Meet Catherine Hyde, star of Only The Few and Hyde's Lament.

Q1: What would you have done with your life if there had not been an apocalypse?

Ummm! There were a lot of things that I wanted to do: finish out my time in the army, spend more time with my family. But after recent events, I’m not sure what is real or not anymore. Did I ever have a family? My memory seems to be missing certain aspects of my life after my time in the bunker. In all seriousness though, I would’ve just wanted to have an easy life with no worries.

Q2: Who is your greatest friend and worst enemy and why?

I have no friends. I have acquaintances nowadays. The only friend I had was Charlie, and he was killed by scavengers. There is Marcus, Jas and the other survivors I picked up on my mission, but it was Charlie that I really connected with. I felt the need to protect him. We were like sister and brother…I miss him.

My worst enemy? Goes without saying…Malcolm Judd. He blighted every move I made in my attempt to bring the survivors’ back to London and was instrumental in my so-called ‘training’ at the bunker.

Q3: What do you fear most and why?

My biggest fear was death, but after recent events, I feel fearless, rather than fearful. Losing everything would’ve been the next fear, but that has all but happened. I think losing the new life I have now would be my worst fear. After all I’ve been through, I deserve something in return.

Catherine Hyde is the creation of L.N. Denison who was born in Portsmouth to an English mother and Iraqi father, she spent the first 4 years of her life in Iraq, but once her brother was born, her mother fled Iraq and divorced her father once she arrived back in England. The rest of L.N's childhood was spent in Essex, mainly in Basildon and Wickford. By the age of 20, she had made the move to Kent, where she met her husband of nearly 20 years. She has been writing on and off, for the past 15 years, but only published her first novel 3 years ago.

Sunday, and Anna shopped before making her way to the Crown Inn, which turned out to be a long, low-slung thatched building with a busy bustling air about it. She had timed her arrival for after any lunch rush, and made her way somewhat shyly to the bar.
“My name is Anna Marshall” she said to the blocky red-haired bartender, “I think you have a camping pitch booked for me.”
“We do,” he grinned. “I’m Ben. Landlord. Me and Sam go back a ways. Any friend of his is a friend of mine, and more than welcome. I’ll show you where stuff is.” He beckoned to a younger man who was busily clearing tables before stepping out from behind the bar.
“Camping field gate is just along the road. I’ll go open it for you if you want to get your camper.”

Anna nodded, and by the time she had driven out of the car park Ben had a big five-bar gate open and was floridly bowing her in. She drove slowly through and waited for him to shut the gate behind her. He trotted past the camper, and beckoned her to follow him as he jogged off along a well-made track. Anna was amused by his ebullience, and delighted when he motioned her to pull onto a shady pitch with hard tracks for the camper’s wheels. She stopped the engine and got out of the cab. Immediately she could hear the sound of running water, and see a tiny stream just at the bottom of the field.
“Okay to let the dog out?”
“Sure.”
Bonnie jumped out and having sniffed Ben carefully, allowed herself to be patted.
“What a beautiful dog. Right. You have this little field to yourself. There are another dozen pitches, but they are through that gate over there. There’s a loo and shower block through there too. Here’s the key. Water point just here. Electric hook-up behind this tree. Toilet emptying behind the loo block. Holiday cottages through the other gate, the occupants will walk past you to get to the pub. If that’s a bother I can find you a different pitch. You get to the pub through the kissing gate there. Leads into the beer garden. Anything I’ve forgotten?”
Anna grinned.
“I don’t think so.”
“Good,” he headed off at the trot that Anna guessed was his usual gait then stopped and turned back to her. “Your dog is welcome in the bar, lounge or beer garden. Can’t allow her in the restaurant, the health and safety johnnies would have multiple babies.”
He threw her a salute, and was gone.

