Got up bright an early, went outside and worked in the yard for a few hours, before the heat and humidity knocked me out.
After a shower and a few more cups of coffee, I switched to ice water and hit the keyboard running.
Oops. Sat staring at the screen. Gee, that’s strange.
I don’t ever suffer from writer’s block, because if I stall on one book, I have 15 other manuscripts I can turn to to get the creative engine running.
Yet in this case, I really wanted to work on the latest dragon book. Hmm.
Not to waste time, I popped into the CD player a movie soundtrack (The Mummy, by Jerry Goldsmith – great mood music).
Editing previous day’s writing is a great method to start, so I did so.
Presto, told ya.
Oops. My mind is not churning out dragons, but it’s solving another plot device in Biggin Hill Manor.
Now what?
Oh well. Giving in to where I’m going, I suddenly found myself delightfully writing……..
The lights were out.
The pub looked closed.
However, as previously instructed, the officer knocked on the front door.
He listened.
Then, quite slowly, the door opened a few inches.
“Yes?” inquired a low voice, male indeed.
“Wing Commander Ramsey Brevard,” the officer said quietly.
The door opened wide.
“Do come in, sir,” the unidentified man said quite warmly.
Ramsey Brevard stepped inside, shaking the chill from his shoulders. His greatcoat was removed without permission, but the officer didn’t seem to mind.
“If you would be so kind as to have a seat by the fire, sir,” his escort instructed, pointing towards the great stone fireplace. “It won’t be but a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Brevard said quietly, quickly moving towards the warmth. The flames looked very inviting. Ramsey sat in the chair directly before the crackling fire, rubbing his hands vigorously.
“I have been instructed to pour you a measure as well, sir,” the man added.
A glass of port was passed to the officer.
Brevard took a moment to take a careful look around, before he took a sip.
Delicious.
Ramsey couldn’t help it. He smacked his lips.
“My name’s Quillsberry, sir,” the man introduced himsel, while coming to attention. “I’m afraid I’m out of uniform, but still under orders, sir.”
Brevard smiled, but was entirely confused.
There were steps on the landing, clear and dramatic, as if someone had timed the arrival for maximum effect.
It worked.
Wing Commander Brevard came to his feet and Quillsberry backed up to stand beside him.
From the shadows emerged an elderly gentleman, hair snow white, with a wonderfully groomed matching beard. He could easily have doubled as Santa Claus, except there was no pot belly. In fact, the naval uniform was extremely well tailored and no matter how many years had passed, this officer was in excellent physical shape.
Ramsey Brevard came to attention. “Sir.”
The admiral chuckled and waved him off. “Oh bother, don’t be so bloody formal. It’s past midnight, after all, so no one but Quillsberry here even knows we’re meeting. Sit, sit, and finish your port.”
“Thank you, sir,” Brevard managed to respond.
“Sit!”
This time it wasn’t a suggestion.
Brevard’s butt hit the wood in an instant.
“That’s better,” the admiral commented, pulling up his own chair. “Quillsberry, bring the bottle, eh, there’s a good lad.”
“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”
“He’s been with me for years now, don’t know what I’d do without him,” the admiral said kindly. “Eh, Quills?”
“Yes, sir, admiral.”
The admiral held out his hand. “I am Vice-Admiral Donald Beesley, Current Head of Naval Intelligence and you are Wing Commander Ramsey Brevard.”
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