and, poet.

I’m about 50% done the almost-last (OMG) edit on this book and finally, FINALLY I can admit to being slightly proud about some/most/parts of what I’ve written and that makes me super happy. Like this.  When you name a character something ridiculous and he’s never supposed to show up and then he does? And then he says something that makes you laugh?

It’s like that:


“If you’ve brought a flask and you are not sharing…”

I turned. Poet. His hand out like he was demanding my entrance fee to this party. “No, not -“

“She’s not drunk, Poet.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.”

I cleared my throat. Poet, of the Rupprecht-Brodsky Poets, or something because all ten-dollar names had lineage, looked at me like he was bored out of his tree and tapped Quince on the nose. “Master Woodcock.”

Quince grimaced.

“Still an unfortunate last name,” Poet said in a sigh. “You could change it, you know, after the wedding?”

“Poet.” I widened my eyes and shook my head.

“I didn’t mean to you.”

“For fuck’s sake, Poet,” I hissed.

He fiddled with the button on his blazer. His boring, regular, funeral blazer. He was wearing a boring funeral tie and dull shoes. Someone else had dressed him. Silver cufflinks glinted when he talked, his hands always part of the conversation. “Oh come on, Haven, if we all act dead they won’t know which one of us they’re supposed to bury.”

Quince gasped. All I could manage was a blink.

Poet leaned in, his hand on my shoulder. “Arwen told me about the birth star.” His breath was soft and warm. “Be careful,” as his other hand touched the mark on my wrist. “Leave as soon as you can and do not come back here. And hide this mark.” He kissed my hair. “From everyone.” He stepped back and bowed lightly at the waist.

The scent of rot and roses bloomed around me.