Growing your readership with Bublish

Are you a writer looking for a free, easy and fun way to gain exposure in this ever-crowded world of published authors? These days when it seems everyone is writing and publishing, it has become increasingly difficult for new authors to reach readers. Serendipite Studios launched the live beta of Bublish at Book Expo America in June 2012, to connect readers with writers and their books.

Bublish is a social book discovery platform used by many authors in a variety of genres. With some practice, you’ll be Bublishing in no time. To get started, go to www.bublish.com and set up Your Profile. Be sure your email and bio information is spelled correctly and add a great headshot. Now, you’ll need to upload an EPUB version of your book. Click on Add a Book and submit the file. Add your website and the all-important tags that help identify your book and genre among the others. Best practice advice: include a linked table of contents in your EPUB too; it will make it easier for you to access relevant sections you’d like to post as book bubbles.

Once you’ve saved the title, now it’s time to create your first book bubble. Scroll to the relevant section of the text and click with your mouse where you would like to begin capturing text. Scroll down until you find the end of the section. Press your Shift key and click where you want to stop. Best practice advice: select a section that is clear and meaningful. You want to highlight your best work, a portion of the text that will intrigue would-be readers. 

Once you’ve clicked on Submit Excerpt, it’s time to provide Insight into your book bubble. Why did you choose this particular piece? What themes or message do you touch on in the scene? Is your writing funny, sad or thought provoking? What is it about the piece that you think will resonate? Best practice advice: keep it short and to the point. The insight you provide is limited to 200 words.
  

When you’re done, Publish your book bubble via Twitter or Facebook; I rely exclusively on tweets for my book bubbles. Bublish generates a pre-formatted tweet, which you can modify with one caveat: don’t change the shortened URL that is automatically added to your tweet. If you’re using Twitter too, be sure to include hashtags, e.g. #historicalfiction, keywords to help other Twitter users organize and follow your content that is relevant to their interests. 

Promoting my work through Bublish has been a great learning opportunity and a chance to grow my personal website hits and reach new readers. With each book bubble, I’ve discovered how to focus on aspects of the stories that touch individual readers and make them want to know more. In particular, Kathy Meis at Bublish deserves kudos for her time and talent in working with me at each step to navigate all the features the platform has to offer. 

Some of your fellow authors are already using Bublish:

Author Colin Falconer

Author Lorna Suzuki

Author Melissa McPhail

Buy links, the synopsis / blurb of your title and your author website are included with each book bubble. This fall, Bublish debuted a new set of features for both writers and readers. Writers can now add up to 30 book to one author account as well as change their cover art. Readers (and writers exploring Bublish in reader mode) can now filter the bubble stream by genre, and when they discover an author they like see more by that author. Best of all, Bublish is free to all readers and writers!

Need another incentive to start making your connections with readers? Bublish offers a unique opportunity for bublishers only through its Twitter chats, which always occur on Thursdays at 3pm Eastern. The first with Lorna Suzuki is available here through Storify. I’m also scheduled to participate in my first Twitter chat via Bublish today at 3pm Eastern / 2pm Central / 1pm Mountain / 12pm Pacific. Hope you’ll join the discussion.

Want to schedule for your own live Twitter chat with Bublish? Email info@bublish.com. Happy Bublishing!

Social Media Done Wrong

As if writers needed anything more to occupy our time, the advent of social media has ensured that our days are filled with tweets, Facebook posts and pages. Article after article stresses the importance of good social interaction: we have to be on Google+, Twitter, Linked In AND Facebook, because the days of the invisible author are OVER! Social karma and etiquette demands that we tweet and re-tweet, follow and be interesting in every message.

Here's where I fess up: I'm a social media failure. I rarely use Twitter and post more on my personal Facebook page to catch up with family in Barbados or the UK, than I add anything to my author page. For all the advice which says authors should be actively using social media to promote our work, I give a half-hearted, grudging shrug. Sometimes I try the techniques suggested, but more often than not, it's a failure from the outset because I just don't believe it helps. I do nothing to promote Sultana through the usual social channels, yet it consistently sells well each month. Beyond the occasional monthly promotion on my website or mention of it on this blog, I don't talk about it. Yet people are finding the book, writing me, visiting my web pages and talking about the story in their reading groups. The social media pundits must forgive me for saying so, but the best promotion of an author's work is a good book. It isn't spamming each other every day with our latest reviews and "buy my book" pitches. Good social media usage is the same as conducting ourselves like normal people offline - would you ask someone to marry you one minute after the initial meeting? So, why DM people about buying your book as soon as they follow you on Twitter?  

