I Hate That Guy: On Writing Difficult Characters

Posted on January 26, 2012 by admin

This November, as I struggled my way through the second book of the Terminus Trilogy for National Novel Writing Month, I came to a difficult realization. One of my characters – the villain of the series – was infuriating to write. You’d think this is a good thing, but it’s a little more complex than it appears.

When I write my villains, they almost always have some kind of redeeming value, or at least recognize that they have done wrong in pursuit of their aims. Most writers agree that villains who are evil just because they “are” don’t work for their audiences. This guy is not an exception, but at his current place in the story, he’s not talking about his sins yet. They’re the last thing he wants to discuss, and with good reason. Instead, he is in full, megalomaniacal control of every nasty thing he does, and he feels 100% justified in doing those things, no matter who it hurts or what illegal, immoral behavior it promotes. Chief among his sins is a violent hatred toward anyone who believes in religion. Anyone foolish enough to believe in the existance of a deity is expendable; they are not intelligent enough to live.

I’m also writing a character that happens to be a prostitute. She is a complicated girl that has a great many secrets and hidden agendas that remain to be seen, but most of the time, on the surface, she is trying to get into somebody’s pants. That’s pretty much her goal in life. She wants what she wants, and she’ll get it. Men are toys for her to handle and mishandle; trash when she’s finished with them. She’s the kind of girl that most of us, with any kind of moral or ethical fortitude, would hate.

Many times, over the course of my writing, I’ve had people look askance at me when I write these kinds of characters. After all, I am not a prostitute, and I do not hate religion, barring the fact that I am not yet ready to commit to a church. (Different subject and not related to writing.) I don’t think people know what to do with that. It’s easy for the layman to assume that that there’s a secret, dark part of me that knows all about these things, or that I must know someone with these traits that I am using as a model.

When it comes to characters, the authorial advice of “write what you know” does not always work, regardless of whether you choose to write fiction or non-fiction. It is always going to be most comfortable for us to follow the “write what you know” advice and write characters that behave and think like us; we don’t have to think very hard about what we would do if we were them.

However, when we step outside our doors, we find that the world beyond our homes is full of people who are not like us. They have different morals, faiths, goals, fears, loves and likes than we do. We have murderers, thieves and crooks just as we have religious officials, schoolteachers and policemen. Not everyone in the world is good. We might avoid those people when we know who they are, but when we don’t, we’re forced to decide who is trustworthy and who isn’t. We like and dislike people based on the feelings and actions they bestow upon us. In any made-up world, this needs to be true as well. This is what makes the imaginary worlds that fantasy and sci-fi readers dream up so familiar to us; even if there’s magic flying and strange monsters attacking, people always behave like people.

The goal, then, of writers, is to figure out how they can write from the perspective of someone that they would never even associate with in real life. Having never been a prostitute or a pedagogue for atheism in my life, I don’t know what goes through the minds of those kinds of people. I lack those experiences in my life, and that’s quite all right with me. However, I know a great many people who believe things that I do not. I know how they behave, the choices they make and their motivations for doing so. When you are a writer, you learn to pay careful attention to people, and you often find yourself learning things about them that they may not even know. This is where that knowledge comes into play. The better you can understand those unlike yourself, the easier it becomes to put yourself in the shoes of someone strange.

That said, modeling characters off of people you know can only get you so far. It helps to cast your net wider. I’ve never met a prostitute, but I’ve read other books that feature them. I’ve seen films. I’ve read articles in the news about prostitution. I’ve read news articles from countries where prostitution is legal. I’ve read plenty of articles on sexual health, feminism and other things that relate to the subject. I’ve read comment threads and discussions on articles that are longer than the actual articles. I know the backs and forths of the subject and can make a reasonable attempt at guessing what my character would think of it. THIS is what writers mean when they say “write what you know.” The more you know, the more you can write.

Yes, knowing these things and having to research them may make you very uncomfortable sometimes. We writers don’t get to blind ourselves to the things and the people we don’t like. We need to be able to bear witness to the best and the worst that life has to offer. This is the only way to create believable characters that look and feel real to our readers. Anyone who cannot do this will have difficulty writing.

Knowing things does not mean we believe them or like them. It doesn’t mean we promote them. It means we have studied the subject and have formulated our own opinions about them, AND recognized how and why other people might choose differently than we did. It’s not our job to pass judgment. It’s our job to reflect what we have learned, even if the imaginary person we create turns out to be our own worst enemy. This cannot work, however, until the writer can get into the minds of people not like them. It takes empathy, creativity, a desire to know and understand people from all walks of life, and a lot of courage. It changes your life, not because you have become like those people, but because you know what motivates people to do what they do – both yourself and others. This kind of understanding is frightening and beautiful all at once.

