Ripples of Blaine Iridescence of a Raven

A Little Christmas Cheer: A Teaser from the World of Blaine As a thank you to my readers, here is a small glimpse into a moment of quiet reflection amidst the "Happy Chaos" of the families... "Happy Christmas," Gus said, kissing her cheek platonically. His blue eyes crinkled with a warmth that always made her feel safe, his brown hair ruffled by the winter wind. "Thank you," Dre replied with a thin smile, her own silvery hair catching the light like frost, her green eyes reflecting a mix of exhaustion and hope. "You're sure you're okay for a quick visit to the family before we head off to Wales?" he enquired. He knew how painful the first anniversary of Bridie's departure was. "Yes, of course," she agreed, hugging him tight. The drive to Ashbury House didn't take long now; the noise that greeted them was happy chaos. Manoeuvring through the cottage hallway and into the main lounge, they were met with a chorus of voices. ...

  Ripples of Blaine Everyone creates a ripple in the pool—a word, a deed, an action. We all make waves. The Blaines are integrated throughout these books, forming ripples in the still, limpid pools of green. My Mum, bless her, I miss her terribly, and it is this grief that has largely written this series. She once told me, "Eyes like limpid pools." She was a writer herself when we were children, spinning thousands of bedtime stories. "Well, what do you want me to tell you tonight?" she'd ask. My fondest memory was the tale of the moonbeam and its journey to Father Christmas. Naturally, I tried to walk on moonbeams after that. When she was ill, or sometimes even when she was well and we slept in separate rooms, she would call me by name, awakening me just to say, "Look at the moon out of my window." We often watched the moon climbing, climbing, through the Eucalyptus—a sentinel in the darkness that is now no more. Every action, every word, creates a r...

  Ripples of Blaine Iridescence of a Raven Her hair, the deep, shifting colour of a raven’s wing, framed a face so pale her smile felt empty.  Her eyes were a stormy, turbulent wash of turquoise and sea green, hinting at a flash of violet deep within their depths.  Quiet sobs shook her body, leaving faint tear stains on her cheeks, and her voice was reduced to a mere whisper.  Her skin was frail as tissue paper, delicate and blemished with the angry wheal marks of previous bindings on her hands, wrists, and feet.  Her satin white dress, muddied and torn by thorns and stony ground, was now marked with soot and the dark stain of blood.  As her fingers moved, she whispered silently to someone who clearly wasn't there.  She was an iridescent raven, beautiful but broken, her very flight curtailed and trapped.