Bonus Content: Enigma Exploration Chapter

Mercifully, all things related to prepping our house for selling are done. We've taken the last week and change to recoup in our temporary rental in Eureka, a cute and fully furnished 3-bedroom / 1.5-bath house that oddly shares the lot with a 4-bedroom house. Our neighbors are delightful, though, and the weather so far has been exactly what we'd hoped: cool and mostly foggy. Fingers crossed for a quick sale so we can begin the hunt for our new forever home.

A few pictures, if you're curious.

Timeless Keeper Saga Book 3 (yes, still untitled) is moving full-steam ahead. As always happens, I'm getting into a groove with the characters and where the story needs to go, which builds such momentum that the book practically writes itself. This is why I love writing. 😁 Jen Holton has taken a serious front seat in this novel. Surprising, but in a good way. Hopefully you'll feel the same.

I finally created a Writing Coaching page on my author website. If you or someone you know is looking to improve their science fiction / fantasy writing skills, or trying to figure out where to start, I can provide one-on-one help for everything from motivation to editing, self- or small-publishing, and building an author platform. Check out the new page to see if I might be the right coach for you.

And finally, I saved the best for last! This month's feature is the original exploration chapter in its entirety that eventually became Enigma, including fun notes about how the book diverged from the initial concept.

Happy reading!

In this newsletter

• Original Exploration Chapter for Enigma
• Currently Reading
• Other Authors You Might Like

Original Exploration Chapter for Enigma

I mentioned in a previous newsletter that I found the original document for Enigma, then titled Star Crossed, dated 2019. Welp, Enigma has been out for a while now, so I thought I'd clean it up to a shareable state so you can see the (somewhat laughable) passage that inspired me to write the book.

Needless to say the story changed significantly from this first exploration, and basically none of it made it into the published version. Some related pop-up facts you may enjoy:

• "Brita" became "Britta" in the final manuscript, while you probably guessed "Toran" became "Reece," the proprietor of an inn instead of a stable master. Her mentioned boyfriend "Jared" of course became "Tanner."
• In this passage, Brita can't speak because her voice is "paralyzed." I gave that vague explanation because, at the time, I didn't know exactly how or why she couldn't speak, only that I really liked the idea of a well-to-do ambassador stuck on a backwater planet without her most significant weapon: her voice.
• No stables appear in the final version of Enigma.
• Thankfully, Britta's personality evolved into something more likable in the final manuscript than the stuffy and too-stubborn Brita portrayed below.
• A wheelbarrow appears in both stories, although for very different purposes. (* whistles innocently *)
• If you've read the book, you may be thinking, "Wow, I didn't know Britta's ’ware could use static electricity to clean her!" That's because it can't. I removed that function from the final manuscript to focus the purpose of ’wares. Plus it seemed silly.
• None of the colonies mentioned below made it into the book, but you'll find others in there that are (hopefully) just as interesting.
• If the transition from angst to attraction below feels abrupt and a bit forced, it did to me too when I was cleaning it up. I left it as-is for your amusement and as a fabulous example of what not to do. Bad Ryan. (Their relationship evolves much smoother in the book, I promise.)
• This passage didn't make the cut primarily because its purpose was to show that, despite her high-society upbringing, Britta possessed a strong work ethic and was willing to chip in no matter how far outside her comfort zone it may be. The final story presented enough opportunities to demonstrate that, however, so I left this in an untidy pile on the drawing room floor.

Uncut Enigma Exploration

Brita followed at Toran’s heels, her head bowed like a shamed pet.

“You may wait inside.” Toran didn’t wave her off, but his dismissive tone felt just as irksome.

She shook her head and kept her eyes low, hoping her mop of unkempt hair hid the ridges of her clenched jaw muscles.

“It’s all right. You’ve been, ah, helpful enough tonight already. I won’t think ill of you for resting. Besides, it’s repetitive work that builds callouses. Your hands are already red from the night’s work. I would hate—”

The stomp of her foot on the cobblestone drew him up short. She was happy to see a glimmer of uncertainty in his emerald eyes. She didn’t know what “stables” were, nor why cleaning them at this late hour was so important, but she wouldn’t be outdone. Not by him.

