Well, I didn't get the chance to go to the Monster Mash last night. I was super bummed, but poor planning on my part meant I had to sit it out. Oh well. I'll have to do the whole "Nightmare and Corpse Bride" thing to get my Halloween fix.
But let's not dwell on the bad stuff, let's talk about writing spooky stuff. Now, this isn't going to be an advice post, it's more an exploration of my thoughts. You see, I don't actually horror. Well, at least, I don't think I do. Apparently a couple of my demonic scenes have been described as "nightmare fuel," but I was never setting out to make The Paladin scare people. Maybe unsettle them, give them something graphic to picture, I mean it does involve demons, but horror was never the end goal. To add to this matter, I'm not a big consumer of horror or thrillers. I just don't like being scared. But you know, some people do. And for those people, I hope my story can scratch that itch just a little. But what is it that makes something scary? I'm actually asking here because I don't know. In visual media we use a lot of jump scares. It's cheap and easy. If not that, we build suspense with sound, with atmosphere. How does that translate into writing? Well... let's examine it. I think a lot of horror probably comes from letting your imagination fill in the gaps. Only telling the reader what they need to know to comprehend the scene, then hinting at far more. The unknown is a scary thing in real life. It's why we hate walking alone in the dark; we can't see what's around the corner. That same in the light loses all tension. So obscuring things from the reader, to me, seems to be way to go. Heighten the tension with descriptions of the character's mindset. When we see others acting anxious, scared, that leeches over into us. So let the character jump. Let them scan the room. Raise their heartbeat. Let their breath catch. What did I actually do in The Paladin? Well, again, I don't think it's horror, but for the scenes that betas thought were disturbing (in a good way), I just tried to play with expectations. I took inspiration from old depictions of monsters, I looked for things that were unsettling, uncomfortable. I made everything personal to the characters experiencing, letting their feelings carry over to the reader. Can I get more specific? Not unless you read the book. But on that note, if you're a regular of the site, you should know the first three chapters of The Paladin have been updated to reflect the last edit of the manuscript. It's tighter, more engaging, and just plain better. I think you'll like it. Give it a shot. DFTBA
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Halloween is nearly upon us and it's time to enjoy the spoopy things in life. Now, I used to be a huge Halloween fan. Scratch that. I was a huge fan of excuses to dress up and make costumes. Either way, I would usually plan an outfit in about June, trying to get it to match up with friends. Unfortunately, time commitments and low cash flow have forced me to put that particular passion on the back burner.
So what shall one do if they're not attending a Halloween party or dressing up? Well, I might have a solution (though admittedly one specific to me.) I'm attending a Monster Mash performance by the local circus troupe here in town, Circus Bacchus. These guys are putting together quite the little show. I know, I've already filmed their warm ups. And... there is also the potential that one of my wrestling students is in, like, four of the acts. And I'm getting a free ticket. Okay, so that's not a great solution for everyone, but you gotta find your spoopy where you can. If it wasn't this, I'd be settling in for Nightmare Before Christmas and, of course, The Corpse Bride. I don't know what it is about the latter, but I really dig the vibes. Maybe it was just too long sine Nightmare and I needed a fix. Who knows? Either way, Halloween is almost here, so find an excuse to get your spoopy on. Watch some slasher flicks. Go to a haunted house. If possible, do something local and support the artists that try so hard to give you a little scare here and there. And of course, no matter what you end up doing... Be Excellent to Each Other. Yesterday I began a little rant about the stresses and anxiety inducing moments involved in querying an agent. And I didn't even get to the querying part. It's time to take a look at that now. If you're an aspiring author, take heart. This can be a really depressing part.