Anna pitched up, while Bonnie went for a paddle. A clang from the kissing gate alerted Anna to company, and she whistled Bonnie to heel. A group of about a dozen people ambled across the field.
“Afternoon. What a lovely dog. Is she friendly?”
“Yes. Though not annoyingly so.”
“We’re in the cottages. Won’t disturb you except on the way to and from the pub.”
“You were here first,” Anna smiled, “and there’s plenty of room for everybody.”
“There is, and isn’t it a lovely spot.”

And then they were gone through another gate into the gardens of the holiday cottages, leaving Anna alone with her dog and a delightful sense of anticipation. Smiling inwardly, she cooked lasagne, spread French bread with garlic butter and wrapped it in foil ready to warm, made ready the ingredients for salad, and took some chocolate brownies out of the freezer to defrost. With that done, she and Bonnie took themselves for a good walk which they both enjoyed.  Then Anna availed herself of a small, but well-appointed shower block, and came back to the camper feeling as fresh as a daisy. She made liberal use of a bottle of scented body lotion before sitting in the sun to dry her hair.
“And that should do,” she said to Bonnie, who gave her a straight look. “Do you think I should dress up, then?”
The dog waved an encouraging tail.
“Oh. If you say so. But what should I wear?”

While she was deciding, the phone rang.
“Hi Sam.”
“Just finished. I’ll go home and grab a shower. Be with you by about seven o’clock.”
“Okay. I’ll have a glass of wine ready for you.”
“Yum. If I drive fast, I could be earlier…”
“No need to drive fast, just drive safe. We’ll be here when you arrive.”
“See you soon”
“Bye.”

Jane Jago

Though I’m old, I can still dance the dance
I can still feel the thrill of romance
And I yet know the bliss
Of a cuddle and kiss
And of nookie, when I get the chance

© jane jago 2018

Out now The Last City - a new science fiction anthology from Dust Publishing with stories all set in an asteroid city where the last known vestiges of humanity live in massive towers. One of the stories is 'Star Dust' by E.M. Swift- Hook and another is 'Sam Nero - PI' by Jane Jago...

Excerpt from the notebooks of Anastasia Throbb, ace reporter, and presenter of the prime-time magazine show The Throbbing City.

Sam Nero didn’t want to meet with me. It took six months of poking and prodding, and outright bribery before I found a man who was both willing and able to lean on this most archetypal of private investigators and make him talk to me. In the end, a friend of a friend introduced me to a man who goes by the name of O’Halleran, who promised me an hour of Sam’s time. Rather to my surprise, it even seemed as if he was going to deliver.

He sent two huge mutes to my office and they escorted me to a back-street diner where a sullen-faced waitress stuck me in a booth and stopped chewing gum for long enough to mouth “sit”. I sat and waited, concealing my growing impatience as best as possible. I was just about to make as dignified an exit as I could when a shadow fell across the table.
“Miss Throbb, I presume.” The voice was lazily amused.
I turned and got my first look at Sam Nero in the flesh. He was about six three, maybe six four, wide at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, and his face looked as if it had been designed to meet the expectations of every pre-pubescent female in the city. It was hard, and sculpted, and sported what I could only assume was a permanent five o’clock shadow. I turned my attention to his companion, a lush-bodied bottle blonde who looked at me as if she could discern my innermost secrets. I think I hated her on sight.