The hint of a smile touched his lips. She clenched her filthy apron in a white-knuckled grip to keep from smacking it off his face.

“Very well,” he said, regaining his serious air. “I shall be grateful for the help, if not the stirring conversation.”

She launched a string of obscene gestures at his back that would have made even her garish brother blush.

I hand-washed a mountain of dishes and cleaned up after that slovenly bunch, she thought, picking her way across the muddy yard. How much worse could this be?

Toran lifted the heavy wooden bar from the double doors with surprising ease and leaned it against the side of the large wooden building. His hand hovered over the latch.

“Last chance.”

Stomping her foot in the mud would have a very different effect than on cobblestone, so she ground her teeth instead and glared.

Toran shrugged and heaved open the large doors.

Brita had thought the offal in the street repugnant, but the stench that flowed from the stable nearly made her lose her hard-earned dinner.

Toran didn’t so much as hold his breath, nor did he look back when he said, “Shovels are over there. Gather the soiled straw from the stalls into the center while I get the wheelbarrow. This won’t take long if we both put our backs into it. Then we can heat the water for baths.” He hung the hooded lantern on a hook and exited through a small door on the other side.

Brita was glad he didn’t turn around to see the pale shade of green her face had become. Holding a food-smeared sleeve across her nose, Brita tiptoed around the steaming landmines to the far side of the room. She retrieved a crude, flat shovel from a barrel of worn tools, then turned to face her formidable opponent.

There were twelve stalls in all, three of them occupied. She stepped into the first vacant stall. Flies swarmed at her approach, which she batted disgustedly away.

Is there a single inhabitable planet that isn’t infested by hordes of annoying winged pests?

She doubted it. But if so, she vowed to buy property there as soon as she returned home.

Light from the flickering lantern danced her shadow across the back wall—a far happier sprite than its owner, who stared mournfully at the mucky straw.

Where’s my servant when I really need him?

A wooden rattle from outside snapped her from her doldrums. Toran had returned, and she had yet to move a single shovelful of the revolting filth. Despite her pride, or because of it, Brita rolled up her thick woollen sleeves and got to work.

Toran parked the wheelbarrow—a rickety collection of warped sticks and twine lined with terminally stained leather—in the middle of the room. Without so much as a glance, let alone a compliment for the grueling three scoops she’d hastily managed since his arrival, he grabbed a shovel and started working the stall across from her. Brita tightened her grip on the weather-split handle and tucked in, determined to match his pace.

They had barely begun when a slap of running feet sounded from outside.

“Toran! Toran!” little Hyeth wheezed. “You got to come quick. Pa’s been drinking and mister Garvin won’t let up on him. I don’t think Pa can take him tonight. We got harvest tomorrow, and if he can’t—”

“Calm yourself, Hy. We’ll sort it out before Jos does him any harm.” Toran dropped his shovel and made for the entrance.

Brita started to follow, but a glance from Toran stopped her short.

I said I would help, even if couldn't speak.

It had been a vow of sorts, she realized.

He’s a man of honor. He expects me to keep my word.

And I will—even if it was a stupid promise.

Squaring her jaw, Brita planted her shovel on the ground. She nodded toward the stall she had started, then shooed him away.

Toran’s smile—the first she had seen in the short time she had known him—stirred her in an embarrassing way. Brita made a feeble attempt to clear her paralyzed throat, shooed him once more, then ducked into the stall to hide her blush.

Once she was sure he had gone, Brita looked around at the enormous job she had just committed to. Her hands were already sore, as Toran had pointed out, and she suspected that kitchen work was nothing compared to intense work with the shovel’s split wooden handle. She briefly considered bolting for the safety of the transport station, but the thought of betraying Toran’s trust—or worse, confirming his already low opinion of her—forced the cowardly thought aside.