My prostitute character is easier, by far, than my atheist. Prostitutes and “easy girls” are quite common in fiction, films and other forms of entertainment. Girls start learning this stuff in the real world by high school. It’s not hard to guess how such a girl would behave, even if I would never do it myself. She is not particularly unique until you bring her secrets and lies into the game. That is intentional; she’s using sex as a cover for the things that matter to her. This is quite common for young women, and though my prostitute is “of age,” her emotional and mental level are a bit younger than her chronological age.

I have never used sex as a cover – but I do know how it feels to hide true feelings under something else. That’s a human trait that almost all of us experience at one time or another. Whether sex is the thing being presented in place of feelings or not is irrelevant; I have what I need to understand her. It just happens to be sex this time around, because that’s who she is. She would be a completely different character without it. I know that people will be uncomfortable when they read the parts of the story written from her perspective. Heck, I’m uncomfortable writing them! I’d never do or say the things she does! But that doesn’t make it wrong to write it. It makes it part of the story and the world it takes place in. Anyone thinking that they need to insert me into the story in her place has things very, very wrong.

I see the prostitute as a sad person who is unaware of the consequences of her behavior; she’s more innocent than her profession would suggest. She destroys things just by being herself, and worse – she thinks that’s how it’s supposed to be. She’s irresponsible, reckless and foolish, but none of those things tend to provoke anger. Most people, when faced with such a person in the real world, would shake their heads and look away, not get mad. This is why I made her a prostitute, because most people do react this way to such things. For all her flaws and the fact that she is nothing like me, she’s interesting, thought-provoking and useful when it comes to telling my story. I could clean her up and change her job, but then you’d have a very different story indeed. I need someone abrasive enough to draw attention, and her profession encourages that for sure. If you are looking at her and squirming, that is exactly what I want.

When I write her, I have to be in a particular frame of mind – and no, it’s not the one you’re expecting! She has a certain apathy for what’s going on that requires consideration. Most of the characters in the story are desperately involved with what is happening; the entire fate of the world is in their hands. Her movements are more subtle and never shown in a manner that would expose her aims to the world. The sex is what she uses to distract people, don’t forget. What she’s actually plotting is the real question. When I write her, for the time that I’m writing, I have to pretend in my mind that I’m a gorgeous little minx that can do anything she wants to, take any risk, lie about anything and get away with it. The entire world becomes a bit of a joke. When I’m done, I shake my head and go back to being myself again. It really is that simple for me.

The atheist, by contrast, frustrates me. Unlike the prostitute, who is perhaps amoral but not actively harmful, he is another matter. This guy spends most of his life trying to incite people to murder anyone following a religion. He believes the world should give up superstition and put all their faith into humanity, science and technology. Atoms, bytes and his own two hands are the only God he needs. His speeches are powerful and proud; he’s a strong leader that many people follow just because of the sheer force of his will. In other words, he spends no time thinking about why others choose differently from his way of life. He’d rather just get rid of anyone who doesn’t agree. He’d become the next Hitler without too much work.

The prostitute just makes a bunch of sexual innuendos, flirts with people and goes back to scheming in her mind. It’s this guy that breaks out things that border on hate speech. He has no sympathy for anyone. If you’re not with him, you’re against him, and you might as well not even exist. He’s lied, cheated and stabbed people in the back for the sake of his agenda, and he’ll stop at nothing to succeed. As a Christian, he makes me furious. Keep in mind that the story takes place in a world where there is no religion outside of the one that has derived from Wicca in the real world. If you are a person of any faith at all, you would probably belong to this religious majority. This guy would see that faith as testament to your inability to function in the normal world. He not only thinks you’re a fool, he thinks you’re past saving; a lamb to be slaughtered.

I don’t know many atheists. Most of my friends and family claim at least some faith, be it traditional Christian churchgoer, those who keep Christianity in their hearts but do not attend church, or those that practice some other faith, such as Wicca or Mormonism. There was a time when I was too young to really understand what God was, but past that point, I’ve always believed in Him and tried to obey Him as I went through life. I don’t consider myself a very public Christian; while I will tell you about my faith if you ask, I respect other people’s right to choose what they believe as well. This includes atheists. I may think that other faiths are wrong, but that is not something I feel I must take away from others. It’s up to each of us to choose, and I have never in my life seen a choice made under pressure or influenced by someone else turn out to be smart or long-lived.

