Interesting Cornish Superstitions, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

A young adult haunted house story set in Nahant, Mass. Five stars from Long and Short Reviews! They were thrilled by the novella.

To purchase, click HERE Barnes and Noble, or for Amazon

I wrote many novels set in eighteenth century Cornwall and became fascinated with its myths. Two of them, Escape the Revolution and Hostage to the Revolution, were set on the wild northern coast. Cornwall covers the western region of England where tin mining was often the main occupation of the people. Many superstitions arose from this grueling work. 

Miners believed in gnomes called Knockers. They believed any strange noises in the mines were caused by the knockers, who warned of dangers to come, such as cave-ins. The knockers also caused mischief. The miners would leave them bits of their food to placate them.

The Cornish also believed in Piskies (Pixies). To avoid being tricked by the Piskies, they'd wear their clothes inside out to fool them. I'm not sure how that worked.

A scary belief was a Spriggan. They were small and ugly and they guarded treasure. If you angered one, they might kidnap your child and leave you a 'changeling'. This elf or troll might look like your child, but its demeanor would soon become strange.

Fishing was another important occupation in Cornwall. Fishermen would never count their catch. They'd chant over it first to keep the bad spirits at bay. You also could not mention the word 'rabbit' or 'minister', or whistle when onboard your boat, or it would cause you bad luck.

Giants are also part of Cornish myths. The children's story, Jack the Giant Killer is set in Cornwall. Might there be magic beans?

When my husband and I visited there the people were kind and open. And we didn't see one giant or gnome. They must have been hiding.

To find out more about me and my books.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Rough Travels in the Eighteenth Century, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

The sequel to "Escape the Revolution", to purchase "Hostage to the Revolution", click HERE (or scroll to the bottom)

In modern times we take travel for granted. We can fly around the world if we wish. But in the eighteenth century, it was a rough, often dangerous trip, where you didn't get very far in a day.

Enjoy the ride.

Writing novels set in this era, I had to take into account how far my characters could get from point A to B. Were there even roads where they wanted to go?

When my heroine sailed to New York in 1796, she found she had to take another ship to New Orleans as no roads existed to travel on land that far.

The foreign traveler to England usually came across the English Channel, a stormy and uncomfortable sail in raging water, when at last they rejoiced to see the white cliffs of Dover. 

Then they had to clear the Customs' House. Their person and luggage were thoroughly searched, and any precious items could be confiscated. The richer could bribe the customs men to let them pass easily.

Once onshore a group of bawds, pimps, and pickpockets waited to take advantage of them. The Englishmen considered foreigners suspicious; people who ate snails and disregarded good English beer.

The visitors might be lodged in noisy, dirty inns, waiting to secure a coach to other cities, especially London--eighty miles away. It would take up to twelve days to make the journey.

The rich could hire a carriage and horses, or a post-chaise, but the average traveler was forced to board a crowded coach. The poorer among them rode on top of the coach, suffering the wind and rain. Even the luggage basket at the rear might hold a passenger or two.

Bad roads could turn to mud, and bogs, and coaching accidents were frequent.

The stage-coaches were heavy and lumbering. And your fellow travelers might be smelly and loud. The ride would be jolting, especially before the 1750s when springs were introduced.

The traveler paid by the mile and was expected to tip the driver and guard; the awful trip could be expensive. The guard rode next to the driver and carried a shotgun, hence the term "I call shotgun." Highwaymen often watched who boarded and if they looked rich, they'd rob the coach out on the open road.

When the coach entered an inn yard, the roof passengers had to climb off or be knocked over by an archway. Staying at the coaching inns, men and women crowded in beds, sharing with strangers, and might come away with fleas or bedbugs.

A bill was introduced in Parliament in the 1780s to regulate how many passengers could be allowed to ride inside and on the coach roof. It didn't pass.

All in all, travel is much more convenient now. And hotels cleaner. But putting these details into my writing brings the story to life.

To find out more about me and my books.

                    

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Motivating your Characters By Connie Vines #Writing #Storytelling #Hero #Tropes

 The Art of Motivation 😕

Motivation (According to Wikipedia) is an internal state that propels individuals to engage in goal-directed behavior. It is often understood as a force that explains why people or other animals initiate, maintain, or terminate a particular behavior at a given time.  It is a complex phenomenon, and its precise definition is disputed...

In Connie's world, it means sitting down at her computer with a thermos filled with coffee...and talking to herself.

Every writer has his/her own system for producing a novel.