So what I've been told and what I've read from agents is this: they want to represent your book. They're not looking for people to reject, but it has to fit them. You can't submit a paranormal romance erotica to someone who does adventure YA. It's not their field. And that's where today's research comes in. Once you've scoured the internets and found at least a handful of agents who might give you the time of day, it's time to research them. Follow them on social media. Get to know what they like and dislike. Why? I mean you already know what they represent. Unfortunately, young grasshopper, that is not the end. You need a query letter, and you better believe that thing cannot be boiler plate. Every agent wants things a little differently, there are no universal standards for submissions. Almost all want a query letter, something to tell them about you and your work before they do anything else. On top of that, they may want a synopsis, which is about a page that details the entire novel. The entire novel. Yes, the ending, too. They need to know how it ends if they plan on looking any deeper into you. Once that's done, you may need a hook line. Or a blurb. And of course what they actually want you to send as far as your novel differs from agent to agent. Some don't want to see a page until they've read your query letter. Others want ten pages. Some want a few chapters. Practically none want the whole manuscript, so just be ready to have the entire work judged by the first few pages. Okay, so you've research an agent, follow them on social media, seen some of their jokes, maybe liked a comment or two. You've gone to their agency website, ready clearly what they want you to send and not send. You've tailored your query letter to them. And I mean tailored. Address them by name, mention things they like that may be similar to your work, point out why they, personally, would like your work. Now what? Now you wait. Guess how many will get back to you? Probably none. Most will have you wait 6-8 weeks before they even look at your stuff. What if they don't want it? Well, honestly, you'll probably never hear from them. At all. Some might be nice and send back a rejection letter, most won't. So now what? It's time to send a dirty, mean-spirited letter accusing them of having zero taste and the intelligence of a baboon. Wait, no that's wrong. It's time to be an adult and accept at criticism they send, work out your letter, and accept that they don't owe you an explanation as to why they rejected you. Let them be. Move on. You have more agents on your list, right? Right? DFTBA You know what's fun about writing? Besides the writing itself, of course. It's the research. I love finding out more about folk legends or even what the average person likes to eat in New Jersey. It's all stuff that can help you understand your story, understand your characters, and better relate all those things back to your audience.
It can be painfully obvious when a writer doesn't do their research, instead relying upon what pop culture has ingrained in us about a certain subject. So kudos to all the writers that are out there doing their research. Unfortunately, despite all the fun that comes from that research, all the benefits that come with that dedication, there is another type of research. The boring kind of research. Query research. So I'm in the query process right now, which means I've selected a handful of agents that I think would be interested in my work and could represent it well. That's the first part of this kind of research. You have to find the agents. Now, they're not exactly hiding or anything, but trying to slough through the tons of agents out there is sometimes like looking for a nickel in the sand. For instance, The Paladin, as far as my research has led me to believe, belongs in the Urban Fantasy category, with maybe just a pinch of Paranormal Adventure. Also, it's definitely for an adult audience as certain characters, shall we say, have choice language. And apparently some of my demonic scenes have been described as nightmare fuel. But I digress, what I mean to focus on is that this isn't YA or Middle Grade. It's for grown ups with bills and responsibilities. Okay, so I need an agent who represents Adult fiction, Urban Fantasy, and just a smidgen of horror wouldn't hurt. What's this? There's more criteria? Let's see... diversity... POC... Own Voice. Oh man, now I have a whole new set of things to worry about. Did I include enough diversity in my cast? Does it feel natural or forced? Should I have made my protagonist a female instead? Wait... no, can't do that, Catholicism doesn't do female priests. Okay... POC? Well, I'm Latino. Does that count? Wait, why does it matter if I'm Latino or not? It's my book that's being looked at right? Wait, "Own Voice?" -looks it up- Having a protagonist that reflects that unique cultural views and aspects of the author. Well... this book is about demon hunting and vampires and witches, so... I guess not. Is there anything wrong with those criteria? Of course not. It's just that I'm already stressing out over what's in my manuscript, now I have to worry about a whole slew of other things, some of which are beyond my control. And all this is just me LOOKING for an agent. I haven't even queried them yet. What's querying involve? Tune in tomorrow and I'll fill you in. Until then... Be Excellent to Each Other. Interesting things are in the pipes right now. It's weird, like I'm in between waves. Everything I was working on that had me running five different ways is done and my new stuff isn't ready to start or, really, even get into the details of.