Because of this, the only thing that religious or atheistic folks can do to infuriate me is to start arguments about who is right, trying to force the issue down the throats of people who have no interest in learning or understanding anything about people who are different than they are. Painting anyone who doesn’t agree with you as a monster, the enemy or a fool is reprehensible to me. Whether it’s a Christian talking about saving the poor, misguided heathens who must not know God if they’re still refusing to come to church, or an atheist making a bunch of philosophical arguments trying to disprove the existence of God, I can’t stand it. I believe we should live and let live. Such hatred would never come from my mouth. To love someone, even when they are wrong, is far more an example of God’s love than any of that.

Enter Mr. Atheist, who is about as far from “understanding” as one can get. I’ve tried to make him the balled-up sum of every single angry old man I’ve ever met, which means that he’s violently religious about the religion he believes in – none. He has no love in his heart, period. The things he does are mechanical, brutish and human, if you believe that humans are evolutionary animals that have their entire evolutionary pattern in their own hands. He has no faith in anything outside of himself; he believes he’s going to save the world by making the world save itself – or die trying, if there aren’t enough “sane” people left to succeed. He is the prime example of what humanity without God would be, in my not-so-humble opinion.

When I have to make words come out of his mouth, I want to kill someone. Everything he says makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up and curl. I’ve always taken that to be a good thing, because if he’s that offensive to me, I’m hoping he’s that offensive to readers as well. While some would say he has good intentions for helping the world (you’ll have to read to understand why I say that, I’m afraid,) he ends up causing riots in the streets with every public broadcast he makes. If he can get people to “wake up” and become “productive” members of the human race again instead of wasting time with that faith nonsense, he’ll be happy, whatever it takes to accomplish that. Of course, he has his reasons, all of which will be explored and explained. Until that happens, he’s fire and brimstone, minus the Hell.

I know I don’t believe what he’s saying, and that’s the only reason I can tolerate writing it at all. It’s just that he is so opposed to my own personal character that I find it extremely difficult to get into his mind. I understand and accept a lot of things in life, but there are some things I don’t WANT to understand. That is a barrier I’m going to have to work through. As I said before, we writers don’t get to bury our heads in the sand when we’re confronted with people we don’t like. So far I have gotten through it by bringing to bear every scrap of information I’ve learned and seen over the years about great and powerful speakers. After that, I have to fight to form the words to denounce faith, when my own faith is very dear to me.

It doesn’t matter that he’s doing this to Wiccans and not to Christians – as mentioned, Christianity doesn’t exist anymore in that world. It’s a slightly modified Wicca, or nothing. If you believe in anything outside of the human spirit and indomitable free will, then you are a liability as far as this guy’s concerned. Perhaps it’s so scary because it might someday be true. I don’t think it will come down to Wicca vs. atheism this way, but is it so hard to imagine that the war between the faithful and the atheists could come to blows? Shots? Nukes? We’re already halfway there just between opposing faiths, folks. He’s terrifying. And he’s also believable. And I hate him. I’m not sure there’s much I could do to hate him more.

Am I wrong to write from the perspective of someone I hate so much? I don’t think so. It just requires a lot more strength and conviction on my part. My worst fear would be to become someone like him; he is what I pray never crosses my path every day. And yet, to get this novel complete, I will have to know him. I will have to stop judging him and start finding the places where he became what he is. I have to find the good in him, however deeply it lies buried. He is, after all, only human.

This is why you can’t assume that writers only write what they believe. Sometimes, you have to write the very things you DON’T believe before you can get to the things that you do. This challenge is one that I’m willing to take on, even though I’m surprised at myself how much I’ve reacted to this guy. I’ve written villains before that are wrong and need to be stopped, but this guy is the first person I’ve ever written who is just dangerous on many levels. I’m sure it doesn’t help that it’s sci-fi this time around, which means that the more believable it is, the scarier it is too. This is as much a story about learning to live and let live as it is about anything else. I’d be very sad if I lost sight of that now. The world needs that message, loud and clear.

I hope somewhere in this piece, I’ve convinced you that characters are far more than just mouthpieces for their authors to state their own viewpoints. Often, we must create viewpoints that are far different than our own. The more practice we have at creating people not like ourselves, the better your stories will be for it – but you have to understand that when we wear these masks and tell our stories, we’re not changing and becoming different people, nor are we showing you previously hidden aspects of our nature that you wish you’d never seen. We are trying to create real, honest, living people from our imagination, experience and study of the human race, and sometimes, what you see will be ugly. People are never perfect.