Some have grafts, charts posted on a wall, detailed notes, etc.

I have a tendency to become fixated on details (which is fine during revisions, but a problem during the first draft). 

Now, I interview my main characters. 

Lynx Maddox was a Texan and a bullrider. Q&A is like a radio/online format.

I ask questions, and fornatuely, Lynx had ready answers for me in his deep Texas dawl.

In Lynx's case, it was simple: Win a Rodeo Buckle, and because it's a contemporary romance, Win the Girl.

However, motivation, goal, and conflict are also part of a story...

Why is he motivated? What keeps his goal out of reach? And what about the girl? 

According to Debra Dixon (Goal, Motivation & Conflict), Goals should not be subtle. Get out the two-by-four and start wacking your reader over the head.

Since we are all familiar with the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy must get to the Emerald City. Second, she must get in to see the Wizard. Third, a broomstick.

I have notebooks and favorite pens. Before setting down to write my first draft, I conducted research. I have handwritten notes, dialogue, and scenes. The act of writing in cursive activates a creative area of the brain (the same area activated when playing a musical instrument). 

My notebook info and sensory details, etc., are not included until after I've completed my rough draft.  

When I first sit down, it's nuts-and-bolts.  

When my rough draft is completed, the characters begin to 'talk to me".

Reveal bits of their past. 

Some of my characters are sassy (Charlene/ Meredith). Others have overcome hardship (Rachel/Tay), and some are sexy heroes (Lynx, Brede, Vicktor, etc.). 

Goals: also motivate your characters.  

You can run, but you can't hide from goals.

Each character has a goal.

Goals must be important and urgent. 

Goals must be internal and external. (win the buckle/win the girl).

Character decisions must drive the plot.

Goals must be achieved by characters. (No magic wands, or it just happens.)  Yes, I know many popular books were based on coincidences.

 I, however, subscribe to Joseph Campbell's "Call to Adventure" (Hero with a Thousand Faces) and Christopher Vogler's "The Writer's Journey".

We all have our favorite reads :)

Name your favorite Hero/Heroine, your favorite book, and why you still remember the story.

Happy Reading!

Connie

Where to shop for my books/ ebooks?

There's a glitch in Amazon at the moment (Only my audio version of "Lynx" is available :( 

Barns & Noble, Apple Books, or your fave online book store.

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/brede-connie-vines/1115934010

 

Walking where my Character Walked, a visit to Cornwall, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

I became fascinated with Cornwall, England after reading books and watching movies set there. Situated at the western end of England, the region of Cornwall, with its Celtic culture, is its own country in many ways. They had their own language as well.

Poldark, by Winston Graham, is a famous series set on the wild northern coast of Cornwall. Graham's books are also a good source of eighteenth century lingo used by the inhabitants. 

My heroine flees France during the French Revolution, and ends up working in a bawdy tavern in this area while she tries to solve her father's murder and discover the whereabouts of her mother.

She soon finds she is pursued by rebels with sinister intentions.

"Simply brilliant," the Historical Novel Society.

To purchase, Escape the Revolution, please click HERE

Of course my husband and I needed to travel there to get a feeling for the place. On a rainy evening, driving on the left side of the road, during the worst rains in 400 years, our adventure began. 

We entered the village in the pitch black, where we had a cottage rented, traversing a narrow road with towering hedges.

The quaint cottage, called Coombe Cottage was perfect. A stone in the wide fireplace had the date 1750 etched into it. Here is a painting my friend, Christine Valenti, did of my husband in front of the cottage.

We walked the coastline where I set the tavern, down to Tintagel, where King Arthur supposedly had a castle, all in ruins now. We ate meat pasties, which miners took with them to eat down in the tin mines. Later, I loaded up on research books in a crowded Padstow bookstore.

Bettina, (Lisbette) my French heroine--the daughter of a count--is shown these places by the mysterious Everett Camborne. He is a man she is falling in love with, but dark rumors surround him.

She also learns to make the pasties, as she acclimates from her privileged life to one of the poorer classes. She learns to be self-sufficient and is proud of it.

We visited the grand estate of Lanhydrock, where I set another novel later on. It was too fancy for Everett's manor.

We walked down to Port Isaac, where the "Doc Martin" series is filmed, and where Everett takes Bettina.

I got a feel for the thrashing sea, the brisk air, the rocky land, and incorporated it into my novel. It adds the "senses" that make the words come alive.