They slipped into the booth opposite me, and something about the pair of them set the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. For a moment I was floundering, then I realised what had spooked me. There were two of them, but only one shadow. While my flesh was still crawling, the waitress appeared with a pot of coffee and two tall mugs. She put a mug in front of Nero and one in front of me before favouring me with a sneer and sloping off.
“Doesn’t your lady friend get coffee?”
The voice that responded was feminine and breathy and sounded to me as if it had been honed over a lot of years of practice.
“I never touch the stuff. Ruins the complexion.”
Then Nero laughed. It was a deep sound that sent little shivers running around all sorts of inappropriate parts of my anatomy.
“Be nice.”
“I was being nice, Sam. You should know that.”
She laid a red-nailed and possessive paw on his forearm and he smiled.
“Sure you were being nice, Sugar. I’d just like to keep it that way.”
“Sugar?” I think my voice went up an octave, I mean what sort of a prehistoric monster calls his woman sugar?
“It’s my name. Sugar Kane. That’s Miss Kane to you.”
Mentally cursing my luck I turned my most winsome smile on Mister Nero.
“Sam,” I said. “May I call you Sam?”
He raised a lazy eyebrow and looked me up and down for a moment before laughing that damnably sexy laugh again.
“I guess so. It’s what Ma Nero named her little boy.”
“Is it really? I mean I can find no record of a family called Nero, let alone a male child called. Samuel?”
“Nah. Just Sam. And where I was born nobody keeps records.”
“And Miss Kane. Where and when was your sidekick born?”
“That ain’t the sort of question a gentleman asks a lady. Not if he wants to keep wearing his face. You can ask if you are that stupid.”
I looked into his companion’s icy eyes and quickly framed another question.
“The first record I can find of a Sam Nero is about four decades ago when a licence to operate as a private detective was granted. Would that be you?”
“Maybe.”
“The age of the applicant is stated as being forty-two.”
“Sounds a responsible sort of age to me. What say you Sugar?”
They exchanged a look of such naked trust that for a second even I felt de trop. But I pressed on.
“But that can’t be you, Mister Nero. If it was you would be in your eighties by now. And you don’t look like an eighty-year-old man to me.”
“Neither he does.” The blonde seemed to be laughing at me, and I didn’t like the sensation one little bit.
I made my voice hard and assertive.

“In my book, Mister Nero, that makes you an impostor. I’m sure the authorities would love to look at my findings and throw you into jail for a good long time.” I leaned forward and slapped the palms of my hands on the table hard enough to sting.
Nero laughed.
“Think again, sweetheart. The authorities as you so sweetly call them know precisely who I am. Next question.”
He took a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up.
I coughed.
“I do not care for tobacco smoke,” I said icily.
Nero sneered at me.
“Door’s over there. Make sure it doesn’t hit your ass on the way out.”
I was incensed, but some vestige of intelligence stopped me leaving. This was my only chance to persuade an icon of old-school cops and robbers violence onto my show so I swallowed my bile and tried for a forgiving smile. The obnoxious Sugar shrugged her shoulders and her rather overblown assets jiggled.
“I think the lady has decided to forgive you.”
He grinned lazily, and twitched a mobile eyebrow, sending my hormone count soaring yet again. This man was hot, hot and dangerous. I needed him to boost my flagging ratings, and maybe for the odd other job or two.

I set myself to charm him, sipping my coffee and running my tongue along my lower lip. He watched with what I can only describe as detached amusement, and I felt my anger begin to rise up once more.

“What’s with you Nero?” I snapped. “You come here sneering, and looking down your nose at me…”
He leaned back and crossed his long long legs.
“Wasn’t me asked for this meet. Suck it up.”
I drew in a breath and tried for calm.
“Fair point Mister Nero. I asked to meet you.”
The blonde bombshell laughed huskily.
“I think the lady is after your body, Sam.”
“Why’d that be Sugar?”
“As if you didn’t know, big boy.”
“And as if you didn’t know old Sam’s heart is yours alone.”

It seemed to me as if they had completely forgotten my existence and I rapped my nails against the crazed china of my mug.
“I’m still here,” I grated.
“Why so you are.” Nero looked me up and down a bit more, and the silent insult in his stare had the blood rushing to my face and I blushed for possibly the first time in two decades.
“Why are you being like this? You have been chauvinistic, unpleasant and downright rude. Why? What have I ever done to you?”
He got up from his seat and looked down at me with a most peculiar expression on his face.
“It’s not always about you. I am what I am. How I was made…”
Then he was gone, and the woman went with him. Two entities with one shadow…

Check out the book to see Sam Nero in action and meet the other strange and dangerous denizens of The Last City.

