I solemnly swear. . .

De Havilland Mosquito Yorkshire Air Museum Image Courtesy Google Images

De Havilland Mosquito
Yorkshire Air Museum
Image Courtesy Google Images

D: You are never up to any good.

A: Yes, I am. I’m up to researching-good.

D: Researching-good? Never mind your abhorrent abuse of words, I thought this was going to be about resolutions.

A: Yeah, that ship could have docked last week. If it had, I was going to mention something about organization, staying tuned because the blog is about to have a baby sister called “author website,” please don’t mind our dust as we reorganize, and that whole thing about only posting on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays (I mean it this time). As it was, that ship found incredibly cold waters, had to take a detour around the Rock of Hibernation and has since sailed.

D: You are taking that metaphor much further than it ever needed to go.

A: Yep, where no man, woman –

D: Or character –

A: Has gone before.

D: Hyperbole, too.

A: I aim to please.

D: Or distract.

A: Don’t look at the man behind the curtain, D.

D: You are a man?

A: (Eye-roll). No. No, I’m not, but thank you, D. That, again, was a figure of speech.

D: Pardon me for being a seventh-century Pict (you know that is not what we called ourselves, right?)

A: (Yes, but no one has determined what exactly it was you called yourselves, so I’m going with Pict for the mo, ‘k?)

D: (Was that English?)

A: (Nope). Anyway, writing Book 2 to completion and drafting all of the Catherine books is my first resolution of the year, and organization is my second. My third is research. Hence, researching-good.

D: Any research in particular?

A: At the moment, anything on Pathfinder Group 8, Squadron 109 and the Battle of Berlin, specifically the attack on Nuremberg on March 30, 1944. I took one look at the Mosquito planes and knew that was the plane Patrick O’Malley and James McAndrew flew.

D: Oh, you’re going there. Oh, joy. I thought you were waiting until my story to tell that part of the tale.

A: Try to contain your excitement, D. I was going to wait, and then I realized I needed to know why you were kicked out of Faerie. The readers will need to know, too. They need to know what the kids are up against. It eases the transition between the first book and the second book. I’m excited.

D: Or you just thought the Mosquito plane looked ‘really cool’ and you wanted to write about it.

A: . . .

D: Don’t deny it. I heard you.

A: Okay, fine. I’m not denying it. But, considering I know nothing about planes (besides wanting to fly one), or WWII (beyond the basics) I was actually hoping to postpone the research, but I just can’t. So, off to the library I go!

D: Can I make one request?

A: Yes?

D: Don’t turn me into Captain Jack. I know you have been watching an awful lot of Torchwood lately, and I’m a bit concerned . . .

A: I would never!

D: . . .

A: His name starts with a J, and your alias’ all start with a D. Any other similarities between you are coincidence.

D: (Mutter, grumble) Bloody woman.

A: Cheers, D!

With that, I’m off to the library – tomorrow, when it’s not below 0° Fahrenheit! Wish me luck! Good night, folks!

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Gods do swear

Gods do swear,

I had years,

Of stolen breath.

Living trouble?

Wrong.

Living god.

D: A, A, why are you doing this to me?

A: Doing what?

D: Torturing me!

A: Thanks for the support, D.

D: You are the first person to admit you’re not really made for this sort of thing. I mean, there’s that up there and then there was the response to Dean’s September 1 prompt at the Community Storyboard. It really must end.

A: I know D, but I’m trying to learn.

D: . . .

A: Fine. Put it this way, you are made for this sort of thing and you fail, on many occasions, to impart your wisdom. What is the point of having a centuries-old Druid camped out in your brain if he won’t teach you how to turn a bit of prose now and again?

D: Job security?

A: D! You are a Druid – you are a born tale-teller, a master at words, an orator and mystic. I can do an okay limerick.

D: Sometimes.

A: Exactly.

D: I still don’t get it.

A: (Sigh) You’re a 7th century Pict. They had a written language, but much of their histories and stories were told through song and oratorical extravaganzas. Since the next two books spend a fair chunk of time in the 7th century, it would behoove me to at least be able to give a few lines here and there of your mastery.

D: Ha, you said I had mastery.

A: D, pay attention.

D: (snicker) I have mastery!

A: D!!

D: Okay, fine. Do I understand you correctly in that you would like to learn how to write a stylized oratory extravaganza in order to do my mastery justice?

A: I don’t know why I even try talking to you some days.