Stop spamming your friends! If they like your book, they'll buy it.

I don't doubt that social media can be an effective tool when it's used the right way. How's that? Start by letting people get to know YOU. When we look for the best advice, we turn to those whom we trust, our friends. Friendships aren't established overnight - they're earned through time and trust. For an author just starting out, it can feel as we have to rush into everything and use every means at our disposal to get our names out there as quickly as possible. Just as a good friendship takes time to grow, so to does good social interaction and karma take time to produce results. Unfortunately, some of us are going about this the wrong way and alienating the very people we're trying to reach. How many people have you unfollowed on Twitter or deleted as friends as Facebook, just because all they do is promote their work all day?

Go forth and be social! The right way.

Social Media: Don't Like It? Don't Use It

While dining with a friend of mine this past week, the subject of Google+ came up. Her reaction. "Oh God!  Another social media site I have to learn about and join!" As she is my very dear friend who also visits this blog, I didn't roll my eyes and ask, "Who says?" Instead, I told her, "You don't need to. They can't hunt you down and make you join."

Social media can seem overwhelming between all the "twatting" - thanks, my darling cousin and Vince Vaughn. With Facebook, MySpace, Foursquare and Tumblr, even this blog, doesn't it just feel like you have to be connected all the time? Well, no, you don't.

I say this as someone who loves Twitter. It's not intervention level just yet, but pretty darn close. I'm on Facebook, started a Facebook author page, and joined Google+. Still, of all of these social media sites, Twitter is my favorite. Why do I love it so? The connections. It's evened the playing field for me - where else could I chat with my writer gods, like Jeanne Kalogridis and Colin Falconer? I tweet while on my way to work, at work, on the way home, even on vacation. Two applications are always open on my PC: Outlook and Tweetdeck. Yet, when I'm busy with books, family concerns, the 9-5 gig etc. no problems checking out. Two extremes puzzle me - the true Twitter addict, who tweets everything in their life, and the Twitter recluse, who hides from this and other social media as if the bubonic plague went viral on the Internet.

If you do engage in social media, you have to do it well. My example? Be yourself. I share general aspects of my life, my work as an author, and articles that interest me on Twitter, Facebook and Google+. If you're considering social media, remember, just be you. Let others know what you're passionate about, the things that fascinate you. Who knows, they might like them too.

Are you an active or inactive user of social media? Why? What do you love / hate the most about social media?

P.S. For my fellow authors on Twitter: want me to unfollow you? Then, I suggest you tweet about NOTHING except your books, your brand all day, every day. That's you, the author. How about you, the real person behind that Twitter account?

#SampleSunday: Long Way Home - A Novella, Chap. 2

Chapter Two

July 1998

Kevin pulled the new Mercedes into the parking lot outside Los Palmas restaurant in downtown L.A. and looked in the rearview mirror. Satisfied with his reflection, he checked his watch. The digital face displayed six-thirty, perhaps an hour before sunset. His belly fluttered. He had arrived too early for dinner. Damn.

He should have hung around Ventura a little longer, but that would have meant listening to more inane chatter from Melanie. Melissa, he corrected himself. Whatever. He had met her on Friday at Karma, a new nightclub. She took him back to her apartment on Veronica Lane for a little after-party that lasted into Saturday afternoon. Now, he intended to forget the address and the girl associated with it.

He looked in the mirror again, tugging at the collar of his silk shirt. He hated when girls left hickeys on his neck, as if marking him as theirs. The collar hid most of the strawberry blotch from view, except for the very edge. He slapped the dashboard in frustration. If she noticed it tonight during dinner, would the sight bother her in any way?

He smacked his forehead. “Get a grip, Kev. Doesn’t matter what she thinks of you.”

The manila folder on the passenger seat indicated the opposite was true. He eyed it with a sigh. Why had he been keeping this thing with him for more than a month? What was he, some kind of stalker now? What would she think if she ever discovered it?

He reached for it, thinking he could just dump the thing in the trash when he got out of the car. His hand halted in midair. He was not ready for that.

Instead, he pulled out the contents, admiring the photo at the top of the pile.