I’ll show that backwater colonist he’s not the only one in the galaxy with integrity. But first…

Brita searched in the dim light for something to protect her hands. The only thing she found that wasn’t in worse condition than the shovel was a broken leather saddle strap. She said a silent apology to whichever unfortunate tavern wench her borrowed dress belonged to, tore a few strips of cloth from the hem, wrapped both around the handle to form a passably comfortable grip, and got to work.

Two barrows-full of the foulest-smelling ick she had ever imagined later, she was done. She had even managed to clean the occupied stalls without getting trampled by the skittish beasts.

Brita wiped from her brow with the back of her grimy sleeve and collapsed onto a bale of hay. Sweat-caked dirt clogged every pore on her body. The thick wool dress itched terribly, but she was too exhausted to do anything about it.

What I wouldn’t give for a long shower, comfortable nightgown.

Brita squirmed her hips on the loose straw.

Panties would be nice, too. I thought underwear was a basic human necessity, right up there with food and water. And don’t get me started on this bodice! My boobs feel like they’ve been sitting on a hard shelf all evening.

She pounded the hay and glared at the barn doors. Toran had been gone long enough for the oil lantern to burn low, which he’d topped up before they’d left the tavern.

I wonder if something happened to him? Maybe that Garvin character was too much to handle. Maybe he was armed tonight.

Brita caught herself fiddling with the lace on her bodice and smacked her hand away.

He’ll be fine. Toran has a way of diffusing situations. Even the boy knows that. And when he does return, he’ll find a clean stable and a clean—

One whiff of her underarm dispelled any illusions she had about her hygiene. She was filthy from head to toe and smelled like the worst parts of kitchen garbage and a horse’s rear.

That does it!

Brita scrambled to her feet and yanked up her sleeve. Keeping a wary eye on the door, she tapped a code on her bracelet, made sure she was standing away from the walls, then spread her arms and legs.

A single tone rose from her aural implant, followed a faint buzz from her wristband. Static electricity raised every hair on her body, crackled along her skin, through her clothes, lighting the dark stall in tiny flashes of blue. The dirt and grime flew from her as if suddenly allergic to people. The static cleansing worked better without clothes, but she wasn’t about to strip in the middle of a stable—no matter how well she thought she’d cleaned it—so the trapped particles settled in the shelf of her bodice and waistband.

When the sparks faded, Brita admired the results. Her skin glowed pristine, even in the flickering lantern light. Her dress, she realized with a start, looked quite fetching without seven layers of grease.

Ahh, human at last.

“Apologies,” Toran said, hustling through the door. “I didn’t mean to be so long. Let me…”

The look on his face made the sore muscles she’d have tomorrow all worth it.

“It… appears you’ve been busy.” He poked his nose into a few of the stalls, then scratched his head. “Very busy.”

Brita tried to hide her proud smirk, but her mouth grew weary with the effort and it sprang free. She quickly covered it with a hand.

“No use,” he said. “Your eyes are smiling. You may as well show me the rest.”

She dropped her hand with a muted laugh, swept her arms around in a grand motion, and finished with a regal bow.

“Yes, a truly incredible job. Tomorrow’s group of equestrians will take great pride in soiling their well-kempt accommodations.”

Brita balled her fists and stomped her foot.

“Such is the life of a stable hand. I hope you won’t have to get used to it.”

He stared at her with an odd expression. Brita cocked an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I just realized… that may be the first time I’ve seen you smile since we met. You should do it more often. It suits you.”

She realized her mouth was open and snapped it shut. She pointed sharply at him, then crossed her arms in a pout.

“My fault? What—”

She shook her head, pointed at him again, and made her face into a frown.

“Ah, yes, I suppose we do have that in common. Very well, I’ll make you a deal. Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

Her mouth fell open again, conscious that her breasts were still propped up like jellies on a wobbly platter, until the context finally hit her. She breathed a sigh of relief, then stuck out her hand to shake on it. He looked at it for a moment—long enough for Brita to panic that shaking hands on a deal wasn’t a local practice. But he eventually stepped forward, surprised her with another smile, and gently kissed the back of her hand.

The embarrassing tingle from before stormed back with reinforcements, flowing heat to her cheeks, but Toran didn’t seem to notice. His gaze was fixed on her hands.