D: Because I have mastery.

A: (Eye roll) Fine. Yes. I want to learn. You’re the one who plopped the Ballad of Dubhshìth and Mairead in my lap at the last minute (name changer!) and I want to do it justice. At least, I want to fake well enough so you sound marginally eloquent.

D: Oh! So now I’m eloquent and masterful.

A: Someone shoot me.

The Druid Tells the Tale

D: Because I’m masterful.

A: I take that back – can someone shoot the Druid?

D: Oi, I’m talking here!

I criticize A all the time. Of course, it is rare that she listens to me, which is why you have this blog. If you have an eagle-eye for detail and would like to be told the truth of your own work, check out Diamonds or Dust, an unbiased critique group for serious writers.

A: There is so much fun at the Community Storyboard, but please check out the first-ever, CSB chain-story event, Squirrels: This Time Its Personal. Each episode just gets better and better.

D: In case you didn’t see it the first time, Ionia Martin, Queen of Readful Things and all of us, her minions, beat cancer. Can we give the lady the biggest hug the blogosphere has ever seen? Please? Tell her the Druid sent you.

A: D – I think Ionia might like this:

D: . . .

A: She said something about a pole dancing, and I’m just wondering if this is what happened after.

D: You mock me, but I am sill masterful.

A: I’ve created a monster.

Speaking of Ionia and Queenlieness, Part 2 of the Query Letter Series is now available. This post series is helpful, to the point, and takes a lot of the fear out of creating something an editor or an agent – or rather, their hapless assistants – might want to read and (gasp!) respond to in a positive fashion!

D: Speaking of which. . .

A: Editing, D. Editing.

D: So you say . . .

Since A is editing, take your fill from a published writer, a one Charles Yallowitz, Scribe of Windemere, whose work “Sari Fairy Tale” is available for view at wePoets Show It.

What was the wackiest thing (to you) that you learned to do in order to write a story, get a job, or do that thing that you’ve wanted to do so learning to walk on your hands backwards really didn’t seem so wacky after all??

 

The Billy the Kid and D Files

They were found on a roadside, deep in the Nevada desert. Part of a cache of documents obviously intended for a secure location, the files have been kept secret until today. Their earth-shattering contents will amaze, possibly frighten and answer the question: what happens when an infamous Old West gunslinger and a centuries-old time-travelling Druid meet up?

 Chaos. Card games. Drinking. And chaos.

Part 1: Introductions

Billy: D! D? Where are you, Partner?

D: I am… trying to angle myself around herself over here as she eats and types. And the Romans considered my people to be barbarians.

Billy: I know my Ma never used to let me eat and talk. I’d be backhanded for sure! Or bonked on the head with her old wooden spoon!

D: You are speaking my language, Billy. These (what do you call it A? A: First world? D: That’s it.) These First World Europeans and their American cousins don’t know what life is truly like. Plus, they have no manners.

Billy: I know exactly what you mean. Anyway, I think I do. I don’t know a lot about history, but I do love to read. Maybe one day you’ll loan me a book from your time. Well, I’m assumin’ that you’re from a different time than I am, anyway. Earlier than the 1800s, I’d bet.

D: I am – I was born in 667 AD … a good 1100 years before you, Billy! But your world and my world really aren’t that different. That’s why I love the Old West. It was the last time men did battle with the elements, rode on horseback and counted their livelihood through cattle. I never did get a chance to spend much time in the American west during my travels through time, but when I read about it… well, it reminds me of home. We counted our fortunes in the number of cattle we had. And my family – my clan – was wealthy in land and cattle. Never did get to lasso one, though – Sigh.

Oh, and I’ll hunt up a scroll for you – my people didn’t write much – no written language (Except for my mother, but that’s a whole other story!), but other cultures wrote about us. We scared the Romans and the Vikings fled before us, for a time, anyway! What about you, Billy – I’ve heard all sorts of tales about you – sometimes written by people who weren’t always too kind in their words!

cowboy-hatBilly: Thanks D, I’m not sure what a scroll is, but thanks! You sound like you come from a great place. The forefathers of cowboys and outlaws. That makes it an honor for me to know you, partner. And about me, well, there’s some who love me and some who hate me. Some look at me as an old west Robin Hood. But others have argued that I was nothing more than a bloodthirsty monster. I cannot say I have a heart of gold, but I didn’t kill for fun. Yes, I stole more than my share of money and cattle, and even some right nice horse flesh. But I never took anything from people who couldn’t live without it. I just couldn’t steal from the mouths of motherless youngsters, or take the only means of transportation from a lonely widow woman. Some say I had a streak of meanness a mile wide in me, but I don’t. That’s not to say I won’t fight for what’s mine and protect those that I love.

