And what I immediately picked up was that the nurse in her - trained as a healer - was also likely getting in the way of her ability to kill coldly, quickly or efficiently.

And let's face it, to a certain degree, women who were crack shots with small firearms during the Napoleanic Wars weren't really everyday.

And let's face it, to a certain degree, women who were crack shots with small firearms during the Napoleanic Wars weren't really everyday.

Yep. And I get annoyed after awhile at historical fiction where all the women, or at least all the heroic women, are total action heroes whose unconventional fathers made sure they could ride and shoot as well as any men. Because it's one thing to avoid stereotypes, but another thing entirely to avoid historical reality.

Because it's one thing to avoid stereotypes, but another thing entirely to avoid historical reality.

Exactly. THat's one reason why The Grand Sophy made me so happy (except for her letting her rampant Tory anti-semitism hold sway for a chapter): Sophy wasn't the norm, she wasn't a pretty little thing, she was a big tall butch freak, and not presented as your basic everyday "why yes, I've fought off bandits in the dusty Spanish hills, hasn't every girl?" type.

Driving home from Target today, I was walloped by a plot bunny with Clovis-like mind control powers. If I stay as excited about it as I am right now, it'll leapfrog everything else in the queue, and I'll start on it as soon as I'm finished with Anna. Without further ado, in keeping with this week's drabble theme, here's how I think it starts:

---------------

1799ish, Portsmouth

Elizabeth's teeth chattered a staccato rhythm, half from terror, half from cold. A steady drizzle fell, and the night was black but for the dim glow of lanterns shining from tavern windows or carried by better-prepared citizens.

Her boot settled in something slimy and malodorous, and she stumbled to her knees. She choked back a cry of pain, but not before four brawny, terrifying sailors on the other side of the street stopped and looked at her. Thank God she'd thought to steal her brother's clothes before she ran away--what would happen to a young woman in proper woman's clothes in a place like this at this time of night didn't bear thinking of.

"There's a likely one," the oldest and biggest of the sailors said, and they swarmed across the street toward her.

Oh God.

She'd forgotten all about the press gangs.

Susan! That's a great start!

Keep it up!

(sorry about excessive exclamation point usage)

Hi, Kristin!

This is one of those things where the basic premise and a few visual images hit me so strongly that it was all I could to not to run up to strangers in the street and tell them all about it. Just bubbling over with story.

I've actually done that. It's sad how they don't care.

(envying Susan the bubbling over-ness)

Xposted to LJ, here's a little something:

She passed her hands over the glass jar and murmured a word or two, and then picked up the container as though it was cool enough to handle. Niala was sure she saw stars move in the depths of the liquid, and smoke curl above its surface before the crone stoppered the neck of the jar tight with a carved wooden plug. For the first time, the old woman’s eyes met Niala’s.

“Seven drops, no more, no less,” she instructed, putting the jar into Niala’s hands. “Morning upon waking, night upon retiring. Seven days without fail, morning and night, seven drops each time.”

There's a bit more of it, but I pared it down as close as I could get to 100 words.

Ooo, Bev, I like.

I've liked so many of the drabbles, actually, and I haven't had any free time this week to explain why.

t hangs head

Intriguing, Bev.