Her unbelievably clean hands.

His smile vanished. The softness in his eyes steeled once again. She raced to think of an excuse, but the only plausible explanations that came to mind would require working vocal cords to explain, which left her feeling helpless.

“I… perhaps it is late to be entering agreements so lightly. A good night’s sleep will do us both good. You may stay at the inn if you wish. You’ve earned”—he bit off the word. “Well, the offer is there. I remain a man of my word, even if…” He shook his head and turned to leave.

Brita tugged him back. He stiffened, and for a second she thought he would snatch his hand away. He eventually faced her with an air of forced calm—a diplomatic mask she had seen a hundred times before, plastered on negotiators she or her father had faced. She had never given it a second thought, assumed it was a natural part of business.

But on Toran’s face—directed at her—it wasn’t just out of place. It hurt. And the longer he stared with that unnatural smile, the heavier her heart became, until her knees trembled and her breaths came in short gasps.

“Are you ready to return to the inn?” he said stiffly.

Still holding him by the arm, she slowly shook her head, then shrugged. She didn’t know what sort of reaction she’d expected. Fear? Surprise? Confusion? But it certainly wasn’t this. Worse, his mask made it impossible to divine what was going through his head.

His false smile slipped. Even in the dim lantern light, she could see his face redden.

Brita mouthed, “What?” and was rewarded with a scowl. Even anger was better than that mask.

“I… I expected more from you.”

More?

Brita’s own blood pressure rose.

After busting my ass in this fly-infested cesspool, he’s upset that I didn’t do more?

Despite several millennia of divergent linguistic and cultural evolution, certain non-verbal cues, such as laughing, crying, and yawning, had withstood the test of time and lightyears of distance between the colonies. Few were more powerful or terrifying than the universal, “You’d better explain yourself, and make it good,” when a woman crossed her arms, which Brita did now.

Uncertainty cracked his mask. His response came in a sputter. “Y-you already played me for a fool. You must think me completely addled if you seek to continue this deception. I know what you’re hiding. I’ve seen it many times, and from cleverer layabouts than you.”

Brita threw her hands up and shook her head, more confused than ever.

“Admit it! Who did you con into doing the work for you? Soren? Aldritch? They’re gullible enough, especially for the promise of a lady’s favor.”

Her jaw dropped while she wrapped her mind around his accusation.

He… he thinks I lied about doing the work?

Brita shook her head so vehemently that her bun came loose, spilling her long, tangled hair all around. She pantomimed cleaning the floor with a shovel, then pointed at herself.

“Impossible! Stop sullying yourself with this lie. The evidence is clear.”

She stomped the floor with both feet. White-knuckled, her frenzied shovel pantomime looked more like digging a grave this time than cleaning. She rounded on him and jabbed a finger to her chest so hard that she broke the skin.

“What I don’t understand,” he said softly, “is why you volunteered in the first place. Why put on this charade of servitude? How does it benefit you? Did you hope for extra compensation? Times are hard, and I have little to spare.”

Beyond desperation, Brita shook her head and slowly tapped her fingers to her chest. She took his hands, then looked imploringly into his eyes, searching for even a hint of trust.

Toran turned her hands over and held up her pristine white palms. “Countless times I’ve cleaned this stable. At every finish, I looked and smelled like the animals I cleaned after. You claim to have done the same, yet there’s not a smudge on you. The water trough was emptied before we arrived, so the only other explanation would be if you’d taken a bath and returned to patiently await me here. Shall I ask inside if anyone saw you enter or leave the bathing room?”

The steel had returned to his eyes. As much as his mistrust hurt, Brita knew showing him the truth would be far worse. She shook her head once and let her eyes fall to the floor.

“You’ll show me who helped you, then? Subversive or no, it was a job well done, and they should be fairly compensated.”

Uh oh.

She was a corner once again.

Brita had single-handedly talked the Yorna and Magoran colonies down from the precipice of war. Secured exclusive trade rights with the notoriously xenophobic Kiliosans. Diffused the mining strike on Tao Beta Six—the largest in the company’s history. But she had done it all with a working set of vocal cords. She was defenseless without her words; a clawless cat in the wild where predators lurked behind every tree.