So here I sit with a novella and and a manuscript behind me, preparing queries for agents as I wait for the proper time for new endeavors. And trust me, they're quite grand, some of them. But what do I do now, right here, at this strange point in time? Apparently play a lot of old Assassin's Creed games while brainstorming ideas for new projects. I have to be careful. Those who know me know that I have a habit of planning everything... and then doing nothing. I love the potential in ideas, but I think I have a problem seeing them through, which is why I'm so proud that I finished my manuscript and that Lieselotte novella. You'll have to forgive me for having a shorter blog today. I've spent the last week lazing about while posting Lieselotte. But I'll have something a bit more informative and in depth tomorrow. DFTBA Normally I'd try to find the artist's social media to give a shout out when I post one of these, but I learned my lesson with the last Witch Hunter Robin playlist entry. This song, Shell, even the instrumental version, speaks to me. It's great for writing. It sets a mood that can adapt to so many scenes. Whatever you need to write, this song can probably help. It has a tension, a drama, built right into the melody. It pulls and tugs at you, while at the same time staying in the background. It allows you to think, to elaborate, to create, working only as a subtle, guiding hand. What I'm say is I like this song and I really like writing to it. You should give it a shot, too. Please enjoy Bana's Shell, from the Witch Hunter Robin OST. DFTBA Well, this is it. I hope you enjoyed The Heir of Archmond. Tomorrow I'll be picking back up with a Paladin Playlist since I missed that the last two weeks. Then... who knows? So, what did you think of the story? Please leave a comment down below or hit me on social media to let me know. Did you figure it out? DFTBA When morning came, the constabulary arrived, using long planks to cross the chasm. It took some doing, but after a while they managed to release the drawbridge, allowing the Constable to cross and speak with the Viscounts. After a long tour through the house with Viscounts LeBlanc and Conan detailing the murder in the most dramatic of fashions, the Constable thanked them for their work and took Charlotte into custody.
As proper manacles were placed on her, she stared across the room at Lieselotte. The witch watched silently. Genevieve wept in the corner, pleading for them to release her mistress. “Genevieve!,” the Lady Dupin spoke, “do not weep. Be strong. Take care of the house. And take care of yourself. That is my final order.” Lieselotte turned to see the servant nod, obedient to her mistress' command. She almost felt a tinge of guilt but she knew Charlotte's hands were far from clean. No noble's were. It would still be a bit before Lieselotte was allowed to leave. At the moment the Constable had just moved to the foot of the stairwell where Ingrid sat beside Walther. The Constable asked if he planned on continuing the ascension ceremony in two days, but vehemently declined. Apparently the entire affair was more than he could handle and he decided to step down, allowing Marie to inherit the title of Countess. It actually made Lieselotte a little sick to her stomach, watching him and Ingrid steal awkward glances at one another. You're free now, she thought. Just do it if you're going to do it! She moved past the pair, ascending the stairs and heading to the third floor. Knowing what she knew about the youngest Dupin, she thought it might be entertaining to tell her about her brother's decision. Lieselotte made her way through the third floor hall, stepping aside as two of the constable's men left Sariah's bedroom. She continued past arriving at Marie's door. She knocked firmly. No answer. “You were quite cruel to Charlotte,” the Grinning Man said, appearing near her shoulder. “Not now, Grin,” Lieselotte said, waving him off. She peeked around the room, seeing no trace of the youngest Dupin. She stopped in front of the painting she had been working on. “Do you really believe she's guilty?” Lieselotte ran her fingers over the canvas, the paint now dry. Turning, she made her way to the hallway. “Are you trying to ignore me?” Grin asked. “I've tried for several years. It hasn't worked yet,” she replied, stopping at the last door in the guest wing. Opening it she stepped inside, hesitating at the bottom of the old wooden staircase. Dust dancing and drifted through shafts of sunlight and the floor groaned with each step as she made her way up. There it was, just as Ingrid had said, the portrait of Count and Countess Dupin. Lieselotte moved closer, inspecting the painting. She had only glanced at it in the hallway, but here, next to it, she could see the intricate lines, the harsh strokes, and the vivid pigments. She ran her hand over the canvas lightly. “So I assume our game is over then. You've decided on Charlotte?” Mr. Grin asked. “Oh, heavens no, Mr. Grin, it wasn't Charlotte,” she replied, stepping back from the painting. “She couldn't have done it because when Sariah was murdered, Charlotte was waiting in Genevieve's bed. No. I'm convinced the person that did it was the same person that painted this portrait.” The stairs creaked and groaned once more and Lieselotte turned to face the new arrival. “Good morning. Marie.” The young girl stood at the top of the stairs, her hair draped down on either side of her face and her shoulders slumped. “I just heard the news,” she said, her voice less dreamy than dark. “You're in charge now,” Lieselotte replied. “Just like you planned.” “I'm sure I have no idea what