Cornwall is full of quaint towns and beautiful, rugged landscapes. I made up the village of Sidwell where Bettina lives and Maddie's tavern thrives so I could use it as I wished. Bettina, at first determined to leave, finds a home here, and a man she loves. But more events await her, good and bad.

I want to mention we lost the woman who started BWL Publishing at the beginning of this month. Heartfelt condolences to her family and all of us at BWL We'll miss you, Jude.

Find out more about me and my books

                        

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund. 

The Mystery of Old Economy Village, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

A young adult haunted house story. Five stars from Long and Short Reviews! They were thrilled by the novella.

To purchase, click HERE

Today's post is about a visit I took with my husband and best friend to Old Economy Village, an historic site near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I hope you find it interesting.

The village was founded by German Lutheran separates in the 19th century. A sect that formed to create a utopian society, waiting for the second coming of the Messiah. 

Visitors can explore several historic buildings, original artifacts, and learn about their culture.

George Rapp led the group. He began preaching in his native Germany. When he split from the Lutheran Church he was banned from preaching. He called himself a prophet and defied the church. His subsequent persecution forced him to flee to the United States with his followers in 1803.

He preached celibacy to keep the group pure as they waited for the Messiah. They didn't believe in procreation, and that was their downfall. Pretty soon they died out.

Rapp died in the village in 1847

Here is my husband talking to our guide

The society was self-sufficient. A sawmill, tannery, distillery. We even took part in rope making. I can't find the picture I took of that.

They nurtured beautiful gardens and grew their own food.

Harmonist church-another society in Harmony, PA, founded by Rapp

They were nonviolent pacifists who refused to serve in the military. Following the literal teachings of the New Testament, as interpreted by Rapp, they believed Jesus would come again and a thousand years of peace would ensue. Their experiment failed.

Rapp was sometimes called a tyrant and was sued by former members for compensation, so not everything was peaceful.

The village is mostly intact and welcomes visitors. A fascinating excursion.

A recent storm sent a tree onto one of the buildings, crushing it. Sorry to hear that.

Find out more about me and my books

                                         

Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with one naughty Dachshund

Creative Living

                                                      Find my books here

Merika is a Greek word meaning creative spark. We all have it. It's part of what makes us human. 

Creative people lead creative lives. Most of my author friends have other creative passions that sometimes fed their writing lives. 

My friend Jodi is a caller for traditional New England dances. 

In addition to her wonderful books, my friend Juilene is an Irish Storyteller in the oral tradition. 

Friend and BWL author Eileen O'Finlan keeps a beautiful garden in her Massachusetts home.

Our readers have wonderful sparks of creativity, too. Roseanne creates beautiful table settings for her large family at holidays. Jeanie is a creative baker. David and his uncle Bill delight children with beautiful model train villages for our local historical society displays.

What are your satisfying creative pursuits, dear reader? How do you make our world more beautiful?

Will Luke Survive the Ruthless Oyster Police during the Potomac Oyster Wars? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To Purchase, click HERE

In 1956 the state of Virginia fought a war with Maryland over dredging oysters on the Potomac River. Maryland had their own Oyster Police Force, who shot at the Virginians.. Dredging ruined the oyster beds but collected more bounty. Here is a scene from my story where my protagonist Luke is involved in this illegal and dangerous business. Enjoy:

This is a fictionalized account of an event that actually happened:

Luke cringed and leaned over the port rail. Images were blurry in the mist, though the faint light of dawn appeared in the direction of the Chesapeake Bay. Miss Ann’s engine roared to life.

The two police boats closed in, pushing strong waves against Sally. Their boat rocked. Bobby and Frank shoved up on either side of Luke.

Miss Ann sped across the water toward Monroe Bay, the two police boats in pursuit.

At a noise in the sky, Luke stared up. “A seaplane, too?”

“Mama won’t like this,” Frank said, though didn’t sound scared.

“Virginia should have a plane,” Bobby groused. “We’re too timid.”

Jim grabbed his binoculars. “Hell, this looks bad.”

Gunfire exploded, shot after shot. Luke winced, though the shots were in the opposite direction, toward Miss Ann.

Captain Jim started their engine. They nosed out into the water. “We should find a safer place, or head to port.”

The Miss Ann careened back and forth over the waves in the glimmer of dawn like a combat maneuver.

“We might get in the line of fire,” Silas said. “Damn fool, Harvey. We should stay put.”

“I should have brought my pistol,” Frank said, breath rasping.

“I warned you about that.” Luke glared at the boy. “Silas is right, we could all be shot. Have some sense.”