The evidence was against her, and Toran was no fool. The stoic stable master’s intuition rivaled the top inter-planetary ambassadors she’d met.

I wouldn’t want to be on the other side of the negotiating table from him.

Yet that was exactly her position.

This is a negotiation, she suddenly realized.

She didn’t know how she missed it before. She could see it in his eager stance.

He wants something, but what? I have little to offer, and the only interest he’s shown in me is as a scullery maid.

Brita looked closer. Toran still held her hands, but gently, and his steely were fixed on her.

No, not fixed. Searching.

He… he wants to believe me.

The thought made her doughy, but there was a problem: she couldn’t give him an excuse because there wasn’t one. At least, not one she could pantomime.

Or can I?

A devilish thought made her grin.

He’s looking for an excuse—but no one says it has to be plausible.

Toran looked justifiably confused when she grabbed a handful of dirt from the floor and smeared it on her arms, face, and across her dress. Once she’s suitably filthied herself, she bolted the back door, pointed at him, pointed outside, and started counting slowly on her fingers.

“You want to play hide-and-seek? Brita, this is serious. I’m not in the mood to—”

She grabbed his vest to get his attention, then repeated her pantomimed instructions, indicating that he should close the doors and count to thirty.

Toran sighed. “Very well. I’ll return on the count of thirty to… to find you, I suppose.”

Brita rolled her eyes and shooed him out. When she was sure he’d ventured far enough away that he wouldn’t hear the crackling, she tapped the sequence on her bracelet, spread her limbs, and once again let the static cleansing program do its thing.

She was leaning against a post when the doors opened—clean as a smiling silver whistle.

It took Toran a moment to focus on her through the gloom, but his breath caught when he did. He stepped close, eyes wide while he examined her bare arms and face.

“How is this possible? You—”

Brita silenced him with a finger to his lips. For what she hoped was the last time, she pantomimed cleaning with the shovel, then pointed to herself. She hadn’t offered all the answers he wanted, she knew, but that was the nature of negotiation: little compromises on each side until both parties felt they were getting what they needed without too much sacrifice. Now it was his turn.

Toran deliberated for what felt like an eternity. Emotions flickered under the surface of his stoic mask. In the end, however, he nodded and cleared his throat.

“It seems I misjudged you, Brita. Will you accept my apology?”

His tone was different, more formal than anything she’d heard from him before. Yet it held a familiar ring. His words had a rehearsed feel. Placating, as if he had done it a hundred times before. Brita suspected once again that Stable Master was neither his first nor most prestigious profession.

Pushing her curiosities aside, Brita nodded.

His posture relaxed, although not as much as she’d hoped, and he gestured towards the door.

Once inside the inn, Brita made a bee-line for the bathing room. He opened the door to let her in.

Her heart leapt when Toran stepped in behind her and closed the door.

“Towels and cloths are in the cupboard over there, soap in the drawer. Looks like there's still clean water in the buckets. I’ll stoke the fire so you can heat the water for your bath and leave you—”

Brita slowly shook her head. Heart pounding, she took his hand and inched closer. When he didn’t protest, she stood on her toes, brushed her lips against his. He smelled of beer and soot and stable—all things she detested earlier this morning, but they mingled with his warmth to form a masculine scent she found alluring. Her stuffy boyfriend Jared always smelled like a sterile cologne factory.

Toran’s scent, however, was raw. Primal.

Sensual.

Interest and doubt warred behind his eyes. About what, she couldn’t say, nor could she to ask. So she took a chance and kissed him again, passionately this time. His hesitation lasted only a moment before he wrapped her in a strong embrace. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the lace of his vest, then pulled his loose shirt over his head. His chest belonged in an art gallery, chiseled from neck to waist. Powerful arms bespoke years of heavy labor. Her hands explored every inch. She moved to taste his lips again, but he gently pulled away.

“I-I should get the fire going, if we’re to have warm water tonight.”

Good answer, Brita thought, smiling.

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