“Taka.” As he breathed her name, an evening wind stirred the forms, newspaper clipping and the photo. He set the latter in his lap and placed everything else back inside the folder.

He gripped the picture in one hand and traced the left edge of it with his thumb. The photo ran in the Times the day after the crash, on the morning of the Democratic primary. A copy had appeared on the newspaper’s website also. It showed four people. He rummaged for the article containing the original image and re-read the headline.

“Oakland mogul Lei Chang hosts major fundraiser for Democratic gubernatorial candidate.” He scanned the first few lines of the article preceding the picture, words he had never bothered about reading beforehand.

“On the eve of the Democratic primary on June 2, Lei Chang, the Chief Executive Officer of Chang Industries Limited gave a generous contribution…”

Kevin shook his head, wondering how Lei Chang had felt on June 3, when he learned that his contribution of ten million dollars did not help his candidate secure the Democratic nomination. Both men had attended the same schools together, served on the same boards at overlapping times. Based on what Kevin had discovered about Mr. Chang through a paralegal at Carter-Chase, he doubted whether the man would even miss the money. Not only did Chang remain in sole control of the company he had founded in China thirty years ago, he was also a long-standing board member of two leading airlines.

Chang often appeared on lists of the richest people in America, but he kept a tight lid on most information about himself, including details of his million-dollar assets. Kevin had called on other resources among his mother’s media contacts just to determine how much Chang had donated to his friend’s campaign.

Kevin’s gaze returned to the photo he had printed. The four people in the image were all smiles, no hint of fear about the outcome of the next day. Lei Chang was on the left, in a tailored, buttoned-up gray suit. A silver Rolex flashed at his wrist. He wore his graying hair parted on the left. It fell around his ears. He and the woman next to him were short. His face was round and flat, with a button nose, which was red at the tip. The double creases etched around his sunken eyes belied the warm smile and brightness of his gaze.

Next to him, his plump wife Sachiko stood in a sleeveless, silver-blue silk gown that flared out from wide hips. A scarf of the same material draped her sloping shoulders. She wore her hair in a tidy chignon. Diamonds dangled from her earlobes and around her wrists, while a large sapphire glittered next to her gold wedding band. The former gubernatorial candidate framed the shot on her right.

Kevin’s attention diverted from him to Taka, who stood taller than the rest of them, her head and shoulders a few inches above her mother’s own. Instead of the black dress that had clung to her every curve and showed off those incredible legs during the accident, a blue jacket covered her narrow shoulders. Someone had tamed that unruly bob, as well. She wore red lipstick instead of the bare, pink kissable lips he had seen earlier that day. A mockery of a smile twitched on her lips.

The half-lidded eyes gave away her boredom. No emotion reflected from their depths, or at least none of the passion she had displayed on the highway at the accident scene. He felt certain she would have preferred to be somewhere else than in front of the camera, perhaps not even at the fundraiser. Despite her blank expression, he couldn’t help the stirrings of desire. Damn if she wasn’t beautiful.

His gaze drifted to Mrs. Chang again. Taka resembled her mother instead of the father. Why was he obsessing over her like this? It’s not as if they were on a date. He had other reasons for meeting her at Los Palmas.

The claims adjuster from Kevin’s car insurance company had contacted everyone, including the police officers and two witnesses they had detained at the scene for corroboration. Since Kevin and Taka had alleged that each person bore partial responsibility for the accident, Kevin insisted they talk about it. Her easy acquiescence at the end of the phone call still surprised him.

He read the caption below the photo in the Times aloud. “Oakland-based Lei Chang, CEO of Chang Industries Limited with his wife, internationally-renowned soprano Sachiko Nishimura, their daughter…hell, they didn’t even bother to find out the daughter’s name? What’s up with that?”

A blaring car horn followed by an exchange of curses jarred his concentration. The photo and clipping slipped from his grasp. He retrieved them and returned everything to the manila folder.

“Hurry up and pay, lady! I’m trying to park here.”

Curious about the source of the commotion, Kevin unbuckled his seatbelt, took the keys out of the ignition and turned in the driver’s seat.

At the entrance to the parking lot, the driver honked at the red cab idling in front of him. A thin woman extended a hand through the driver’s side window of the cab, with her narrow butt sticking out, as well as her middle finger, which she directed at the Jeep.

Kevin chuckled. Even after six weeks, he would have recognized her skinny ass and lean legs anywhere. He had not noticed the slight dimples at the backs of her knees until now.

