Although it was not a year for getting down a big chunk of progress on one individual project, I did make tiny bits of progress on several. It doesn’t seem like a terrible lot to me, but at least it’s enough to give you a very tiny taste of snippets from each one. I’d love to hear which story appeals to you the most…and no doubt it will be whichever one I’m least in the mood to work on. Take bets on which one I’m likeliest to finish first, if you like—at the present moment I haven’t the faintest idea which that will be!

(Technically, The Summer Country is finished; it just needs a round of edits, and I’m still considering different options for publication. The other two still have a lot of drafting to go.)

The Summer Country

{middle-grade novel: historical fantasy}

“If you meant to catch the 8:15,” said the Gentleman Traveler, holding up his watch, “you had exactly fourteen hours and fifteen minutes since the six o’clock train last night to do it in. And you were still late.”

“Gracious goodness, my dear man, I wasn’t trying to catch the 8:15!” said the Lady with the Map, putting it away in her handbag (the map, that is).

*

Milly answered the door, and when she saw Anne she did not say “Walk in, please, miss,” as she probably should have, but uttered an astonished “Well, I declare!” Milly had never been very good at answering the door properly, and since so few real guests rang the doorbell at Uncle Timothy’s she had gotten even more out of practice.

*

Peggy sat down on the edge of his wheelbarrow and watched him for a minute, studying his battered hat and his big boots with the fresh soil always on them, and his weathered hands handling the spade. It was all so exactly like what she had been told that Peggy felt he must know something; he must know the secret of what puzzled her. So when presently he turned and his keen, kind eyes met hers, she spoke what she was thinking without it seeming at all strange. “I wonder, are you really the Gardener?”

The City of the Great King

{novel: Ruritanian}

“Dear Julian,” ran the microscopic note in Phyllida’s inky curlicued handwriting. “I am giving a very elegant, very intellectual little dinner this week, and one of my less important guests has cried off at the last minute. Do come and fill his place so I don’t have to rearrange my table.”

*

“I don’t fancy Schaldorf much,” observed Kinzelmann. “Cold sort of climate—dodgy company. And their vintage is sour.”

*

Deep down Matthias knew that Isabel would not be Isabel were it not for her honesty and her principle, but he had always been a little too serene in imagining that they would always agree, as they had always agreed heretofore, and that he would never do anything that Isabel might criticize. It always seems a little unfair to have cold water poured on you by the person you have paid the very great honor of admiring and holding in high esteem.

Last Ride at the Lazy G

{novel: historical mystery}

For half a minute, listening to the sizzle of frying eggs on the stove and seeing the patterns the morning light made on the floor, Rusty felt absolutely nothing. It was like the few seconds of perfect silence before a bomb made impact. Then the hollow feeling in his gut told him that yes, he had actually heard the words. He stared at his father, who met his look fairly now with concerned, heavy-browed eyes. “Sold?” he said.

“You mean you didn’t know?”

“You thought I did?” Rusty was still at sea, but with the futile clenching of hurt and anger a hard knot under his breastbone.

*

Mrs. MacIntyre’s voice turned warm and friendly. “Rusty! How good to hear your voice again! When did you get home?”

“Yesterday afternoon.” Too soon to call? Not soon enough? Come on, Gregory, get a grip on yourself. It was sometimes useful to think in his sergeant’s voice. “Is Janice there?”

*

The sun edged above the eastern hills and the pasture streamed with gold. For a while they rode without speaking, soaking in the sights and sounds of morning, their horses moving at a slow jingling trot. Rusty glanced at the amateur helpers; Judy Price’s shining face and Nicky Sheridan’s straight back and eager scanning of the landscape showed that this was high adventure to them. Jack Vaughn, trailing in the rear, sat his horse casually and whistled sporadically, scraps of no tune in particular that were like off-key echoes of the birds trilling from trees and thickets.