“Shut up, Frank.” Bobby pushed on his cousin’s shoulder to force him to kneel. “Stay down. I hope Harvey blasts those bastards.”

Spray dampened Luke’s face and shoulders as he held onto the boat’s rail, balancing with the slap of the river. On shore, as the sky lightened further, the sun straining to shine through the murk, people gathered. They cheered for Harvey and cursed at the police.

Bullets flew. Luke and Bobby ducked beside Frank on the slimy deck. Jim navigated near the shore, toward a creek’s mouth they knew about. Up on the bank, tree trunks splintered, struck by gunfire.

Harvey careened around bars and in and out of coves, then he cut a hard turn as the seaplane lowered to the water’s surface. The Miss Ann revved, and Harvey steered her right at the plane.

“Oh, shoot,” Jim muttered. “He wouldn’t.”

In a splash of flying water, Harvey gunned his boat. The people on shore gasped. The seaplane lifted just as the Miss Ann swerved beneath her pontoons.

“He’s as insane as Bozo.” Luke gripped one hand to the port rail as he still kneeled.

A boat roared up behind them, lights flashing.

“We’re spotted.” Jim slipped Sally into the creek, amongst thicker foliage. Little sunlight had penetrated in there yet. The mist clung like a smoky curtain.

A sudden shift in water again, and a low engine sounded behind them. The police had followed! A spotlight lit up their boat. “Stay where you are!” a disembodied voice shouted. “We’re coming aboard to check your equipment.”

Luke cursed. He couldn't risk being arrested. He had a wife and young son to support. Their boat pushed into deeper shadows, scraping the starboard side.

“Dammit. Jump overboard. All of you.” Jim flicked his cigarette away. “I’ll take the heat.”

Find out more about me and my books

                                         

Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with one naughty Dachshund

Artificial Intelligence: the Good, Bad, & Ugly by Susan Calder

                                          For book and author information, go to Amazon

         A Killer Whisky is Book # 12 of BWL"S Canadian Historical Mystery Series

Every day I receive an email from a stranger wanting to feature one of my novels in their book club or promote the book in another way. I almost fell for the first email. It was well-written, contained specific details about my story, and analyzed it better than I could have done myself. I was sure the sender had read the book until later that day a similar email arrived from another stranger. Two new fans who loved my novel and wanted to help it get the recognition it deserved? This seemed too good to be true.   

Within days, I saw a Facebook post by an author who had received one of these effusive emails. This convinced me they were scams created by Artificial Intelligence. Not that I understood AI, but the emails were something beyond my previous experience. I deleted them both. 

From then on, I pressed "delete" without reading these kinds of emails. Quick deletion was possible because the first line of messages appears in my inbox and clues me in to the rest. So, this daily process wasn't too time consuming. Then variants appeared. Authors I didn't know wanted to connect with me as a fellow writer. A few were famous, like "Margret Atwood." Fortunately, I knew the real Atwood spells her first name "Margaret." 

The most recent variant came from "Kaela" who said she'd tried to post a review of my novel A Killer Whisky on Amazon but her review was rejected, so she asked for my Goodreads link to post a review there. Her story was plausible as I know many people who've been unable to post Amazon reviews, but why would she need my Goodreads link? While I was suspicious, I wrote back advising her to search for me on Goodreads. Meanwhile, a second person (I'll call him Jake) emailed me with the same review issues.  

"Kaela" replied with an attachment of the Goodreads review she'd posted. I went directly to the Goodreads site and her review was there! Was this really legitimate? I sent "Jake" my same reply, suggesting he search for me on Goodreads. I also thanked "Kaela" for her review. Then -- big mistake -- I decided to copy her rave review for my records and clicked on her attachment. Seconds later, alarms shrilled on my computer. A voice blared "Your IP address is stolen!" My computer mouse didn't work. I think the voice told me NOT to shut down my computer, but this is exactly what you should do in that situation. It worked. When I turned my computer back on, all was normal with no apparent damage done.   

"Jake" had now replied. I was curious to see what he'd said and assumed my computer would be safe if I didn't open any attachments or click on links. I opened his email and the alarm instantly blared because he had embedded his review in the email message. Curse you "Jake" for fooling me a second time. 

"Kaela" replied to my thank-you note with a message that began, "Susan, you're very welcome! It truly was my pleasure to read and review ..." I was too afraid to open her email for fear of crashing my computer, but I pinned the email to the top of my inbox in case I had the nerve (or foolishness) to see what she had said.  