you're referring to.” “Please, Marie, this act didn't work for your sister, it won't work for you.” “You think I planned Sariah's murder?” “Not for very long. I suspect it all fell into place like a muse singing inspiration to you. You've resented being left behind. With two siblings ahead of you, there was nothing to inherit. You said it yourself, the rest of the family would have to die for you to take power.” “Walther isn't dead.” “Then I suppose it's a pleasant coincidence. After all, you knew something like this would finally break the poor man.” “And so I masterminded everything? Including your presence?” “Hardly. It was just a lovely coincidence for you. Sinful serendipity, if you will. You hated Sariah. You resented your older siblings. You were furiously painting when Sariah screamed out, loud enough that everyone but your distracted sister heard. You stepped outside, brush in hand, to see what happened. That's when you saw her, Sariah, wearing your mother's necklace. The same necklace you painted into your parent's portrait, a portrait Sariah had removed. “It was the last straw, wasn't it? You stepped inside. Maybe she saw you, maybe she didn't. But you said she had no quarrel with you. She might have even welcomed you in, asked you how it looked. You stepped up behind her. You jammed the brush through the necklace and twisted, over and over again. It hardly took any strength with a lever like that. All you had to do was hold it until she stopped moving. Then it was just a matter of snuffing the lights, closing the door, and returning the necklace to your sister's empty chambers. Your brother falls apart, and, so long as anyone with half a brain looked at the case, your sister takes the fall.” Marie stepped closer, eyes locked on the floor. A tiny smile etched across her lips. “You're quite the clever one, aren't you? It took some creativity to make those leaps in logic, but here we are.” “Indeed. Now what happens next, Marie? Will you rule kindly over your people?” “I haven't decided. But I know this; I can't risk you ruining it for me. Witch.” There was a glint of metal as the artist's palette knife slid from her sleeve. Lieselotte didn't even flinch as Marie lunged at her, the blade aimed for her throat. But before she could pierce flesh, her hand halted in mid-air. Slowly, a white glove materialized around her wrist. “Dear God!“ “Oh, no god will hear your pleas today, Marie. Today you'll only be heard by the Devil.” With these words the razor-toothed smile of the Grinning Man flashed into existence and the room filled with his laughter. He seized the girl's throat and pulled her closer, Lieselotte not even bothering to look as she descended the staircase and exited into the hallway. **** Lieselotte stretched her arms and back as she stepped out of the mill, the moonlight beaming down around her. She secured her beloved hat and turned to the door. “Well, are you coming?” she asked happily. A large, white dog lumbered out from the mill nuzzling up against her leg. She dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around him. “Yes! That's my good boy! I missed you so much when I was with those stuffy nobles. Did you take good care of the shop?” A raven perched on the top of the open door, eyeing the pair. It crowed a petty crow before flying off. Lieselotte dismissed the bird with a wave of her hand. All was right with the world once more. Or at least, it was better than being at Castle Dupin. Sure, she was still stuck selling herbs and potions to people who had no right using them, but it didn't matter. She had a prize to collect. “Grin?” she almost sang. “Where are you, dear?” “You seem in quite the chipper mood,” he replied, materializing in the moonlight. “Of course I am. It's time to collect my reward.” “Your reward?” “That was the deal. I solved the murder without the use of my magic. You owe me one answer.” The specter rolled his head then gave a small laugh, nodding. “I suppose I do. Though I must say, you surprised me. Was it really necessary to bring down that entire noble house? You could've implicated Marie at any time.” “No, I suppose it wasn't necessary, but it was certainly a delightful addition. Now, you owe me an answer.” “Very well. But make it quick, I have a client to see tonight. He's not the kind to wait around long. Now, what is your question?” “A client?” Lieselotte paused, pondering. Grin had gone to meet a client when they first arrived in Archmond, hadn't he? And he disappeared when the gate malfunctioned. She knew his dealings were often secretive and usually didn't care to know what he was doing but now? “Grin? Did – did you use me to bring down a noble house for your client?” The Grinning Man smiled brightly. “Yes. Have a lovely night, my dear.” With this, he bowed and drifted into the city. Lieselotte's eyes widened with realization and she gave chase to the demon man.“Wait! No! Grin that didn't count! That wasn't my question! Grin? Grin!” The End We're racing toward the finish line here! Get your bets in now because Lieselotte's about to wrap this thing up. DFTBA “You know, I wasn't certain when I stepped out of the lounge, but I think I just evolved a hypothesis. Would you care to hear it?” Charlotte remained silent. “Sariah Dupin, soon-to-be-Countess of Archmond, managed to acquire your mother's necklace. The 'how' isn't important, only that she did. I'm guessing it was without your consent. And I'm guessing that all her arguing with Walther drew your attention. You peeked through the open door. There she was, sitting in your mother's place, wearing your mother's necklace, preparing to take your rightful place.”