D: I think that goes a long with living a full life and having your name remembered well past your death, Billy. I think those that call you infamous are just jealous! Tell me, do you have a favorite heist? One that really sticks in your memory? And how does Briana feel about your adventures? A never tires giving her opinion when she’s writing mine.

Billy: I suppose you’re right. But I must say, I’ve always liked having and ‘infamous reputation’. It has a nice ring to it. And I have a memory that comes to mind right away. It wasn’t a heist, but an escape. It’s the greatest escape I ever made. I’d been sentenced to die, and only two weeks before I was to make my last walk through freedom and end at the gallows, I made the most glorious escape in all my history. But even that memory has a sour note. I had to kill a man who I thought of as my friend. He was the kindest lawman I’d even known. *sigh*

Briana: I love Billy. Really I do. If I’d lived during his time, I’d have hunted him down and–

A: Oooh!

D:A, get your mind out of the gutter!

Billy: Briana, please. I am trying to talk to my friend. You hardly ever let me out of this place and I do still like to have fun. My land! D! Can you believe these women???

D: They’re terrible! I’m all for equal rights (you’ve never seen terror until you’ve seen Celtic women fighting beside their men in battle), but these two are beyond decency.

I like your infamous reputation too, Billy – but I’ll fight any man who says you have a meanness. *You* didn’t make fun of my spurs. I’m sorry about your friend, though. Those are tough choices to have to make. I’ve watched men – friends – die. Sometimes I was the cause, and others – well, they were bloody and lawless times too. Who do you consider the biggest outlaw of your time? Who were your biggest rivals?

Billy: D, I won’t lie to you. I thought you looked just dandy! And your spurs were the best part! I had me a pair like those, back when I lived in Texas. They were about the niftiest gadgets ever invented. And actually, I don’t mean to sound vain, between the years of 1878 and 1881, I was the biggest outlaw out there. Everyone wanted me dead. And of course, Sheriff Pat Garrett was my worst rival. He would lead to my undoing, one way or another. And ah yes. It is the loveliest of all visions when the woman you love fights by your side. Speaking of, it is a good thing I brought a friend with me. D, I’d like you to meet my girl. This is Angel. Angel, this is my pal D.

Angel: Howdy. Nice hat you have there, Cowboy.

D: Did you hear that, A – he called me his pal and said the spurs were fine.

A: D . . . focus, D. There’s a pretty girl – kiss her hand or do something druidy…

D: Druidy?

A: You know what I mean.

D: *blushes* Why thank you, Ms. Angel. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

Angel: The pleasure is all mine, Good Sir. Billy has told me ever so much about you. All very good things, of course.

Billy: *chuckles* This is the girl Pat Garrett tried to take from me.

D: Thank you, Ms. Angel – Billy! She’s divine. I can see why the Sheriff was keen to steal her from you! Tell me, was it a rousing adventure? How did you get away?!

Billy: I’m afraid that is a tale for another day, D. Briana’s telling me we have to step aside now. Care to continue this later, partner?

D: Do I ever, Billy! I’ll see you soon.

Read The Billy the Kid and D Files, Part 2

Find out more about Billy and Briana at her blog, When I Became an Author.

Wondering how D and Billy met? It all started when A decided to go on hiatus

Sunday . . . bloody Sunday

D: Do we have a problem with Sundays?

A: Yes, they’re always followed by a Monday.

D: And are you not ready for Monday?

A: D, no one is ever ready for Monday.

D: Are you getting a little existential on me, A? Do we need to go back and have a little chat with Camus?

A: Loved that book, said that Meursault was Christ in my paper on it, and no.

D: Moving right along. Is this the only reason you’re cursing out Sunday?

A: Um, how about my vicious sunburn?

D: Oh boy . . . you do know that the scientists of this world have a lovely invention called sunscreen.

A: You sound like TC. Stop it.

D: And yet it still stands.

A: I wanted a bit of color.

D: A, you’re Irish. Flesh tone is color for you.

A: Says the Pict.

D: I know from pale, A.

A: Point taken.