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Never Forgotten

Posted on January 23, 2012 by admin

Happy 2012, folks! I apologize for the long delay, but I did warn you that I was going to be busy. I’m still here, and I still remember you and Ink Raindrops, even if I haven’t had time to make it a priority again yet. I am just now reaching a point where the last few distractions in my life are coming to an end, and I can focus on where I’m going with my writing for the rest of the year. That means IR is a definite consideration for the future.

Rest assured that I am beginning to consider what, precisely, I plan to do with this blog. I don’t yet know if I’m going to go back to monthly updates, more frequent updates or just updates whenever I feel like it. It is the Year of the Dragon, and I’d love to have some fun with Way of the Dragon to celebrate. At the same time, I have some projects that I want to focus on that aren’t part of this blog. For one, I’d like to start planning for the finale of the Terminus Trilogy, the NaNoWriMo series I’ve been working on for years. I’d prefer not to be caught with my pants down the way I was this year! (For the curious, I am hoping to have the PDF available by the end of the month. I’ll let you know when it is ready.)

So, in short, I don’t yet know what my plans are. But I’m working on getting them in order, and once I know for sure what my schedule looks like this year, I’ll be the first to let you know about IR. My current leaning is to go back to monthlies and pare back everything else, though monthlies will be at my discretion and not voted on. I also want to turn this into a writing-focused personal blog as well – more Rants that focus on the things I think about and problems I face instead of just my dislike of Chick Tracts. (It was never supposed to be just that; I ran out of time to keep it going with broader topics. I am sorry for that.)

Hang in there, folks. I’ll let you know as soon as I can what to expect. Until then, I wish you all the best in whatever you’re up to! Let me know if you’re reading, writing or doing something great.

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Ink Raindrops: It’s Time For a Few Small Repairs, She Said

Posted on October 10, 2011 by admin

Pardon the Shawn Colvin lyric, but I’ve always liked the song.

As you’ve probably noticed, I haven’t updated IR for October. I made a post to Facebook late in the month noting that I’d come down with an awful cold, and that I’d be late, but I never intended to be this late. I’ve also continued to miss Poetic Magnetism updates. This cold, I note, has been the result of several little surprises in my life that I didn’t see coming, and the stress I’ve been facing over them. If I’m ever going to be a real writer, I have to learn to deal with this stuff better, but I’m still learning. Putting it all out of my head is still difficult, particularly in such personal and familial contexts.

Now it is the 10th of October, I have this month’s AND last month’s chapters to write, plus the extra backlog of chapters I will need for the months when I don’t post here. And NaNoWriMo 2011 is right around the corner. And I still have some editing left to do on my Clarion Write-A-Thon script from August. I hope it doesn’t sound whiny, but I’m tired, guys. I’ve been to hell and back over the last few months, and I’m just starting to breathe again.

This, combined with the continued realization that Ink Raindrops just isn’t getting the readership it needs to function at its best, has made me think seriously about what I’m doing here. I spend a lot of time on IR stuff, and I had hoped by now that word of mouth and Internet traffic might have brought a few more people my way. It hasn’t happened. And I just don’t have the interest to spend time, money and effort trying to market it – this has been my practice place, not something that I wanted to make my life. In the past I have had writing sites that were fortunate enough to get noticed, but it hasn’t happened yet, this time. Still, it is good for me, and I’ve grown a lot as a writer by having this here. I don’t want to give up.

So here’s what’s going to happen. Ink Raindrops will stay open, but with a few alterations:

For the time being, I’m going to remove the poll feature and add chapters at my own discretion. It was a cool idea and I still think it has merit, but it really does require more than two or three voters per month to make sense. I thank those of you that did vote from the bottom of my heart, and you’ll still get to read what I’m writing this way. Bug me via Facebook or Twitter or email if you have strong feelings about what you want to see next!

The other big change is that I’d like to, for right now, end the commitment to monthly chapters. This one hurts, honestly, because I believe I benefit from having that deadline – it’s taught me a lot about how to work on a real schedule, and I’d like to re-establish that someday, if I can. But right now, going into the period of my life where I’m not going to be here anyway, I have to face reality.

I’ve gotten delayed in doing some things that I need and want to get done, and I’m about to lose even more time to NaNoWriMo. Right now it is a choice between Ink Raindrops monthlies, and NaNo. I love the work I’ve been doing here, but NaNo means a whole lot to me – I get more accomplished, even though it’s harder work, and it’s a community of writers that I only get to take part in once a year. For once, I’d like to have the time to enjoy that. I’ve already done Clarion this year, which was another huge challenge, and it’s things like this that force me into working on the things I really need to improve. IR is for fun and practice; Clarion and NaNo are craft-builders. I need the latter right now more than ever.