Lieselotte's heels clacked against the hardwood of the second floor hallway as she circled the stewing Dupin. “So you ordered Genevieve to go in. She could check on her without Sariah getting suspicious. Maybe even help her adjust that necklace.” Lieselotte mimed twisting her hands across one another. “She strangled Sariah with your mother's necklace. Then, when she was done, she returned it to your room. You, of course, needed to be hidden away during all of this so the suspicion wouldn't fall on you. A quick check in with your servant and she was back up to trigger the whole setup. Your brother takes the fall for betraying your trust and you take your rightful seat at the head of Archmond.” “A fanciful lie, witch, but it couldn't be further from the truth.” “Which is?” “That if that's what you intend to sell to those buffoons in there, you won't be leaving this hallway.” Lieselotte openly laughed, shaking her head. A faint voice trailed past her ear. “No, it's fine.” she whispered. “What's that?” Charlotte asked, her demeanor growing more and more agitated. “I said it's fine. You can do as you please, you are, after all, the heir to the seat of Archmond. I just shudder to think what will happen to Genevieve when this story gets out.” “Leave her out of this!” Charlotte shouted, tackling the witch. The pair wrestled and fought, slamming against the door to the parlor. Charlotte awkwardly slammed her fist against Lieselotte, but the necromancer had little difficulty blocking. Gripping her wrists, Lieselotte held back the woman's attacks long enough for the door to open and Viscounts Conan and LeBlanc to pry the Lady Dupin away. “What in blazes is going on?” demanded Conan. “Miss Charlotte? Why would you attack Miss Lieselotte?” LeBlanc added. “Oh, I was right,” Viscountess Conan remarked, peeking out the door and seeing Charlotte restrained. Viscounts Conan and LeBlanc forced a measure of space between the two women, Lieselotte never losing her smile. The elder Viscount repeated his question, demanding an answer. “Now, Miss Charlotte, this doesn't look good on you, not while we're deliberating.” “That's the point!” Charlotte screamed. “She's trying to frame me! She's orchestrated this entire mess!” “Nonsense,” Conan replied, “she's been with us nearly the entire time.” “And you were the one who invited her, were you not?” LeBlanc added. “She lost control,” Lieselotte said, turning her head and feigning fear. “I just... well, I had spoken with Walther on the way here and he said that the former Countess Dupin's necklace was in Sariah's possession that night.” “Yes, I think I recall something to that nature between his incessant shouting,” Conan replied. “Well, when you gentlemen interrogated Charlotte, the necklace was there, do you remember? I was just curious as to how it moved.” LeBlanc and Conan eyed each other for several moments, the cogs turning in their heads. They nodded subtly to one another. Charlotte backed away as they approached. “No! Don't you dare!” “Miss Charlotte, there are some inconsistencies between your story and the others,” Conan said. “You can't possibly think that I – that woman is a -!” “Genevieve.” The name alone silenced Charlotte. Lieselotte stepped closer, parting the two Viscounts. “Apologies, dear Viscounts, I was just recalling how dedicated the servant is to her mistress.” Lieselotte leaned closer, whispering. “And how bad taboo like this could affect her if it went public.” “She'd had enough of Sariah's dealings,” Conan deduced. “The necklace was both the breaking point and the murder weapon.” Charlotte was stunned. She looked back and forth between Lieselotte and the Viscounts as they drew their narrative. “Yes,” LeBlanc added, “but I suspect she used the servant to hide her involvement. A garrote, even that necklace, would leave a mark on the perpetrator's hand. I think we should examine the servant one more-” “No!” Charlotte cried out. She slumped against the wall of the hallway and slid to the floor. Tears slowly trickled from the corners of her proud eyes and she quickly wiped them away. “No. It was me. Genevieve... I forced her to help. Leave her out of this.” Conan knelt by the lady's side, placing a hand on her shoulder. She didn't flinch, didn't acknowledge him in any way, but simply continued staring at the floor. “LeBlanc, would you kindly find something to bind Miss Charlotte's hands? Perhaps we can relieve Walther of his.” The younger Viscount nodded and stepped past them, heading for the stairwell. Charlotte, hair disheveled, cheeks red, looked up to Lieselotte. Her voice was cracked and hollow. “Are you happy?” “I'll be happy when I leave this place.” The mystery is almost up. Do you have a guess? C'mon, you have to have at least an idea of who you think did it. Well, either way, the story comes to a close very soon, so enjoy these last few installments of The Heir of Archmond. I know I loved writing it. Be Excellent to Each Other “Well, I think it was the little troupe leader,” Viscountess Christie announced. “It's clear she had something to hide, and most importantly, a personal grudge for Sariah taking away her lover.”