D: So, you’re sunburned and you r weekend is nearly over – any more invectives to throw at Sunday’s head?

A: No, not really. It was just a long slog of a day, but it had great rewards. I accomplished three out of four goals I set for myself last week.

D: Do tell, A – I’m breathless with anticipation.

A: Snark will get you anywhere, D! I dusted off the treadmill (and used it!). I filled in and was able to erase all those (Figure out what you’re talking about, lady) tags in part 2, which clocked in at 26,199 words –

D: So we’re already over 50,000?

A: Yes, but Parts 3 and 4 shouldn’t be more than 30k combined. There’s always the editing rounds to get rid of fluff, too D.

D: I know, and forgive me if I feel that you’d need no less than 100,000 words to do justice to my greatness.

A: Really?

D: It’s one hell of a story, A.

A: Uh huh.

D: Honest.

A: I think I just heard my fingers scream in agony.

D: I think that’s your sunburn. Speaking of Part 3 . . .

A: That’s the other goal I managed to accomplish – Part 3 has it’s first outline.

D: Dare I ask?

A: Ah, go on.

D: What does this outline say, A? I peeked over your shoulder and I’m a bit concerned.

A: Why? I was kinda proud of it myself:

  1.  Captured – Dubh gone, Maureen spastic, Sean slaps her
  2. Breakout –Dubh is rescued, Sean and Maureen are SOL
  3. The Interview – Nuada grandstands; remember monologues are cliche.
  4. Revolution
  5. Revelation
  6. Big Boom
  7. Even Bigger Problems

D: That’s it, keywords?

A: And the start of everyone’s emotional state for each section – I found that very helpful in making sure the arguing from Part 2 didn’t get out of hand. Besides I thought you’d be happy – there are at least two opportunities for you to indulge your love of smoke bombs.

D: I did see that. Thank you, A.

A: I do what I can. Oh, and before you ask: editing.

D: Editing?

A: This week’s goal: Editing.

D: That’s it?

A: I think chocolate might find its way on there, too

D: In conjunction with the treadmill?

A: Maybe.

The Druid Tells the Tale
A has yet to make any changes to this site because she is a lazy, no good—

A: Oi, Druid! Knock it off!

D: Killjoy.

Fine; she’s a busy lady and getting her to sit still long enough to complete a thought is a marvel. She hasn’t acknowledged any awards yet, so I’m going to do it for her. John W. Howell at Fiction Favorites has nominated us for the Always Here if you Need Me Award. In addition, Olivia Stocum  and Briana Vested  have nominated us for the Liebster Award. There are others, but A was lax in recording what they were, the horrible wench. There will be a full post presently, in which everyone will be lauded in full. In the meantime, however, thank you most kindly for reading, nominating and sharing the … what is this called (blogosphere) ah, yes, the blogosphere love.

. . . And Introducing: A invites Audience Participation

D: Really A?

A: Do I bug you during your Tale-telling?

D: Yes.

A: . . . Fine. Regardless, I would like to engage people a little and get some feedback. I have been blessed with some very astute, knowledgeable and charming readers and I’d like to know what you think of serializing a novel.

If Part 3 defies my expectations (and everything about my return to the writing world has defied them), I’m looking at a nearly 100,000 word young adult novel. It needs some paring (try a butcher knife – can it, D), but ever since I wrapped up Part 1, I’ve been thinking about serializing the first book. Each part comes in at a fairly respectable 25K words, and are complete stories in of themselves. It was initially written this way – to be published as independent novellas that could form a nice little collection. I abandoned that idea when I realized that it had a second and then third story (you’re welcome).

So, those who know, what do you think of a sterilized novel in today’s market, and today’s technology?

Life in the fast lane

“Why didn’t you stop her?”

The words touched the dread clawing at Sean’s throat. He couldn’t stop the tide of angry, panicky words. “I couldn’t! She clubbed Sir Nathan in the head! She’s helping them and she’s refusing to leave – she’s so deeply enmeshed in this that there is no talking to her, no reasoning with her.”

“Because you insist on using reason.” Dubh grabbed him by the shoulders. “This is not a reasonable war. These men and women are full of emotion and passion. They sing about martyrs and blood sacrifice. This is danger and love and Maureen is throwing all that she has at it. Use it; speak to her. You are stronger than this, boy.”

Sean spread his hands out in front of him, wishing they held some answer. Emotion? He had that, but Maureen was past listening. He’d lost his chance.