So, I’ll still work on these stories when I have time. I don’t know how often to tell you to expect updates; I will let you know via Facebook and Twitter when they happen, so you don’t need to check often. Because I still owe you a chapter of The End, I’ll make that first priority, but after that, I’ll start doing author’s choice, as mentioned. I’m not going to shut anything down or stop writing them, I promise. I want to see where they go as much as you do!

This will remain my portfolio, of sorts, as time passes. If you want to share my work with others, please don’t hesitate to do so. It just won’t be as social an experience as I hoped to make it. After the new year, when I have more time to devote to things, maybe we can talk about re-establishing the monthly deadline or trying something new, but for now, something has to give, and I’m picking IR.

Thanks to those of you that are still with me, and those that have been with me since the beginning. I promise I won’t let you down, and I’m certainly not giving up on anything. I’ve just finally been forced to admit that I’m spreading myself too thin, and it’s time to learn how to prioritize tasks. I’ll let you know what happens next, and when new things arrive. The rest – we’ll have to see. In time.

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September: New Feature?

Posted on September 2, 2011 by admin

During the last poll’s brief snafu, I mentioned that I might be considering a new feature for this month. What have I decided?

Well, I’m slightly disappointed, but I’ve decided that I just do not have the time to spare for anything new right now. My schedule between now and the end of this year is going to be complicated at best, and I have obligations that just cannot wait. Here’s a few:

1. This month (September) is reserved for making final edits to my Clarion Write-a-Thon script so that I can hand it off to my husband. That starts next Tuesday, after Labor Day. It may not take the whole month, but what I don’t spend writing, I hope to spend cleaning, in preparation for Christmas plans. Yes, I’m well aware it’s very early for most people, but there are a few reasons why I’m not going to have what looks like four months. Read on.

2. October is when I start worrying about writing advance chapters for automatic publication during the two months that I do not update here. Getting the chapter FOR October done isn’t a challenge, but the one for November will be. Immediately after that, I have my wedding anniversary, followed by NaNoWriMo with the rest of the month. You can see why October is a much wiser choice. The rest of the time I don’t use writing will, again, go to housework and other chores.

3. Did I mention my anniversary, and NaNoWriMo? I thought so. November is a complete wash as far as I am concerned. So far I have not needed to pull any late-nighters or work myself to the bone, but I like to keep my schedule clear so that if I ever do need to, I can. It’s really important to me to finish and succeed, so whatever has to happen will happen. Any leftover time I have will be apartment cleaning, maintenance, etc.

4. Last we come to December. My goal is to have all my critical things (writing, cleaning, etc.) out of the way by this point, so that I can put my energy toward preparing for family, holiday decorating and the fun stuff that comes with the season. Every year I get stressed out and nervous and upset leading up to Christmas, and I just don’t want to do that anymore. I’m going to be freaking out enough as it is, given that I’m hosting my first Christmas here. It’s just my mom and my stepdad, not a whole herd, but still. I want it to be a wonderful experience, since it may be one of the only opportunities we’ll have to do this for awhile. (The double wedding in my husband’s family this year has resulted in our having two concurrent holidays with my family, in order for everyone’s alternating holidays to line up. We never get to stay home, and my family could use the vacation, so the expense and considerations are just the same to bring them up here for a year.)

So in short, I apologize, but I’m not going to try to take on anything new right now. Chapters will continue as promised, and I will get back to being more diligent about Poetic Magnetism (yes, I do realize I’ve missed a couple again.) If you happen to like food and/or cooking, I have a pet project in the works involving a small food blog, though thankfully that does not qualify as fiction! We’ll see what happens in the future. The new year will be far less choked for time – the end of the year is always the busiest for me.

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Liar’s Dice (Yellow) > Chapter 7: Of Plots and Potions

Posted on September 1, 2011 by admin

“In marketing you must choose between boredom, shouting and seduction. Which do you want?” —Roy H. Williams

Thick, crimson curls cascaded past her shoulders, pinned in all the right spots to make their perfect placement look natural and just the slightest bit wild. The small white wildflowers of the region were tucked here and there into her mane for accent. Her eyes, demure until you looked into their emerald and dangerous depths, were lined with the finest dark pencil that money could buy. Her lips were blood red, and pouting just enough to make onlookers wonder if she might have found some minor fault with them; she wanted them wondering. The rest of her body was awash in a combination of lily white skin that she had never dreamed of as a child, and silk in all the verdant shades of the forest. Melody’s beauty was dark and intense; hers would be like firelight, delicate and warm to the touch. She would stand out in the crowd, instead of being content to blend in. Melody had never understood how to win the game. It was one of her many failings.