Taka pulled away from the cab and glared at the Jeep’s driver. Even at a distance, her stare flickered like the tip of a burning cigarette. “Feel better now, asshole? Like, seriously, learn some patience and manners next time, fucker!”

Kevin’s belly rumbled with laughter. She dared lecture the poor Jeep driver about proper decorum while she cursed at him across a crowded parking lot. That mouth, another unmistakable trademark. How had a nondescript business executive and a demure opera star produced this little fireball? She was a total misfit.

As she picked her way around other cars, he admired the beauty of her long-legged stride. The untidy black mop atop her head made an appearance again, except this time it had a slight curl from some hair mousse or the shower. The A-line, pinstriped skirt fitted her just above her knees, paired with a white, button-down shirt with three-quarter sleeves. With a leather clutch in her hand and open-toed mules on her feet, she shuffled through the parking lot. Her cheeks glowed with vitality and a pretty blush, with a smear of pink lipstick across her mouth.

He didn’t expect this side of her. She was upbeat and vibrant, but still sexy as hell. Thin eyebrows arched like half moons. Heavy mascara made her wide stare exotic and arresting.

When her eyes alighted on him, she drew to a halt on the walkway that led to the restaurant. He shoved the manila folder beneath the seat and opened the car door. He cursed when he remembered the steering wheel lock.

She clasped the handbag in both hands and stood silent. Their gazes locked, even as he closed the collar one more time. It would have looked suspicious to anyone if he buttoned it up to the top. The temperature hovered in the upper eighties.

He locked the car, tucked his keys into his pocket and approached her. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Ms. Chang.”

She looked past him at the vehicle and whistled. “Whoa! Nice car. I see Daddy came through again. Lucky you.”

“My father’s not around to buy me anything. The Senior Golf Open happened today. He’s still in Pacific Palisades, as far as I know.”

“Uh-huh.” She kept eyeing the car. “This shit’s even nicer than the BMW.”

His jaw clenched but he ignored the baited comment. “This is a nice place you suggested, my mother’s dined here before. She said the food was good, so I hope we’ll enjoy it, too.”

She eyed him with an upraised eyebrow. “I work here. My shift starts at seven thirty.”

He jerked a glance at his watch and sputtered, “It’s six forty-three! I thought we were having dinner.”

She responded with a half-hearted shrug.

He threw his hands in the air. “Why did you tell me about this place if you only intended to give me thirty minutes of your time?”

Despite the frustration roiling in his gut and his muddied thoughts, his voice dropped. What an idiot! He had blundered straight into another mess with her, but he had made this one. He couldn’t blame her, although he wanted to make the whole fiasco her fault. How had he misunderstood? How could he have just assumed they would have dinner tonight? She probably thought he was a total spaz.

He ducked his head, certain a blush crept across his cheeks. It didn’t help that she stared at him without saying a word. He shuffled on his feet, wanting to sink sandal first into the pavement or backpedal to his car without another word. He tugged at the collar again. It felt hot and oppressive around his neck.

A howling snort escaped her. She shook her head and strolled past him. “Not my flipping fault if you heard what you wanted to hear. I never said we’d have dinner, but you can eat here, if you want and wait for me until the end of my shift, guy.”

“My name is Kevin. Don’t act like you don’t know it.”

“Uh-huh.” The near whisper drifted over her shoulder.

He followed her up the three terracotta steps outside the restaurant. “What time’s your shift over?”

“We stop seating at eleven-thirty, so maybe I’ll knock off around one o’clock.”

“In the morning? What the hell?” He covered his face with his hands.

Her snigger frazzled him. He glared at her obvious enjoyment of his confusion.

She held the door ajar with a manicured hand, the nails short and trimmed. “What, I’m not worth the wait? The way you were looking at me when you got out of the car, I could have sworn you thought otherwise.”

Her eyes sparkled with teasing mischief. He stared, entranced. She had been beautiful before, but now with her pink cheeks and that delectable mouth curved in a smirk, she bewitched him.

“That remains to be seen, Ms. Chang.”

Her smirk widened into a full-blown grin. “It’s Taka. I’m sure you remember that, Kevin. You might want to close your collar again. The hickey’s like, showing. Want all of downtown L.A. to guess how your night went?”

With a wink, she entered the restaurant. He raked a hand through his hair, adjusted the shirt collar for the last time and followed her inside.