“No, you haven’t. You haven’t even begun to fight for her. I can’t do this, Sean. None of us belong here.”

Sean felt a finger of foreboding slide down his neck. All the questions he wanted to ask, like where Dubh had been the last two months, dried in his throat. Dubh was scared; even amidst Bingham’s men, Dubh had not shown fear.

D: 2 months? You let 2 months go by?

A: I let? You’re the one calling the shots, D.

D: I know, but 2 months?! No wonder.

A: They’re 15 – well, Sean is 16 now, but still, what did you expect?

D: (Bloody teenagers). Okay, so I may have allowed things to get out of hand, but how do you reckon it was 2 months?

A: Simple math that made my head kind of hurt because I took it too far. Did you know that because you spent a generation away from the hill that you spent 60 days in Tír na nÓg?

D: Wait, A. Slow down. You used math?

A: Yes. It hurt.

D: I can see that. Back to the two months . . . ?

A: Oh, yeah. 24 hours in Tír na nÓg equals about 6 months for us. I’d say you spent about six hours chatting and travelling when you visited Niamh. That puts you at 1.5 months, but then you still had to integrate yourself with the uprising and get your bearings. It’s an approximation.

D: I did not spend that much time chatting.

A: Then what were you up to, D?

D: You’ll find out.

A: I am not going to like this at all, am I?

D: You might. You seem to have an appreciation for the epic. You may even enjoy yourself.

A: That’s pushing it, Druid, and you know it.

D: Yes, but I can always hope, A.

A: You keep hoping and I’ll keep writing, how about that?

D: Can’t argue with you.

A&D: For once.
A’s telling the tale today, baby!

Slow down a little with Kate Shrewsday and vote for her to be a Penguin Wayfarer – then she gets to wander on foot across Britain. I recently discovered Kate’s page, thanks to Andra at the Accidental Cootchie Mama. Kate’s musings on her world make me smile. In order to help her realize her dream, click on the following link and vote for Kate (the only Kate on the page): http://www.ajourneyonfoot.com/  (Can we come, too? Not our journey, D. But I—I’m working on it, D. Between you and TC, if we don’t get over there eventually, I’m toast!).

D: Thunder stealer.

A: Do you have anything better, Druid?

D: No. I’m going to go mope in my corner.

A: You could always lurk back to your corner.

D: I refuse to dignify that with a response.

A: Cheer up, D. There’s always tomorrow.

Dark moon rising 6.6.13

D: A I don’t feel very good about this.

A: Superstitious? You?

D: Um, A – I traveled through time; discovered that the Tuatha Dé Danann were real, lived actual myths and created a few of my own. You have to ask?

A: I know, but it really isn’t anything – it’s not a full 666 and I don’t think 13 is unlucky. It has a 3! We like 3s.

D: And the dark face of the moon this week? That means nothing to you?

A: I like new moons. It’s a good time to shed your skin.

D: You defy reason, A. That is a whole lot of little things piling up into one great big thing. And you have a black cat.

A: Isis is about as threatening as a teddy bear, unless you don’t feed her. Then she’s likely to gnaw your face off in the night.

D: Did you feed her?

A: Um…

D: Ohmygodsweareallgoingtodie!

A: Hahahahahahahaha!

D: That is not funny, A.

A: Oh, yes it is, D.

A’s telling the tale today, Baby!

While D hides in the corner (I resent that!), I’m taking over the tale-telling. Don’t tell D, but I just made all that up. It was fun, too!

Here is some numerology on today for you, courtesy Matrix/Astrologyland; I think it’s’ lovely:

Today is a “9”.  A day to see the larger picture, think deeply and freely. Play in the realms of philosophy and spirit. It’s also a good day for travel and learning. It is a good day to enjoy poetry, music and the arts. Be tolerant of others.

D: You are a dirty, rotten liar, A. I’ll get you for this. (And my little dog too? You’re mocking me. Yup.) Congratulations are in order! A Room of His Own, A True Story of One Cat, on The Community Storyboard, has been Freshly Pressed. This is wonderful news. The story is touching and a beautiful example of the lengths we will go for our animals.

A: It’s Thursday! That means another installment of Harry Steinman’s Marketing/Self-Publishing Series at Readful Things Blog. Today, he discusses Kickstarter.

“If you want to protect them, protect what is left of that timeline. Make sure they are safe; hide them if you must. He will take action, and there are still some who will support him.”