Maraude Morrist stood before her full-length mirror, admiring her handiwork with a careful yet confident eye. She had always wanted to be a redhead, despising the pale blondness of her youth that had faded too soon into silvery gray. Ronald had gotten his father’s more dominant mahogany locks, of course. He had never wanted for anything in the looks department. The entire court had been appalled when Ronald’s father had announced his engagement to such an ordinary woman; tears had been the order of the day for many women. She wanted to tell them how very easy it was to get what you wanted in life, but she’d already used both vials of love potion stored up her sleeve. They wouldn’t believe her, anyway. Unlike their marriages, hers had even lasted a lifetime; his, anyway. She missed the parties, debates and dances that had come with the wedding. When was the last time she danced with anyone but herself? How had she not considered this plan sooner?

A catlike smile emerged on her face, and she hurried to conceal it beneath a more demure, uncertain air. It would not do to mimic a cat that had eaten a canary. Good girls didn’t do that sort of thing, at least not until they were already married. Her plot was to trade on the innocence and ethereal beauty of an out-of-town foreigner, with just a hint of an accent; money, but new money. Orphaned money. Nobody could resist that kind of story. She’d find every man in court trying to find a way to become her beau.

How fortunate for her, that the richest man in town wasn’t in court at all. Armer was still wedged deep in the heart of the local tavern, beginning to look bored with his newfound luck and his alcohol. If he hadn’t managed to become the most eligible bachelor in town with his winnings, she’d take off her disguise and kiss him as the old lady she was underneath! She peered out the window of her son’s home, checking to be sure she had not missed Armer; he was pushing aside some poor fool who had bet too much and lost even more. By the look of things, a fistfight was brewing without any help from her at all. It was the perfect opportunity she needed to make herself visible. What tavern brawl would not be interrupted, or started, by a pretty lady? One way or another, she would be noticed.

She opened the door, glanced outside to ensure that nobody could bear witness to where she’d come from, and stepped out, distancing herself from the Morrist home with urgency. It would not do for people to associate her with Morrist; there would be too many questions about him and his infernal daughter. For her plan to succeed, she had to be the best kind of nobody; a mystery layered with intrigue and woe. Only for a moment did she recognize that she had sent Melody into the world with a similar story; the difference between them was clear. Maraude knew how to work it. Melody would try to hide it. The girl wouldn’t recognize an opportunity if it introduced itself with a kiss and a wink!

It wasn’t long before Maraude found what she was looking for. A wagon cart, loaded down with goods that could only be headed to market, passed her way. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, just a fraction of an inch, into its pathway, gazing up at the clouds with all the innocence that a fair maiden ought to have. There was no question of what would happen next. The whinny of startled horses choked by their driver’s sudden retraction of the reins, scraping wheels in the dirt, and the dust cloud that emerged all fell right in line with her intentions. She might have felt sorry for the driver, if he hadn’t been so much of a fool. That was how it was with most people Maraude met. If they were foolish enough to fall for her tricks, what use were they to the world? It was better that they served her instead.

She waited, with eyes huge and her hands trembling in shock, for the driver to recover. Several of the general populace were watching the scene unfold, and it was plain from the sympathetic looks on their faces that the image of a poor, helpless noblewoman being almost overrun by a foolish carriage driver was perfect. She might have just created it with magic, but that would be too much work; and every woman, by Maraude’s estimation, ought to give herself the old wagon test every few years. If it stopped in time, then she was beautiful enough to be noticed and live. If it didn’t, what was left to worry about? She did not admit to herself that being old also tended to raise the success rate of survival, too.

The driver had recovered by the time Maraude’s attention turned to him. To her surprise, she stared not into the face of a filthy common drunkard or a country yokel, but a young boy, not much more than ten years of age. He looked as terrified as Maraude should have been feeling. Behind him, concealed in the wagon’s compartment, a voice emerged.

“Cob, what just happened? Is everything all right?”

Maraude did not need to see her to recognize Melody’s voice. Of all the strokes of sheer, perverse luck! She wondered if Melody even knew what town she was in. Still, the boy didn’t look like he planned on stopping any time soon. Maybe they were just passing through.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Are you hurt, did I damage anything, did I spill anything, did I…” The boy was babbling. “There’s a lady, she walked right in front of me!”