Writers who've responded to these scam emails say that, once they rope you in, they ask for money to fund the project they'll set up for your awesome book. Some direct you to websites that look legit but turn out to be phony. The individual amounts requested aren't enormous, but if a percentage of the targeted authors sends money, presumably the accumulated amount is worth the scammer's effort. 

Like all scams, they appeal to the target's weakness. In this case, it's every writers' longing for their hard-earned work to reach and be appreciated by readers.         

Sadder still, these scam emails have made me suspicious of every unexpected email related to my writing. In the past, I've enjoyed engaging with readers this way, and some were strangers with genuine interest. I can't even fully trust emails of this type from people I know because email addresses can be stolen. Along the way, I'll probably delete an opportunity that is actually real. 

So far, this post has been all about the Bad & Ugly of Artificial Intelligence, but the Good exists. For the past 13 years, I've exchanged letters with a relative in the Czech Republic. Neither of us speaks the other's language. I compose my letters in English, plug them into Google Translate, and send her the Czech translation. I've suggested she do the same, but she continues to handwrite me letters in Czech. I tried typing them on Google translate, but it doesn't work because every second Czech word has an accent. Over the years, I've scrambled to find people to translate her letters, but now, thanks to AI, I photographed her last letter, uploaded it to ChatGPT, and got a good translation. 

I'm sure Artificial Intelligence has hundreds of other useful applications, and I can see a great potential for medical diagnoses and treatment programs. Every innovation comes with the good, bad, & ugly.

Today, in the name of research for this blog post, I opened "Kaela's" latest email on my old computer. No alarms went off. My computer didn't freeze. "Kaela's" friendly message continued with an offer to introduce me to Book Cafe to promote my novel that touched her deeply. She signed off with a casual, "Would you like more details?"

I deleted her but almost feel we had a relationship. Creepy, but maybe in the future we'll all have AI friends. Is this a huge leap from Facebook and other online friendships?  

I also checked my novel's reviews on the Goodreads site. "Kaela's" rave review is gone. Drat!

On the Loss of a Muse by Eileen O'Finlan

 

                              

Click here for purchase information

Click here to shop from BWL Publishing

On Friday, January 16, 2026, my muse passed away. She was 17 years old, calico, and very fluffy. Her name was Autumn Amelia. She was a gorgeous Maine Coon mix. As anyone who knows cats well can attest, they are excellent at hiding illness and pain. I knew she was slowing down. That wasn't surprising. She'd been considered a "senior cat" by the vet for several years. She'd also been on medication for hyperthyroidism for several years, too. However, it did take me by surprise to find out at her December vet appointment that her liver and white blood cell counts were way off. The vet thought it might a side effect from her thyroid medication and suggested taking her off it for a month and rechecking her bloodwork. If her liver and white cell counts were headed back to normal, we'd know that  was the cause.

A few days before her next appointment, I could tell she was very sick, so I called the vet. They had me bring her in that afternoon. A recheck of her bloodwork showed that not only had her liver and white cell count not improved, but they had dramatically worsened. The vet was certain she had liver cancer and, given how quickly things had gone downhill along with her current condition, felt that she probably only had a few days left. Not wanting her to suffer any longer, I asked the vet to euthanize her. I held her in my arms, told her how much I loved her and what a special cat she'd been. I reminded her that she would live on in the Cat Tales books, and I asked her to send me the next kitties that needed a loving forever home. She left this world peacefully in my arms, soaked with my tears.

Autumn Amelia used to live with me along with a beautiful Russian Blue cat named Smokey. They were the inspiration for All the Furs and Feathers, a novel I wrote while home from work for a month recovering from a major surgery. Smokey passed away just as that book was being completed. My mom, who had been living with me, went into a nursing home due to advancing dementia one month later. She would pass away within three years.

Autumn and I were on our own ever since. We shared a home and a life. She was a great source of love, affection, amusement, and inspiration. She was always with me while I was writing, laying next to (or on top of) my keyboard. I called her my muse for that's what she was. My beautiful, magical muse. She celebrated with me when the second Cat Tales book, All in the Furry Family, was released. I bought cat "wine" for her and we toasted the unboxing of the new books when they arrived. 

She was a regular fixture at the writing group that meets at my house every Wednesday evening. They will all miss her, too.

Autumn and Smokey are the main characters in the Cat Tales series books. Their characters are based on their personalities. Many of their antics in the books were true to life including Smokey's zoomies before a storm and Autumn's penchant for stealing food. Autumn really did take apart my humidifier and eat the charcoal filter when she was a kitten and she really did have a pirate ship that she adored just like in the books.

