The Dog Days

Summertime is winding down. Around our house, the trees are already dropping leaves. There is a nip of fall in the air. While I'm not blogging much since I stepped back from being part of Quills, I wanted to recommend that feature, which can still be found here: A Drift of Quills. Good authors, good words.

Just for fun, I thought I'd leave an excerpt here from my rough, in progress, novelette Dragon Draught.

I hope you enjoy.

     He noticed her thoughtful expression as he bit into the toast and creamy butter that topped it. Creamy, nutty flavor spread across his tongue and he reveled in it until he heard her through the crunch.“What was that?” he asked around the mouthful.
     “I said I don’t think your mother has ever spoken my name before. I hope she’s doing well?”
     “She ate as she’s not done for months. Sometimes the sick rally before the end.”
     “Melmuch! How can you speak in so dire a fashion? And of your mother.” Francine, who rarely ate much at all, finished off her tiny portion of eggs and single strip of bacon.
     “I am a healer. I must face these realities.”
     “I am not looking forward to the reality of going through all the things in that dusty old house of hers. I have more soup to make for the orphans for which I must shop and then I’m invited to tea at Messalina’s.” She rose from the table.
     “I won’t see you until evening then. I’ve many rounds to make and some work to do on my presentation for the Steward’s Award.”
     “Do you think you should try again this year?” Francine said, her hand upon his shoulder. “There isn’t much new in the healer’s arts, is there? Poultices and wraps and oils and rubs…”
     Toast nearly gone, the last bite at his lips, Melmuch paused. His eyes wide with the sting of her question, he asked, “Do you doubt me?”
     Francine kissed his forehead, but didn't answer. Instead, she said, “I don’t want to see you disappointed, my dear.”
     “Hmm,” he contemplated the bit of toast, shoveled more eggs into his mouth before he finished it off and then he drank down his just-cool-enough tea. After several moments of silence, he said, “I know how much you want to move to a bigger city.”
     Francine wrapped a flowered scarf over her air and gazed out the window that faced the morning sun. As she tied it off, she whispered, “I want to move, that’s true.

To travel, aye,
view mountain high,
alight as on a jaybird’s wing
would be indeed a glorious thing.” 

She opened the door and said over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at dinner.”