Update: No observations today. I got none.

I just want to make a blanket statement of thanks to those of you who have continued to offer supportive words. Each day it’s getting more and more fun to tackle the writing, which is so much better than the pain of the first day. I think that this is because I’m just writing whatever comes into my head and hoping for the best and no longer stressing as to whether you all will think badly of my writing. It’s NaNo!!! 😀

In this passage, I’ve take up another of the suggestions offered by you all early on, this one from Anne, perhaps better known to you as HorseAddict. It may not have the darkness she intended, if she did indeed intend that. But really none of this is dark. Also, I think her suggestion might proliferate beyond the main character.

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah…DRAFT NOVEL! 😉 However, you may continue to stare as you would for a train wreck in real time.

Invitation: I have taken to heart as well as writing, all of your suggestions so far. If you have one, as long as it doesn’t involve beheadings or erotica, please write it in the comments.

Onwards, and thanks again!

Total word count: 8718

383 words ahead

You can read previous sections here.

Chapter Four

Out of habit I wake up at 6 am, and then lie there in the semi-darkness listening to the early morning mockingbird show off its vast range of trills and songs, hating the fact that I have no where to go. Maybe I’m taking defeat too easily. Heath Lawrence turned out to be a dead end, at least as far as being the one to make my soup go funny. After all, what could he possibly be? A warlock spy? Of course, because we know so many of them exist to go along with all of the warlocks I personally know, which equals exactly zero.

But there’s still the blond tower. I haven’t ruled him out yet. And I owe him a soup, right?

I throw back the covers and sit up, letting my decision pull me out of bed and self-pity. I’ll just go to the shop and make some soup and take him some. If he’s afraid to eat it, well then, that’s significant, right? If he refuses, it’s probably because he’s done something to it.

I frown before I turn the shower knob. Have I gone completely daft? How could he do anything to my soup? How could anyone do anything to my soup? I mean it’s not like witchcraft or spells or fairies really exist. Sure, everyone says my soup is magical, but they don’t really think it, do they? Are my soups magical?

I sit on the lid of the toilet and stare at the asparagus fern on the bathroom counter not expecting that it will give me any answers, because it never has before. Maybe I should go back to bed. Maybe this is all just a really bad dream that I’ll wake up from and discover that nothing’s changed, my soups are still marvelous, and I’m the hottest soup producer since the soup nazi, and life is good, and I didn’t fall out of mimosa tree, and there is no Heath Lawrence. I sigh. That’s an awful lot of intricate detail for a dream.

Twisting the knob of the shower, I watch as beads of water swirl down the pipe. Just like my life, going down the tubes.

I expect the shop to be empty when I arrive, but the smell of baking bread hits me as soon as I open the door. Rose looks up, pops out an ear bud and smiles.

“Good morning, lil sis. How are you this fine morning?”

“God, Rose, can’t you tone the happiness down a bit? Some of us have no reason to be so perky. And, why are you here?”

She presses some herbs into the dough she’s preparing. “I’ve got to be somewhere. If we don’t open, I’ll take the loaves over to Aunt Lea to sell in the bakery. . . To be honest, I didn’t think you’d come in, and I told Aunt Lea to expect them.” Rose looks a little ashamed to be telling me this.

I wave it off. “Not a problem. We’re not opening, but I am going to make some soup for that blond guy, Yuri.”

“The Russian spy?”

“Why do you call him a Russian spy?”

“Everyone calls him the Russian spy. Do you think it’s safe?”

I shrug and flash her a smile. I admit to knowing nothing anymore. The only thing I do know is that I want my life back.

Isla shows up as I’m sautéing onions and garlic. She places the box she’s brought in on the counter. “You do know that these are not enough root vegetables for lunch service.”

I nod. “I know. It’s lunch service for just a few. Do you all trust me enough to taste my soup?”

Isla and Rose exchange a glance that holds for long enough for me to realize that they are worried. I raise my palm. “You don’t have to.”

Isla swallows hard. “Not a problem.”

“We believe in you,” Rose says, and I can’t see her fingers to know whether she’s crossing them or not.

My sisters. Where would I be without them?

I roast the root vegetables until their sweetness permeates the air then I add them to the stockpot along with herbs and homemade vegetable broth. The scent is almost intoxicating.

“Do you believe in true love?” Isla asks.

Rose shrugs while I shake my head. “No such thing. No such thing as love at first sight either. Dreamy eyed writers made that stuff up.”

Isla frowns at me as she leans against the counter, her arms folded across her vintage Pearl Jam t-shirt that she stole from me. “Well, do you believe in spells?”

Rose nods while I guffaw. “Are you kidding? Like witchcraft? No way. Pure craziness.”

“But wouldn’t it be cool? I mean, like, if I said some words over your soup like you’ve always done. Let’s say, Sophie will fall head over heels in love with the next man she sees…”

I laugh. “No way.” I dip my spoon into the stockpot, retrieve a spoonful which I blow on before tasting the sweet creaminess of the roasted and mashed root vegetables. Roasted parsnips, you are divine! Oh, yes. I don’t need to add a thing. This soup with Rose’s rosemary bread would be ambrosia.

The back door swings open and in walks Yuri. The midday light casts him in a golden halo. How did I not notice how extremely handsome he was before? How those blue eyes are like exquisite aquamarine, or how his lips are carved into a bow?

“Yuri,” I murmur, and it sounds like a sigh.

He’s so magnetic. I feel myself drawn to him and cross the kitchen until I stand before him, gazing up into his implacable face and wondering why he doesn’t smile down upon me, why he doesn’t share his beauty with me.

“Yuri,” I say again and reach for the sleeve of his brown leather jacket.

He flicks my hand off as if it were a fly. “You called me here. Said it was something of life and death.”

“My life depends on you,” I say. I try to smile at him with all the charm I have. “Oh, Yuri.”

He glances at my sisters. “What’s going on here? Is this a joke of some kind?”

Isla and Rose look at each other and then advance, grabbing my arms and trying to pull me away from the subject of my desires. My desires. How is it possible I didn’t notice how handsome and virile he was from the moment I laid eyes on him? He is like the sun, the moon, all of the constellations of stars. I want to be with him for the rest of my days, dazzled by his greatness.

“You are like a Viking,” I say. “So strong. These muscles.”

“I’m Russian, not Scandinavian. Please don’t touch me again.”

“Are you not as attracted to me as I am to you?”

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end of Day 5