#SampleSunday: The Rule of Love, Chap. 5

Chapter Five: At the Courtesan’s Pleasure

Kausambi, India – Late Summer

In the Reign of Kumara Gupta I (5^th century CE)

The strains of a flute followed Chandi, as she led Nandika toward her chamber. Her fingers interlaced with his, they strolled and shared a silent smile. Anticipation shone in his gleaming eyes, yet his countenance wavered as they approached the door.

She paused just outside the curtain and cupped his cheek. The prickly hairs in his beard tickled her palm.

“You are pensive now. Share your thoughts with me.”

He leaned into her hand and kissed the skin. Her stomach clenched in response.

“My jewel, my thoughts are only of you, and the delights to come.”

Suppressing her shudder, she laughed instead. “You forget that I know you as my own heart. We’ve known each other since we were children.”

He reached for her cheek. His finger caressed her flesh, his thumb sweeping across the curve of her lower lip. A ragged breath escaped her when their gazes met and held.

“Goddess, you’ve always known my thoughts without asking. I have never had to say the words. You know what I want, now.”

She looked away, but he framed her face in both his hands. Passionate warmth radiated from his touch. She trembled under the intense scrutiny of his darkened gaze, where passion and yearning swirled. Until now, his desires had never frightened her. She swayed against him. 

“I pray, Nandika, do not speak its name.”

His grip tightened. “Why? When it is what we both want?”

Lightheaded, she willed strength into her quaking limbs. Her lips clamped together, she fought against the urge coiling through her belly, demanding her surrender. She would never allow another man such control. Not again.  

She pushed her shoulders back, tossed her hair and returned his probing gaze. “And your wives? Would they look upon our arrangement with satisfaction? You have never been a selfish man. Will you begin now?”

A heavy sigh whistled through his lips. His hands dropped at his side and his gaze fell away.

Her heart damned for her a fool, pounded a tattoo of bitter resentment and regret. His obvious hurt pained her, but she could not risk the mistakes of the past. A painful lesson left its mark, cutting so deep that not even the balm of his love could soothe the old wound. 

Still, she wound her arms around his neck, soothed his slumped shoulders and cradled his neck. For a moment, he froze. Then his hands grasped her about the waist, though he kept his eyes averted. On tiptoe, she kissed his cheeks and forehead, her body pressed against his. She nuzzled his beard, inhaling the scent of sesame oil coating the dark hairs. The sounds of the musicians on the veranda faded. Muscles tensed beneath the caress of his hands. She explored the contours of his nut-brown skin, nails raking down his arms. With a ragged groan, he pulled her tighter. He met her stare.

“A fool can hope. If that is all I have, then it must be enough.”

She hushed him. “Tonight, you have me. I am yours.”

Smooth and supple, his lips parted. She pressed her mouth against his, their breaths commingled. The taste of mango and cinnamon on his tongue, he pressed her against him. The power of his ardor made desire leap in her belly. She clung to him, as though this embrace might be their last. Soon, it would be. Then she pulled away. He leaned into her again, but she laid a firm hand over his throbbing heart.

“Come with me.”

She led him into her chamber, crushing patchouli beneath her feet. They entered the bedroom, where the lone lamp on a small table by the bed banished the rest of the room into shadows. She glanced at the lacquered screen directly across from her bed, and then settled herself on the pillows arranged on the floor, Nandika reclining at her side. Offering him a smile, she clapped her hands twice.

At the sound of a drum echoing from the veranda next door, Samavati appeared, framed in the doorway leading to Chandi’s balcony. She bent at the waist, a fringe of black hair falling over her eyes. Chandi smiled at Nandika, who returned the gesture before he leaned forward, his gaze intent on the younger courtesan.

Samavati raised her hands in the invocation to the gods that begun the kathak dance. The drums continued in a slow rhythm, mimicked by her movements. As she moved, Chandi often turned her attention from Samavati toward Nandika. At times, he caught her gaze and flushed, as though embarrassed. Still, he could not keep his eyes from the entertainment for long.

When the tempo of the drums increased, Samavati twirled on her heel in a spin, winding faster and faster. The long braid spun in an arc. Flushed, her golden skin a glimmer of perfection in the lamplight, ragged breaths tore from her lungs. When she finished, Nandika roared his approval.

Samavati bowed. “Thank you, Master.”