She was giving him leave to go, but Dubh hesitated. He stood before the door and gazed back at her. Underneath her warnings, she was talking about revolution. Nuada was king, emperor, god of Tir na nOg, and there had been peace for a thousand years. There were rules governing the travelers, rules that had once been just. However, if what Niamh was saying was true, then perhaps it was time. If Nuada had sent Sean and Maureen to 1916 . . . well, then it was time.

A mark of distinction or distraction?

“. . . I had the idea before Eoghan reacted the way he did to your revelation – and between you and me, Maureen, we need to decide together if we’re going to announce that we’re time travelers. That kind of information could be dangerous to the wrong people.”

“Sean, they stopped burning witches over two hundred years ago.”

“Aye, right around the time they started putting people in insane asylums.”

Maureen rolled her eyes and grinned. “Go on, then.”

“Eoghan’s reaction confirmed it: Rockfleet is too small for someone like Dubh. Grace and her ilk don’t rule here; it’s not the port it once was. It’s a tiny village of fishermen and farmers, with the convent and the occasional French cyclist adding a bit of color. They all know each other – too well. He’d stick out. Christ, we’d stick out. Even here, we’re different; we’re strange.”

“And he’s even stranger. I don’t think he can hide the tattoos.”

Sean snorted and Maureen allowed the swaying cart to push her into his shoulder.

“Ah, but in Dublin…” she prompted.

“Aye, in Dublin, he’ll still stand out – you’re right about those tattoos – but not as much. He may have a better chance at reaching us there . . .”

D: Ah, that Maureen, she’s a canny one.

A: How’s that? It was Sean’s idea.

D: Both had the idea to go to Dublin, but they want to go for different reasons. Still makes me wonder . . . she might have been a firebrand on the battlefield.

A: D! Don’t make me change it.

D: Don’t worry, A. I’m just speculating on what might have been. She’s right about the tattoos, though. They were a bit of a distraction.

A: Well, not so much now.

D: A, when I stepped out of time, only military men and criminals had tattoos. It was a distraction. Of course, now everyone has them. Actually, reminds me a bit of home.

A: So would you have gotten Maureen a tat if you’d picked—

D: A! She’s a young woman! I know everyone now has tattoos, whether or not they’ve earned it, but I have my limits.

A: Um, D, your chauvinism is showing. I have tattoos.

D: . . . My point exactly. In my day, the tattoo was a part of your training, a mark of pride, learning, strength.

A: In your day . . . never mind. Each one of mine represents something too, D, and I wear them with pride. I can also hide them when I want to be a “ young lady.”

D: Ingenious. I tremble for mankind.

A: (Eye roll) Go back to your speculating, D. I have a story to write!

Storm warning

. . . Sean put his hand out, staying Maureen when she made to rise, whether it was to flee or face the noise, he wasn’t sure. Maureen grabbed his arm and jerked her head towards the altar. Behind it, he knew, was the sacristy where Father Rathborne and Sean’s fellow servers prepared for the mass. From that room was a door to the outside, and freedom. . .

A: You know, I was an altar girl once.

D: You? Ha! (Howling laughter . . . minutes pass . . . still more laughter).

A: D. D, you can stop that now. . . Oi, D!

D: I’m sorry, A. I am. I needed that. Thank you. That felt good.

A: I’m so glad.

D: Wait, no, not done . . . (more laughter).

A: D? Come back, D.

D: Okay, okay, I’m better. I am. Or n–

A: Knock it off, D.

D: I’m sorry, A. It’s just . . . well . . . do they allow people like you up there?

A: . . .

D: You’re a heathen, A. I was at least born to apostates and a learned Druid, but you . . . well, I think there was a lightning risk allowing you up there.

A: But I was nine. I think that’s before you’re lightning-fodder.

D: Seven is the age of accountability, A.

A: Oh.

D: You put the entire congregation at risk from a conflagration of God’s wrath.

A: You’re at risk from a conflagration, Druid.

D: Oh, come on, A, laugh with me. You’ll have fun. I promise.

A: Sigh.

. . . Sean realized that once he would have been aghast at using the sacristy as a means of escape, just as he had been horrified when Maureen suggested they search the tabernacle. But, considering they were sprawled in front of the altar, having just careened through time using some sort of supernatural gateway, Sean’s notion of sanctified was experiencing a radical shift. . .