Dear Reader Who Writes,

Before one does anything else one feels it imperative to apologise profusely to one’s faithful readership for last weeks entry under this illustrious imprint of the Thinking Quill.

I. Cannot. Believe. What. My. Parent. Wrote.

One can only assume the woman was under the influence of her favourite cocktail – a tasteful mixture of advocaat, ruby port and rubbing alcohol, which she refers to as a ‘Dog’s Bollock’.

As I lay on my sickbed, near to death, the dreadful female managed to insult all I hold dear, ridicule my literary genius, and reduce these profound seminars to objects of derision. Were it not for the fact she is bigger than one, and packs a mean left hook….

But enough of my sorrows. To our work.

At the risk of pushing against an open door, I shall take a little moment to remind my beloved students of my credentials, and my reasons for preparing this series of little tutorials. I am, of course, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and acclaimed author of the millionth bestseller science fiction and fantasy novel, ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’, and my writing these little posts to my adoring students is solely motivated by the desire to assist your writing endeavours.

And now to business.

How To Write A Book – Lesson 22: The Write Wromance

The romantic novel is the graveyard of so much literary endeavour, being a crowded marketplace in which the average flounders and sinks itself beneath contempt and only the superlative can possibly hope to achieve success. Of course the paramount example of this pulchritudinous delight is the queen of pinkness and prettiness at whose slippered feet we are unworthy to worship. We cannot hope to even approach her superlative talent but we may use her incandescently shimmering writings as a blueprint for our own feeble scribbles.

The Rules

1. The heroine. A beautiful, shy, virgin whom life has treated unkindly. She must be intelligent, compassionate, and as pink and pretty as a rosebud.
2. The hero. An older man, handsome, cynical, wealthy, damaged.
3. The bitch. Beautiful, hard, not a virgin. Wants the hero
4. The antihero. Has designs on the heroine’s virtue
5. The plot. Antihero does a bad thing to heroine. Hero saves her. Hero wants her but bitch steps in. Much confusion arises. Hero and heroine come together in the end. Close with a chaste kiss.

And that mes estudas are the wrules of the write way to write a wromance.

Ecrit Bon.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

Fear is like a looking glass....

“What I’ve found so far about the rugby lottery is the chains are being redirected, there’s code recycling and the murder or murderers are getting harder to track, making the bets harder to track to the actual bettors. I convinced the tech team at the police department to track the I.P. addresses of every user found on Walter Ashford’s computer. I tracked several of them myself. Some linked to genuine fans of the game who were betting through the fantasy rugby lottery website, but after background checks and extensive interviews were found to be unwitting participates in the rugby murders or not involved at all, since their bets were less than £10 (15.56 USD).” Eva walked behind her desk and handed Mr. Kane a file folder from her portfolio.

Mr. Kane looked at the information inside. “But a few pounds could be a ruse to divert the police from finding out who exactly are the partners in crime. Because maybe they know we’re onto them.”

“Yes, true. The police are still monitoring around the clock those who’ve been ruled out and the rest of those participating fans betting in the rugby lottery.”

“People are still betting through this website?” Mr. Kane said raising a furrowed brow.

“Yes, there are extreme fanatics of the game and the players. The police can’t risk shutting the site down. They risk not being able to catch the real criminal or criminals.”

“What’s this world coming to?” Mr. Kane shook his head. “There’s no way they could be doing the shootings themselves. There’s a risk of getting caught. They must’ve hired mercenaries. No, not mercenaries, they wouldn’t have left any additional casualties like in Johannesburg. The first two matches a hired gun had to have been used. There were no added casualties just the impending targets. The other two matches the shootings were sloppy, the one in Johannesburg and Australia versus New Zealand match where both players had been shot alone outside of the stadium. Those were possibly random.” Mr. Kane swallowed hard, rubbing his forehead.

