What would you do for a Klondike bar?*
Nov. 3rd, 2014 12:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bending_sickleNovel Progress: Scene 2 done. At this rate, I'll be hitting 50,000 words and still be somewhere in the middle of the story.
Current Emotion: Praying for the Sweet Release of Death
They let her sit quietly until the water boiled and the tea steeped, the only one of the group hovering near her being the doctor. When he handed her a steaming cup, though, and she’d had a sip or two, the old man – Grandfather – materialized beside her. He was going for warm concern, but his eyes were as shrewd as ever.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” said Grace into her cup.
Grandfather tried again. “You gave us quite a fright.”
Grace blew on her cup and refused to answer, on account of being threatened with a dagger in the middle of the woods being more of a fright, to say nothing of feeling like she was torn apart at the seams. Something like that didn’t put a lass in the mood to humour anyone.
Except maybe Boots. Grace had once walked clean across town, in heels and blisters, a miniature chainsaw ravaging her insides, because Bertha had had a craving. And Grace hated bakeapples. If Bertha were here, she would humour the socks off her.
* Klondike