Maraude frowned. The boy should have been spellbound by her beauty, not attempting to blame her for the incident! Had she left out an ingredient for one of her spells? She had been far too careful for an accident!

Melody’s voice interrupted. “Calm down, Cob. It’s all right. Just apologize and let’s get moving. Your mother will have our heads if we’re late.”

“Right.” Cob took a deep breath, trying to recover his wits. In a few moments, he hopped down from the driver’s seat and bowed to Maraude. “Um, pardon me, ma’am, forgive me for not seeing you sooner. I thought the road was clear…”

Maraude was about to chastise him for his stupidity when she remembered her goal of appearing demure and innocent. The speech she wanted to give would satisfy neither requirement! She needed the townsfolk to think of her as a kind and lovely soul, not a judgmental nag. Instead she nodded, keeping her eyes as wide as they could go. “It… it is I who should apologize. I… am not from this area. I did not see you. Forgive me.”

At last, the boy noticed he was talking to more than just an ordinary noblewoman; he was in the presence of someone just as beautiful as the woman concealed by the wagon. His cheeks darkened to a more permanent shade of red. “Don’t apologize, my lady. It is the duty of a driver to keep his eyes open. Are you lost? Can I help you find something? My family owns a farm close by, so I don’t know the place well, but I can do my best.”

A muddy, dirty, smudged, lovely and familiar face peered out from the wagon, trying to determine what was going on. It was all Maraude could do not to laugh and ruin any hope of maintaining her disguise. Melody looked like a washerwoman that had taken refuge in the horse barn! She couldn’t help herself; a giggle emerged that merged into a chuckle. Cob blinked in confusion, and Melody only stared, uncomprehending; Maraude would have to explain herself.

“I’m sorry, it’s the nerves, I think. My mother always said laughter was the best medicine.” She smiled her most breathtaking smile. “I’ve heard there’s a little tavern somewhere around here, and I could use a place to rest my feet. I’m afraid you must be too young, though, to know where that might be…”

Cob grinned. “I may be too young to go in, but I ain’t too young to drive there. You must have passed it on your way down here and didn’t notice.”

Melody looked nervous, and her words almost brought Maraude up short. She had not anticipated hesitation. Could the girl know the truth? “Cob, we’ve got to go. You know what’ll happen if we don’t.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking ashamed for having to speak against Melody. “I know it, Miss Nan, but I can’t just leave a lady standin’ here after I near squashed her flat. My ma would beat me either way.”

Miss Nan? Maraude skipped only a beat before deciding that she was still in the right place. Of course the girl would be using a false name. She herself would be using one soon. It would be foolish to track the name of Morrist any further into the dirt. Melody had more reason to revere it than anyone left alive. She had to think she was protecting it. Pah!

Melody sighed, running her hands through her greasy, rat-infested hair. “Of course, you’re right. There’s enough room here if I just move up with Cob.”

Maraude cleared her throat, smiling her best smile. “There’s no need for you to trouble yourself, ma’am. I will ride up front with the lad. It’s only for a moment, and the fresh air will do me good after such a fright!”

The girl nodded, and retreated back into the wagon, her voice again becoming the only sign of her presence. “Thank you. We’re in a bit of a hurry, so please forgive my curtness, ma’am. If we’re late to market and don’t sell out by the end of the day, my employment may be at risk. I can’t afford that. The job with Madam Gallow is all I have.”

Maraude fought back an ear-splitting grin. “Gracious! I can’t imagine. Surely you’ll be all right? Your brother here must be able to speak for you. Tell her I kept you.” She knew, of course, that Cob was not Melody’s brother, but it added to the facade.

Cob chuckled. “You’re too nice, ma’am. Nobody thinks I’m the brother of an angel but you.” He ducked his head, unwilling to meet Melody’s exasperated gaze. “I’m just a kid, so Ma won’t see things my way. She’s already got it out for Miss Nan. She’s too pretty, see. Ma don’t like it. She thinks I’m bein’ witched. Nothin’ I say will help.”

Somewhere, in the darkest recesses of Maraude’s mind, a nasty thought began to thrive and separate itself from all the others. It was all she could do to keep her diabolical plan from showing on her face. “Oh, dear. Well, I shan’t keep you any longer. Once we get to the tavern, you are free to go. I appreciate the kindness you’ve shown.”