“This is getting to be scarier and scarier by the second,” Eva sighed, her hand on Othor’s shoulder. He nodded, both of them staring out of the sixteenth-century oriel window of Othor’s home office, overlooking the Bristol Channel.

“In a sea of rugby fanatics, how do we find the one or ones, who are deranged and brilliant enough to kill through the internet without getting their hands dirty? Whoever they are their influence is absolutely staggering and frustrating. We’ve been at this for over three years and every step forward seems like a major setback.” He rubbed his forefinger along his chin. “Instead of looking at who’s betting we should look at those registering, selecting and joining the leagues and creating their own teams through the fantasy rugby lottery website. Those making draft picks and those with salary caps that are too unusual to ignore. Yes, we need to check those salary caps again. Nothing will be left sacred.”

“I guess we’ll both be burning the midnight oil tonight on this one.”

Weeping Well is written by Angel Chadwick.

Angel M.B. Chadwick is currently writing the sequel to the “Weeping Well” series, titled “Weeping Well: Shards to the Grave.” She’s also writing a twelve book cozy mysteries series, numerous plays, novels, short stories, among her other literary works, business ideas and inventions all while raising her ten year old son. She has traveled all over the world starting in her teens and hopes to do it again soon. She currently lives in Mississippi, in a quaint little house on the corner, in a quiet neighborhood in the city, where she is constantly and relentlessly plagued by inspiration.

Q1: If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?

Q2: Are you a cat person or a dog person?

Q3: What do you most enjoy about being a writer – and least enjoy?

You can catch up with Angel Chadwick on Goodreads, Facebook and her Blog.

Mum and Dad have been taking in traumatised kids for as long as I can remember. When they couldn’t have any more children after me and my sister, they decided not to moan about it. Instead, they put their energies into helping the less fortunate. We got used to little ones who had been beaten, or starved, or treated worse than dogs. But when Billy came along it was hard not to cry because of what the poor little blighter had been through.

I remember asking Dad how anybody could treat a little kid like that. He looked at me soberly.
“Honestly? I don’t know. All I know is that we have to do our best to mend him.”
And so we did.

We all knew the drill well enough to ignore his peculiarities, and not push him or impose ourselves. At first, it seemed like each tiny step was agonisingly slow, and I sometimes caught a look of almost despair on Mum’s face. But then Billy seemed to start understanding that he really was safe. He began sleeping in his bed instead of crouched in the corner. He started to eat proper food instead of baby milk from a bottle. He even smiled every once in a while.

The one thing Billy didn’t do was talk. Come to think of it he hardly made a noise at all. He never cried or laughed, and if he sneezed or burped he looked so frightened that we soon learned to pretend not to hear.

It was Mum’s birthday, and she wanted to go to the aquarium. So we all went. It’s a funny place, full of soft blue light, and while most of the kids ran around from window to window Billy stood watching a tank full of jellyfish, touching the glass with gentle fingers. My sister went and stood behind him, and he actually leaned back against her.
“Look, Billy,” she said gently, “custard fish”.
Billy made a funny rusty little noise, and it came to me that he was laughing. Mum grabbed Dad’s hand and held on real tight. My sister put a gentle hand on Billy’s head.
“Whipped cream fish?”
He turned to look at her, and in a tiny, creaky, rusty little whisper, he explained where she was going wrong.
“Jellyfish.”
Then he hid his face in her sweatshirt while she stroked his hair.

And that’s how a Portuguese Man of War gave Billy back his voice.

©️ Jane Jago 2018

I’m a woman who really likes. Shoes
And fit guys with iron-hard thews
And peach pie and custard
And hot dogs (with mustard)
And really big glasses of booze

© jane jago 2018

The Wolfhounds of Lupercalia - or Dying to be Found - a Dai and Julia Mystery for Valentine's Day.