“No, Madame,” Viscount LeBlanc countered, “it is Marie.” “The little one?” “But of course! It's such a clever, twisted plot. She clearly engineered the entire affair down to the smallest detail. She set everything up to force Charlotte into killing Sariah, thus putting her in the clear.” “There is no evidence for that,” Viscount Conan interjected. “We saw the marks on her neck, clearly it took some strength to throttle her.” “Perhaps a poison,” his wife added. “and the strangulation happened afterward to throw us off the trail.” Lieselotte sat quietly at the opposite end of the room, enjoying the last of the Dupin's brandy that Tuttle offered. She ignored the Viscounts' vapid prattling, putting the pieces together in her head. There were clues, she just needed to bring the right ones together, then somehow let it slip in front of her little puppets. “I think I need some air,” she announced before stepping outside the parlor. Free from their ceaseless chatter, she pondered the night's affairs. Her gown rustled with each step as she considered each interrogation. Had Grin not provoked her she would've been happy to simply ask Sariah who killed her, but this, this challenge, was simultaneously invigorating and frustrating. Invigorating in that she could finally put her skills to a reasonable challenge, but frustrating that Mr. Grin was behind it. Let's start from the beginning, she thought. Genevieve. Potential. No motive on her own but clearly ready to do anything asked by Miss Charlotte. Although nearly being raped and murdered for Sariah's grapes may tilt her toward revenge. Clearly not strong enough to throttle the woman, but if a garrote of some sort were used, perhaps. The necklace? An obvious choice. And the marks on her palms didn't help. Charlotte? Clear motivation from the usurpation of power. Would she frame her brother, though? And what was going on between her and the servant girl? Clearly more than either would be willing to admit. Seeing as how the necklace was Charlotte's, it seemed only natural as the weapon for either her or her servant. Marie? The youngest Dupin was a bit of mystery. She was clearly hiding something. Was her dreamy, distant character just a facade? Was it all a performance to deceive the rest of the family or was she truly uncaring and unmoved by the world outside her bedroom door? What opportunity would she have to commit the murder? And what of Walther? True, he would be quite capable of throttling her without the need for any tools, but is that what happened? Had she finally broken him? He seemed insistent that he was innocent, enough to immediately implicate the servant girl. Perhaps it was just a crime of passion committed in the heat of the moment. She knew she would've been tempted to throttle that woman in Walther's position. And lastly, Ingrid. That messy, freckle-faced musician. Sneaking up to admire the painting of the Countess one last time? Lieselotte was familiar with nobility and there was rarely anything worth admiring in them. She was somewhere she shouldn't be. She certainly had access to wire that would do the job. She briefly considered the idea that perhaps all the suspects were in on the murder together, each playing a small part in bringing an end to a despicable person that plagued each of their lives, but this was obviously rubbish. No, there was a single murderer tonight and she only needed to weigh the evidence to decipher who. “I see you're still up and about. Have you told your little Viscounts who to blame for the murder, yet?” Lieselotte smiled ever so slightly as she turned to face Charlotte. The Stewardess of Archmond was still in her evening attire, but had apparently decided that waiting for morning was not an option for her. The witch bowed her head respectfully. “I'm still trying to decide, actually. There's a lot to consider.” “Well consider this,” Charlotte replied. “When the Constable arrives in the morning, it will be much more difficult for you to leave this place without manacles once the Viscounts know you're a witch.” “A witch, Miss Dupin?” “Do not insult either of our intelligences. I'm aware of what you do and what you sell in that little mill. Genevieve had quite the look around while you dealt with that guard.” “Mmm... I knew I shouldn't have let that girl in,” Lieselotte replied, her smile only growing wider. “Nothing but trouble comes from helping others.” “Help yourself tonight. Let the Viscounts believe my brother is the murderer.” “Is he?” “I've no idea, nor do I care. I've no quarrel with any of the other suspects.” “Indeed. In fact, you're rather