Wintergate by C. E. Murphy

Author:C. E. Murphy [Murphy, C. E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Miz Kit Productions
Published: 2020-12-03T22:00:00+00:00

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and turn the page for an excerpt from the Border Kingdoms novel Roses in Amber!

Excerpt: Roses in Amber

There is a story of a beast, and a merchant's daughter, and a curse that must be broken.

This is not—quite—that story.

* * *

I awoke to the acrid scent of smoke. Later I thought that had I not been the youngest, condemned by two older sisters to sleep nearest to the rafters, none of us might have survived. It took two servants and often a dash of cold water to wake my oldest sister on any given morning. Our middle sister woke more easily, but slept so deeply buried in duvets that I already wondered how she did not suffocate. Smoke would have gone unnoticed by both of them until it was too late.

Our brothers, all younger, slept in another part of the house entirely. They would never have known of the fire until it was far too late for we three sisters, and probably the three of them as well: by the time it reached their wing its strength knew no bounds.

The leaded windows shattered as we ran from the house, glass splintering outward. The children shrieked, especially little Jet, whose first memory might be of the wall of fire reaching toward the night sky. I carried Jasper, whose six years had taught him a great deal about running, but very little about fear, and who had rooted with terror when the flames roared toward us. We all screamed, even Father, when the roof collapsed and threw showers of sparks so high they became indistinguishable from the stars. They came back to earth as sooty streaks, though, raining their darkness on the eight of us. We stood beneath that dark rain, watching helplessly as our wealth melted in rivulets of gold and silver that ran into the gutter, as our account books and library and letters—Maman wrote so many letters!—turned from paper to flame in searing bursts, and as our gowns and suits and jewelry burned and cracked and split.

Father, whose second wife had borne the three boys, stood beside us, clutching Maman's waist to keep her upright as she sobbed uncontrollably. He did not cry; neither could I. Not with the heat drying my throat and stinging my eyes. I wondered, in fact, that Maman could, but I didn't, at the time, understand her fragility. Or ours, for that matter. Even watching all our possessions burn, I could hardly imagine we would not somehow find ourselves returned to comfort within a few hours. We would find ourselves a comfortable hotel or salon while the house was rebuilt, and look back on the fire as a terrible moment in otherwise pleasant lives. Not too terrible, though. No one had died, not even a servant, making it more of an adventure than a tragedy, and we could dine out on adventure for years.

Flint, the oldest of our brothers, who, at ten years old, came up to my shoulder, wormed his way between myself and Pearl, the eldest of our family.

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