“You have a rare talent, one hardly seen in one so young,” he replied.

She glanced at Chandi. “I’m not so young, but thank you for the compliment, Master.”

“You deserve better tokens of my praise.”

Nandika removed one of the bracelets on his wrist, gold inlaid with lapis lazuli. He held out his hand. Chandi recognized his approval, curiosity, and desire. For a brief moment, she pursed her lips and tossed her hair, but when Nandika looked at her, she pushed aside the flare of jealousy.

“Would you like Samavati to remain with us, my lord?”

He swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck, before turning away. She leaned toward him, took his hand in hers. She waited in silence until his sheepish expression returned to hers.

“I would like that. Would you allow it?”

“Do you need my permission?” She smiled, intent on reassuring him, although her heart thrummed inside her chest.

He shook his head and gestured for Samavati. 

The courtesan’s eyes widened. She drew a deep breath and licked her lips. The lamplight revealed her watering eyes and pinched lips. Her pain-filled expression found Chandi, who patted Nandika’s arm. He turned toward her again, a question in his gaze.

“Forgive us, the offense is mine. I should have explained. Samavati would prefer another’s touch, a woman’s own to be precise.”

His eyebrows flared for a moment. Then he settled back against the pillows. A lazy smile curved the corners of his lips.

“I can deny you nothing.” He paused and turned the pleasant expression of his face on Samavati, “not even her. If it is your pleasure, it shall be mine.”

#SampleSunday: Rule of Love, Chap

Chapter Three – The Lesson of Kama in the Aims of Life

Kausambi, India – Late Summer

In the Reign of Kumara Gupta I (5^th century CE)

 
Sarama followed her mistress along the perimeter of the easterly open-air courtyard, bounded by wooden pillars that supported the roof. The aromatic scent of tulsi filled her nostrils, as a few slave women tended the clustered purple flowers and watered the plants’ roots.

In the eastern quadrant, Mistress Chandi stopped and offered her devotion, whispered in fervent prayers. Sarama held the tray at waist level, while Mistress selected a cup of plant extract mixed with honey and laid it before the four-armed god Indra, among the pots of fragrance and flower petals already scattered at his shrine.

Vatsyayana’s sharp intake of breath rippled through the air. He hovered at her shoulder. Sarama rolled her eyes heavenward before she acknowledged him with a deferential nod. When their gazes met, his narrowed with contempt.   

“An offering of soma juice should be made at the temple, if she intends to ask Indra for rain.” His withering stare swept through the courtyard. “A brothel is hardly a sacred place.”

Her hand itched for the dagger, bloodless in its leather sheath. Mistress would never forgive her if she drew it against the boy. His superior tone vexed her more than anyone else ever had. What difference did it make where her mistress worshipped, at a shrine or in the great temples of Kausambi? Who was he to decide?

She returned her attention to her mistress but directed a response at him. “Here, we are guided by our beliefs alone, not what other people say is right or wrong.”

At his harsh intake of breath, she whirled and faced him. “And who are you to judge? You’ve studied at the great monastery of Nalanda, but all you’ve shown us is arrogance. Did the monks teach you to ridicule others at the Mahavihara?”

His fists jerked at his side before he lowered them, concealing the long, folded fingers behind his back. She met his baleful stare without flinching, though her heart hammered inside her chest. The dark mask of anger on his face warned her she had gone too far, stirring something inside her, buried deep in her memories. The scar on her hip twitched reflexively. She waited, lips trembling, for the blow that would strike her down. It never came.

For the first time, she recognized this man was different from any other she had ever known. Tremors coursed the length of him, visible beneath the angular contours of copper brown skin. His shudders betrayed the tenuous control he struggled for, as he kept his rage at bay. So many tangible emotions inside him, she could scarce comprehend how he controlled it. But she sympathized, for she understood blind fury too well. She had experienced its brutal power countless times.

Mistress touched her arm and she jerked, caught unawares. She glanced at her and found the usual sympathy in those dark, sparkling eyes. “Don’t provoke him, Sarama. The passing of his father has changed Vatsyayana’s life forever. It influences all our lives.”

She expelled a ragged breath she did not know she had been holding, and nodded curtly. Only a fool tangled with a tiger.

Mistress bowed before Vatsyayana. “Though you will despise me for it, I wish to make offerings of panda at the temple in your father’s memory.”