The Cat Tales series will continue. I have the basic idea for the next book in my head now. Smokey and Autumn Amelia will return with all their furry and feathered friends. 

Autumn Amelia and Smokey

And in the next book, they will have two new friends because Autumn and Smokey completed their assignment very quickly and sent me two new kitties to help heal my broken heart. Zachary and Josette are brother and sister orange cats who are now living with me. I have had one cat or another since I was six years old and simply could not stand being without one. They came from a local shelter and now have a forever home where they will be loved and pampered for the rest of their lives. They will also become characters. I need to finish the paranormal book I'm writing now before I can start on the next Cat Tales book, but that will give me plenty of time to get to know Zach and Josette so that their personalities can shine through in the next story.

Rest in peace my precious Autumn Amelia. Thank you for your wonderful inspiration and for sending me these two new babies to love.

   

                            Zach                                                                            Josette

Norah resists her forbidden attraction to the German Major in war-torn France, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase, click HERE

I wrote this novel after watching a tv show about the German occupation during WWII. What if a young Englishwoman is trapped in France after the Germans invade and she must ask for help from the Commandant. She finds he's not at all who she thought he was, and a dangerous attraction develops. I hope you enjoy reading an excerpt.

Norah walked stiffly in, her courage waning, but her resolve anchored. She’d never been in this office before. And now with the Germans in charge, changing everything—and a child’s fate in her hands.

Major von Gottlieb stood behind his desk, tall and imposing, his expression curious. “What can I do for you, Fräulein Cooper?”

“My young cousin did something foolish, but he’s only a child.” She rubbed her knuckle along her collarbone and explained what happened in barely controlled words. “Please, don’t let anyone hurt him. He’s ten years old, and impulsive.” Tears dampened her eyes, despite her effort to appear tenacious. “Release him to his mother. It’s all a mistake.”

She saw the Major’s gaze change from surprised to concerned.

“Extraordinary. I will investigate at once. Wait here, Fräulein.” The Major thrust on his hat and indicated the chair in front of the desk. He marched from the room and shut the door. She heard strong words exchanged in German, the shuffle of feet.

Norah sank into the leather seat, unsure what to do. Her heart beat so fast, her chest ached. She glanced about the office. A picture of Hitler on the wall made her cringe. On a glass-fronted bookcase full of books was a smaller picture of a woman. Broad-faced but attractive. The Major’s wife?

Mahogany furniture filled the cramped room. The desk was neat, with a tan leather inlay. The room smelled pleasant, of lemon oil. She tried to balance herself as her mind spun.

A small table held a partially finished jigsaw puzzle. She stood to see what it was, to distract her upset.

The door opened behind her. She nearly jumped.

The Major strode in, his gaze fixed on her. He removed his hat. “Fräulein, it’s been taken care of. The child is being escorted to his mother as we speak.”

She pressed her hand to her breast, almost swaying. “Thank you. I’m so relieved.”

“Warn him he should not be so impulsive. It’s dangerous.” Without his hat, she saw the Commandant’s hair was sandy-colored, almost golden, a wave over his high forehead. He had a strong cleft chin.

“I will, I promise.” Her words came out too breathy. She still believed it unfair the villagers hadn’t access to their own coast, but she couldn’t allow her resentment to show.

“It seems a problem in your family, this impulsiveness. You should not have been dancing before the cottage the other night either.” He raised an eyebrow, but the glint in his eyes was somehow a challenge. “The soldiers notice these things.”

Her cheeks burned. Had he watched her dance? “You’re right. It won’t happen again. I’ll restrict my dances to the rear garden.”

“Good. See that you do. I’m only trying to keep you out of mischief, if that is possible.” His tone wasn’t harsh, his glance almost teasing.

“I must go and see how my cousins are.” Norah inched toward the door. She should have asked about Mr. Kerguelen, what happened to him? But wouldn’t push her luck. “Thank you, again. I’ll try not to be such a problem.”

“You’re welcome. Be warned to follow the rules no matter how you might object. Guten tag, Fräulein.” He bowed his head for an instant, like an aristocrat in a play. He smiled wryly. “Yet I imagine this won’t be our last meeting.”

Norah blinked then left the office and hurried across the square.

Was Jean home already? Surely the Major hadn’t lied to her. He seemed a gentleman. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. What a bizarre thing to think about a Nazi commandant. What sort of man would follow the dictates of a tyrant like Hitler?

Find out more about me and my books

                              

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.