close to some of them, aren't you?” Lieselotte replied. Charlotte's eyes narrowed. “Watch what you say, witch.” One by one the suspects are questioned. Who do you think "dunnit?" As a personal update, the Pitch Wars mentees were announced today. Well, late last night. And... I didn't get in. It's a little disappointing, I won't lie, but at least the contest kicked me in the butt and forced me to finish up everything I needed to with both this novella you're reading here and the greater manuscript, The Paladin. So... thanks for the motivation, I suppose? Either way, it's time to move on. Tomorrow I start sending out my official queries to agents. Wish me luck! Also! I've updated the first three chapters on the main page. Since I started the last round of heavy edits, there were a lot of changes made to them, so make sure you check out the newest version. DFTBA While the Viscounts were no doubt grilling Marie by now, Lieselotte sat on the last step of the stairs, gazing out into the first floor halls. The moonlight danced through the stained glass as wisps of clouds passed by. Down the hallways opposite the dining room she could hear the quiet stirrings of the musical troupe, apparently camped out in the main hall. There presence didn't upset her, however. What gave the witch pause was the soft, faint crying that echoed from the dining room.
“Are you done? Giving up?” Mr Grin asked, drifting through the air like one of the clouds outside. “No. Just waiting.” “For what?” “For him to stop crying,” she replied, forcing herself to her feet. “It's very unbecoming of a man, especially one of his status, to weep like this.” “Is it wrong for men to cry? I've witnessed it many times.” “Men cry in terror before you, Mr. Grin. It is not the same.” The ghostly figure laughed as he drifted closer to the witch. “I hold much knowledge; believe me when I say that men weep, too.” Lieselotte ignored the specter and moved down the hall, her heels clacking against the marble floors with each step, echoing through the empty halls. She paused outside the dining hall where she had started this whole affair hours ago. The doors were wide open, a strange tactic from the Viscounts, allowing her to peer inside. The hall was dark, with only a few, small candles to light the room. Her gaze was drawn to the large table where the Dupins had hosted the dinner earlier. On the floor, bound both hands and feet, rested Walther. Though his weeping was quiet, it was continuous. The Viscounts seemed to have taken cords and sashes from the draperies to replace the heir-apparent's bindings. She questioned the strength of such bonds, but quickly surmised that bonds were barely required. The morose Walther seemed unlikely to go anywhere even if he were freed. Without a word the witch strode through the hall. Her entrance was noted by Walther, who tried to compose himself. He asked who was approaching, but she gave no answer, save but to sit beside him. In the low, flickering candlelight, she could see the tear stains on his face. They reminded her of Ingrid. The pair wept like one another; perhaps they did deserve to be together. “You... you're the shop keeper,” Walther managed. “Are you all right? Did the Viscounts hurt you?” she asked. “I... I am fine. But you should leave before they find you here. They're likely to think you're a co-conspirator.” “The Viscounts will be busy harassing the rest of your family for some time, I'm not worried.” Lieselotte watched the defeated man hang his head. He held back his tears, but the pain was clearly still there. “I didn't kill her,” he whispered. “I believe you.” Walther looked up at the witch, uncertain. “I wish you could convince the Viscounts.” “I'm afraid they're too stubborn for someone like me to convince of anything. But don't give up. Maybe they'll stumble onto the truth during their investigation.” “Unlikely. I've known those two for years. Once they've set themselves on something, there's no changing their minds. Well... Father could. But I'm afraid I'm not my father.” “None of us are. We can only be who we are. And you... you didn't want any of this, did you?” Walther hesitated. He weighed his words for several moments before speaking. “I... didn't. I just wanted...” “Ingrid?” His eyes shot open. “I... I have no idea what you're talking about.” “I already spoke with her. The poor thing is in as bad a shape as you.” “Is she okay? Did they hurt her?” he cried. “She's fine. Just very shaken.” “Of course she is... she thinks I'm a murderer,” Walther sighed, his head falling back limply. “Actually, she doesn't.” The would-be