Sarama recalled the little rice balls prepared and set aside for the remembrance of her deceased mother. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. 

“Do as you please. I cannot stop you,” Vatsyayana muttered. “But one day soon, you will explain these devotions to my father. I shall not be satisfied until I have your answer.”

Mistress nodded. “One day, I will explain all.”

Sarama’s heart fluttered anew. She almost dropped the tray in her hand. Mistress Chandi’s gaze flew to her face and flashed a warning. She bowed her head and murmured an apology.

Vatsyayana edged closer, scrutinizing both their faces. By the powerful mercy of the gods, he withheld the inquiry shining in his eyes. She could have sighed with relief, but kept her face impassive. His attention lingered on her longer than necessary. Still, when she glanced at him again, he sneered and avoided her stare.

Mistress broke the tension-filled mood with a laugh. “This is a poor way to begin your lessons in pleasure, Vatsyayana. Let us walk to the Yumana River.”

“But, surely, you have already had your bath? How else could you perform ritual worship at the shrine?” He gazed down his long nose at her.

Sarama’s hand itched for the dagger again. She could not help it. This pompous, arrogant fool spoke as if her mistress tempted the wrath of the gods.

“In truth, I washed in waters drawn from the Yumana at dawn,” Mistress quickly corrected his foolish assumption, “but bathing is more than just a rite of purification. It is also a sensuous delight.”

When Mistress’ sandals slapped against the stone floor, he fell into step behind her. They bypassed slave girls who traced designs in rice flour at the entrance. They emerged outside the walls of the brothel. Sarama trailed them, admiring the glint of the midmorning sun on Vatsyayana’s narrow shoulders

Abruptly, he cast a glare over his shoulder, and caught her look. “What can be so amusing, woman?”

“It would not please you if I told you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because nothing I would say could ever please you. Isn’t that right?”

“Sarama, stop your teasing.” Mistress Chandi’s voice on the morning breeze echoed another warning for her. 

Sarama nodded to him. “I humbly ask forgiveness.”

“I doubt you know how to be humble.” He continued after her mistress, but not before another darting glance over his shoulder.

Dust billowed along the avenue of margosa trees. Sarama and her mistress draped their hair with white shawls, while Vatsyayana walked bareheaded. Sarama coughed, tugging her shawl over her face with one hand, while balancing the tray in the other.

Mistress led the way across a well-worn track, which they took every week toward the river, shielding her eyes against the harsh sunlight. Birds soared overhead, screeching. Dry haze hugged the sandstone cliffs in the north and obscured the near barren landscape below in waves of shimmering heat. In the west, the village bustled with noisy activity.

Their route took them on its outskirts, though a narrow and winding road connecting the village course with the brothel. Arid wind whistled through the remnants of desiccated trees and stunted brush, blowing clouds of dust toward the bamboo huts of the villagers. Behind her thin shawl, Sarama tasted the grit carried on currents of air.

She wished the two summer months would linger, despite the torrid heat and the dried, cracked earth cutting the soles of her bare feet. In the summer, she would not be stuck indoors, unlike later during the monsoon season, which would bar her from pursuing her own lovers while her mistress entertained in the evenings.

She chided herself, having already forgotten her vow of circumspection. Hard to deny oneself the pleasures of a man, but if the rains ever came and kept her at the brothel, the only available man would be Vatsyayana.

Once the idea entered her thoughts, the image of the petulant Brahmin student remained. His lean body was certainly more appealing than that of the pot-bellied cowherd who had crushed her beneath his ponderous weight on the previous night. Her mistress had rightly advised against seeing him again, for he tired too quickly. Her own hands gave her the pleasure the cowherd had not.

Now, she wondered how it might feel if Vatsyayana’s copper-colored fingers stroked her head to toe. He had spoken little more than arrogant words since his arrival, but she could imagine other infinitely pleasurable uses for his lips. None of them required one word. Her mind conjured his dark head of curls between her thighs. Her belly knotted and she sighed as if in the throes of a delightful dream. He looked over his shoulder at the sound. His dark glare hastened the warmth coursing through her belly. If she had seduced him earlier, would passion have furrowed his brow, lust firing his eyes? She mused on such delights during the course of the morning walk, pleasurable thoughts sustaining her against the heat and wind. 

They reached the left bank of the Yumana after midday, through a clearing of shisham trees at the edge of the rich alluvium. Sarama paused bedside her mistress, grateful for the shelter a crown of leaves offered.

