publication date of The Beautiful and the Damned back a year to fit my timeline and it clearly spoiled the whole thing for them—or with colonialist assumptions, or with making them feel they’re reading a history text-book.

As a writer it’s my job to do that and I hope I make a reasonably workmanlike job of it. I enjoy swapping between time periods, despite the dislocation that initially comes with it!

I have pages on the website with an overview of my research for The Flowers of Time and about the world of Taking Stock . You can also read all about the Border Magic universe and how the books fit together.