Count turned his gaze back to the witch. “I mean it. She's worried.” The witch leaned closer. “About you.” “Ingrid...” “I tried to comfort the dear, but I didn't have the words. I didn't know what to tell her.” “Tell her I'm innocent!” “She believes that! It's the details. She wanted to know what you did, where you were, how it all happened. I... I just didn't know. Walther... what happened?” Walther stared down at the floor. A hazy, dreamlike moon reflected off the posh surface, casting just enough light to illuminate the man's eyes. Shadows from the candles danced against his auburn hair as he took a long, deep breath. “It wasn't me. I know Sariah and I didn't get on well most of the time, but I would never have harmed her. The last time I saw her alive we... we fought. Again. Somehow she had convinced Charlotte to relinquish mother's necklace. I was done, exhausted from the night and only wanted to sleep. I begged her to put the necklace away and come to bed, but she would have none of it. I was ready to surrender there and go to bed without her, but then Mr. Tuttle arrived.” “To ask about the players?” “Yes. She didn't want them in the house. Well.. she didn't want her in the house.” Walther sighed, holding back another wave of tears. “I put my foot down. She exploded. I told her to quiet herself or the whole house would hear her. So she threw open the door. She berated poor Tuttle and then turned it on me. But... I had had enough.” “Had enough? Are you saying-?” “No! I mean... I just meant that I surrendered. I went to bed. Between the night's affairs and my wife's words, I was exhausted. I was out the moment my head hit the pillow.” “And she was still alive when you went to bed?” Lieselotte asked. “Of course! She was in front of that damned mirror, playing with mother's necklace.” “I see. And what did you do when you awoke? I assume it was Genevieve's screaming that stirred you.” Walther shifted in his bonds. “You assume correctly. The room was dark, I had no idea what was going on. Then I saw the light on Sariah's face. And Charlotte's servant.” “Charlotte's servant?” “Genevieve. I... I don't know what happened.” “Didn't you claim it was her that murdered your wife?” the witch asked. “I don't know. But I wouldn't doubt it.” “Did Genevieve have a grudge against Sariah?” “Not as such, but Charlotte... they hated each other. She sent Genevieve out that night in the hopes that she'd be hurt, you know? Charlotte was furious. I wouldn't put it past her to order the girl to kill Sariah.” “Genevieve would do that?” “Without hesitation. She would do anything Charlotte asked.” Lieselotte nodded slowly, absorbing the man's words. There was a certain truth to Walther's words, and yet it still wasn't adding up. “It obviously wasn't Ingrid, but what about your other sister?” “Marie? Good lord, no. The girl barely understands what room she's in most nights. Mark my words, this was a plot from Charlotte.” “You seem eager to accuse your sister.” “Hardly. I know her, though. However she did it, she masterminded a cunning plan to murder my wife.” “And frame her brother?” “I... I don't know.” Walther shifted, looking the witch in the eyes. “I suppose she felt betrayed when I married Sariah, when it was announced I would be ascending.” “She assumed she would become Countess?” “Yes. I was in favor of it. But our parents decided that a marriage between Sariah and myself would … well... it would be beneficial. That changed everything.” Lieselotte stood, bending slightly to address Walther. “Thank you, Sir Dupin. I think I can calm Ingrid's fears with this information. Be strong.” She placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “For her.” Walther nodded silently and the witch took her leave, stepping out into the hallway and making for the staircase. She could hear that the Viscounts were apparently done with their interrogations upstairs. The parlor would be her next destination, someplace she could sit, contemplate the evidence, and feed what she wanted to her little puppets. “That was unexpectedly kind of you, my dear,” Grin noted, walking beside her. “I got what I needed and, best of all, it silenced his unbearable sobbing.” “Are you saying that all that was an act? Every word?” “Just be ready to answer my question when the time comes, Grin.” Lieselotte opened the door to the parlor and disappeared inside. “I most certainly shall, my dear,” the ghoulish man said, disappearing into the night. |
Matias TautimezKeep your eyes open for my debut novel, The Paladin. Archives
January 2023
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