Lupercalia MDCCLXXVIII Anno Diocletiani

It was Lupercalia, the day when everyone celebrated romance – and it’s close friend fertility. The shops were full of silly cards and chocolate wolves, and the flower sellers all had sudden hikes in their prices. Dai Llewellyn sat opposite his diminutive wife at the breakfast table and inwardly debated whether she had truly forgotten the date, or she was playing a deep game of her own. Whichever way Julia went on this one, he was convinced he had the situation covered and he carefully camouflaged an inner smile.
He finished his porridge and leaned over to kiss Julia’s pink mouth. She responded with her usual flattering ardour and he put up a hand to ruffle her dark curls.
“Work calls. I won’t be back until supper time. Is there anything you want from Viriconium?”
“I don’t think so. See you later.”
He kissed her again and went out to where his personal all-wheel awaited him. To his surprise, Julia’s bodyguard, Edbert, was leaning casually against the vehicle. The great wolfhounds Canis and Lupo stood with him, waiting for their morning walk.
“You haven’t forgotten what day it is, I hope.”
“No. You’re all right. I have it covered.”
The huge northerner mimed mopping his brow and sloped off. Dai got into the driving seat and allowed himself a smug grin.

He pulled up outside Bryn’s square stone-walled house and tooted cheerily. His friend and second-in-command ambled out with a grin from ear to ear, greying hair tied back and a doorstep of bread and honey in one hand. He climbed aboard and favoured Dai with a straight look.
“I hope you have remembered what day it is?”
“Why does everybody think I need reminding of an over-commercialised randomly-chosen date? Surely my wife knows I love her without some sort of overpriced gift?”
Bryn eyed him narrowly.
“I hope for your sake you’re winding me up, Bard.”
“I am. Here. Look.”
Dai took a red velvet pouch out of his tunic pocket and spilled the contents onto the palm of his hand. Bryn barely looked, instead he stuck his head out of the vehicle window and whistled shrilly. His wife opened the front door and trotted out.
“Show it to Gwen. I was told if it was jewellery she needed to make sure you got it right.”
Dai laughed and leaned out to display a silver chain bracelet from which there hung three charms.
“See,” he said, “there’s a golden ball for when I asked her to come and be my love, the disk has the date of our marriage, and there’s a wolf for Lupercalia. I can add more charms as the years go by.”
“That’s perfect,” Gwen stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek before returning to her house.
Dai put the bracelet back in its pouch and the pouch in his pocket before starting the engine and engaging drive.

They were about halfway to Viriconium when both men’s wristphones bleeped simultaneously. Bryn answered.
“SI Cartivel. What’s the panic?”
“Missing child. Cadell Glaw. The kid’s up in the hills somewhere. Parents are sheep farmers and he must have slipped out during the night. He’s three years old and the temperature is well below freezing.”
“You don’t need to ask me, man, get the tracker dogs out!”
“No can do. They are on their way back from Eboracum where there was that big jailbreak. Won’t be here until tomorrow morning. We can’t wait that long.”
“No. We can’t.” Bryn looked at Dai questioningly.
“Alright. Get the address and then call Edbert. Canis and Lupo would appear to be our only chance. Julia will lend them gladly in these circumstances.”

Some two hours later, and it was perishingly cold out on the hill. The farming couple were small dark-haired folk, who quickly understood what Dai had in mind. The man shut his own dogs in the barn and his wife went for a favourite toy to give Canis and Lupo the child’s scent.
“We tried our sheepdogs,” the man said quietly, “but they couldn’t grasp what we wanted.”
“I don’t suppose they could, but these boys are trained to seek.”
Edbert was bundled up, looking for all the world to Dai’s eyes like a multicoloured version of one of the bears that hunted his native forests. Clad in a thick plaid winter coat, with a fur hood pulled close over his head, Edbert seemed oblivious to the cold as he put long leather leashes on the wolfhounds. When they had sniffed the stuffed sheep he snapped his fingers.
“Seek,” he said firmly. “Seek.”
The dogs cast about the farmyard quartering the ground with care, but for a tense few minutes, they could find nothing. Then Lupo’s tail went up and he gave an excited whimper. Seconds later Canis caught the same scent. Then they were off, all but dragging Edbert in their wake. Dai and Bryn got in the all-wheel and followed, leaving the farmer and his wife to wait and hope.