Cob leapt up to the driver’s seat again and offered his grubby, childish hand down to Maraude. She wanted to scowl, but as it stood, she did need assistance climbing up in such a tight-fitting dress! His palm was warm and friendly, just like his personality; he would make a fine squire, if he just cleaned up a bit and found some new clothing. An unwilling flash of memory struck in the back of her mind, and for just a moment, she saw Ronald Morrist’s boyhood hand, not Cob’s. Three rapid blinks pulled her back out of the past and into the present. No matter how hard she tried to flee him, Ronald could not leave her alone!

What interested her more, however, as she let Cob haul her in unceremonious fashion into the seat next to him, was his mention that Melody was suspected of witchcraft. How funny that was, after all of Melody’s high, idealistic speeches denouncing everything that Maraude had learned over the years! Now the girl was accused of the very thing she had always refused to involve herself with. The knowledge that if Melody were somehow proven to, in truth, be a witch, was beyond impossible to ignore. The boy’s mother had made it clear that she had no use for Melody. Maraude would be doing her a favor by offering her the evidence she wanted.

She listened with half an ear to Cob’s polite chatter – he and Melody were indeed just passing through – while letting her mind mull over the least difficult method of achieving her goal. Once satisfied, she pulled a small flask of mixed potion from a deep pocket in her dress, and pretended to raise it to her lips, sipping it as she might a fine wine. It was not uncommon for noblewomen to carry such things, in the event of a medical emergency or a faint. Women did not often imbibe in public settings, so anyone suggesting that they used it for more obvious purposes was tantamount to an insult. She played at sipping the drink for a moment or two, enjoying Cob’s obvious ignorance, then smiled, turning to face Melody.

“You seem to have a long day ahead of you. You’re old enough, even if the lad isn’t. Would you care for a sip? It is safe, I assure you. Just something to take the edge off of a difficult day. I have more at my home for just such occasions.”

Melody, to her credit, looked for a moment as if she might refuse. However, her trusting and foolish nature was not yet extinguished, nor was the exhaustion betrayed by the dark circles under her eyes. It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. “T…thank you. It’s been a long time since I had anything other than water. Madam Gallow keeps everything I don’t need to work with locked up.” A rueful smile crossed her face. “If she means to prevent thieves, she might do better by not making so many enemies. I would never have thought to harm her, but she has been prepared to harm me from the first day I met her.”

Maraude handed Melody the flask and watched her take two tiny, delicate sips. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be enough; that particular potion was an amplification potion, used to heighten the powers of a proper witch. Magic, though it had to be learned in order to control its use, was far from impossible for the average citizen. With that potion in her system, Melody would find her heightened emotional states producing less than ideal reactions – such as an angry inferno in a barnyard, or a bitter drought among the crops. If Madam Gallow was as shrewd and as biased as Cob made her out to be, it wouldn’t take long for her to blame her new hireling. When she did, she would find all the evidence she needed!

Maraude had just enough time to take the flask back from Melody before Cob pulled up to the door of the tavern. She noticed with intense glee that the men inside were all standing up from the table that they had gambled at; not only were they still threatening each other, each trying to make themselves taller and larger than the others, they were blocking Armer’s exit. She hadn’t missed much at all. Even if Melody had stepped outside – unlikely, given her urgency – she would never have seen him. It seemed that prudence was about as interested in their union as Maraude was!

She smiled at Cob, trying to let the smile reach her eyes; the boy was too smart for his own good. His innocence had almost let him betray her already, by blaming her for the accident. She couldn’t afford to make him suspicious. “Thank you so much for your kindness. I truly am sorry about what happened back there. If you ever need anything…” She paused, looking deep into the boy’s eyes, until he blushed and looked away from her. “Just call on me. My name… is Mara. Mara Stromir.” She blurted it out, almost in a rush; she had known she was going to need a pseudonym, but she hadn’t had time to think of one yet!

“Nice to meet ya, Lady Stromir. Thanks for not getting’ mad.” Cob grinned, helping her down from her seat and onto the ground below, ever the perfect gentleman boy. “Most nobles I’ve met don’t care much for people like me. Good to see someone’s different.”

Different, Maraude thought, as she watched the wagon disappear around the corner, resuming its prior course, was forever what she wanted. It would help her stand out from the crowd when she made her move on Armer, and it would make Melody the center of attention when she returned home! She wished she could be there to watch the whole thing play out, but as it stood, she had a liar to seduce. She was different in that, too; most girls, knowing their would-be beaus were liars, would look the other way.

That, too, might work in her favor, someday.

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