The typewriter is not particularly remarkable, in and of itself. Alan Eddings had picked it up second-hand decades ago; some of the keys stuck, it needed a bit of a thump to move back into place, and for reasons they'd never managed to figure out it always smelled vaguely like eucalyptus oil.

Then it had decided to make itself a bloody magical ( Read more... )

Winter in central means bitter cold; snow on the ground and frost in the mornings, pouring hot water over the front of the ute and swearing at it until it starts. Garath's thinking about what he could move out of the garage so he could goddamn use it and maybe spend less time tomorrow trying to get his truck started, boots crunching in the gravel ( Read more... )

When he gets home (it's past ten at night and he walks it up to the farmhouse, lets the cooler air clear his head), Lydia doesn't ask where he's been. She shifts to accommodate when he sprawls next to her in his jeans (they need a wash and he needs to remember not to wear them to bed), bare feet against the duvet that she's under, and waits for him ( Read more... )

( I'd picked up a few hints from the others that Belzedar and Belmakor had argued extensively when they'd reached the lands of the Tolnedrans. Belzedar, as second disciple, had assumed that he was in charge. Belmakor, borrowing my authority, had contested that, and Beldin had backed him. Belzedar was mightily offended, I guess, and he seemed to be looking for some way to get back at Belmakor for what he felt to be his humiliation. )