It was an uphill trek, and even Edbert’s formidable fitness was being tried by the rough terrain. After nearly three quarters of an hour of sinew-stretching running and careful driving,  Dai was about to call a rest halt when the dogs lost the scent in the bottom of a rocky valley. Bryn looked stricken, but Dai had more faith in the dogs who cast carefully about the scree-covered valley bottom before drawing a blank. The dogs whined and Edbert encouraged them up to the slope to where they obediently ran around seeking the elusive trail. Dai was beginning to think his faith in the hounds might have been misplaced when Canis lifted his head and gave an excited whine.
“They’ve only found it,” Bryn whispered, “they’ve only gone and found it”.
Before Dai could think of a suitable response the dogs and Edbert had breasted the rise and the hunt was on again.

They seemed to have reached the apex of the hills and the trail led across the tops now where the wind whistled unforgivingly around the stunted trees. Bryn looked increasingly grim, and Dai himself wondered how a small child dressed only in his nightshirt and dressing gown would cope with such cold or indeed, could have travelled so far on his own. Before his imagination could go any further the dogs stopped again, but this time they stood stock still pointing, with their tongues lolling and their eyes sparkling. Edbert beckoned, and Dai stopped the all-wheeler. He and Bryn jumped down.

Once they were out, it was obvious why Edbert wouldn’t take Canis and Lupo any closer. The small sleeping figure was curled up between the woolly bodies of two sheep, with his booted feet sticking out, and a lamb clutched to his chest. Bryn looked at Dai and his eyes were suspiciously bright.
“I really thought we might be looking for a body,” he said.
“Me too,” Edbert admitted in his slow, deep voice.
Dai didn’t waste time talking, he crossed to the sleeping child and put a gentle hand on the head of rough, dark curls.
“Cadell,” he said quietly, “time to go home”.
The little boy sat up and studied Dai through round black eyes.
“Ewythr,” he said and held up his arms.

It was hours later when the medicus had examined Cadell and declared him none the worse for his ordeal, and Edbert and the dogs had made their own way home, that Dai and Bryn climbed back into their transport.
“No point in heading for Viriconium, now,” Dai said genially. “We may as well knock off a bit early and go home to our wives.”
He put his hand into the pocket where his Lupercalia gift for Julia lay, only to find the pocket empty. For a moment the cold of the mountains reached in to touch his soul. He searched with increasing desperation, but it was nowhere to be found.
“Bryn,” he said in a tense thread of a voice. “I’ve lost Julia’s present. It must have fallen out of my pocket somewhere.”
Bryn smiled wryly.
“It did, Bard. Out on the hill. When you bent to pick up young Cadell.”
“What? Did you pick it up?”
“No. I didn’t even see it fall…”
Dai was sure he looked as puzzled and irritated as he felt. “What are you telling me you spado? Is it still up there on the hillside?”
“No.” Bryn put a hand in his own pocket and grinned. “It’s here. Lupo must have seen you drop it and he retrieved. He fetched it to Edbert, who gave it to me because you were busy.”
Dai took the pouch and dusted it off with a trembling hand.
“I owe that dog a great big bone.”

©E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago February 2018

Glossary of Non-English Terms
Please note these are not always accurate translations, they are how these terms are used in Dai and Julia’s world.
Eboracum – we would call it York.
Ewythr – uncle
Lupercalia – once celebrated with raucous rabbles running through the street, by Dai and Julia’s day it is much more like our own Valentine’s Day.
Spado – literally ‘eunuch’, metaphorically ‘stupid fool’.
Viriconium – we would call it Wroxeter.

You can collect the Dai and Julia Mysteries as individual novellas or snag The First Dai and Julia Omnibus by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.