A sheen of sunlight glimmered on the water. The river bustled with activity and noise. Boatmen called or cursed each other. A ferryman transported two Brahmin priests across a narrow place in the river, a long pole sliding between his nimble fingers. Gulls and cormorants skimmed the surface of the water, ever on the lookout for the golden mahseer swimming upriver. The land sloped unobstructed toward the water’s edge, but on the opposite bank, a continuous line of ghats swarmed with people.

Mistress sighed. “We’ll wait for a ferryman.”

When the boatman arrived, they clambered into his craft and crossed the river in silence. Nearing the right bank, Sarama spotted a merchant plying brassware. If any of it seemed of good quality, she might make a purchase. Others sold ritual offerings for the temples. Servants shaded the silk-clad nobles and rich guild merchants under bound palm leaves.

Some of the men waved to Mistress. She acknowledged their greetings with more than a little smile or nod. They strolled between elevated funeral pyres billowing white smoke, which made Sarama rub her eyes. Those who cremated their dead gave alms and food to the beggars lining the stairs of each ghat. With little show of reverence, three girls splashed each other in the water until a stern matron ordered them away.

When Sarama set the tray on the third step from the edge, Mistress removed her shawl and fingered her black curls. Vatsyayana stood apart from them, looking out on the embankment, his arms folded across his bronzed chest.

Sarama shook her head at him, while she opened a small pot of camphor, saffron, and musk mixed together. “Young master, don’t you think it’s as beautiful here as Varanasi?”

“It is possible every city has its charms.”

She rolled her eyes. Why had she expected anything less than his disdain?

Mistress sat down on the second step from the water. Sarama smeared the camphor, saffron, and musk down the length her hair, massaging the scalp. Mistress breathed a languid sigh and surrendered to her touch.

Then they rose together and descended into the water. Mistress disappeared beneath the swirling river, before she emerged with a radiant beam on her sweet lips. She shook beads of water from her wet hair. The folds of her dhoti clung to her thighs, outlining the plump yoni between them. Sarama joined her and plunged up to her waist.

She turned, smiled and held her hand out for Vatsyayana. “Come into the water with us, young master.”

He drew back, sneering. “I think not.”

She shrugged. “On such a hot day, only a fool might deny himself.”

“Sarama, I won’t warn you again today,” Mistress said at her shoulder.

She withdrew as Mistress approached him instead. “Bathing is a daily requirement, Vatsyayana, but there’s no reason you can’t enjoy it. All life is pleasurable, even a simple act of cleanliness.”

Since he only continued glaring at them, Sarama dismissed his disdainful looks and attended her duties. She cupped water in her hands and cleaned her mistress’ hair until it was soft and glistened. She washed the pale, glowing skin with a paste of soap nuts, avocado, and ghee. After a quick rinse, she followed her out of the water.

Mistress sank down next to Vatsyayana, who recoiled once more, as Sarama expected. Sighing with disgust, Sarama wound a long cotton strip around her mistress’ tresses. She kneaded her shoulders with sandalwood and aloes. The woman relaxed like a pampered cat under her ministrations and leaned back with her eyes closed. Full, firm breasts tipped with buds like betel nuts saluted the sun.  

Lustful, curious stares from the men assembled on the ghats followed Sarama’s every gesture. A bronze-skinned youth, perfumed and oiled, approached them. A garland of yellow amaranth flowers encircled his neck.

Vatsyayana cleared his throat and stood, blocking Mistress from easy view. The stranger strolled on, but his eyes blazed with fury in a bold stare. Sarama giggled at his disappointment.

“You interfere with my livelihood, Vatsyayana.” Chandi spoke without opening her eyes. “Pleasure is a courtesan’s means of support. If she doesn’t attract new lovers, her old lovers will soon be unable to provide for her.”

He sputtered, “Because you will have drained them dry!”

Sarama laughed at the unintended pun. “Indeed, in many ways!”

He frowned at her. “Keep your ill-mannered tongue behind your teeth.”

Her snicker made him red in the face.

“The pleasure is just a fantasy, a trap baited with voluptuousness and desire!” he said, returning his attentions to her mistress. “You have a duty to earn well, for otherwise you cannot enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. Yet, you must feign enjoyment in its achievement. You pretend at happiness. By your own admittance, you take joy only in what a lover has to offer, not in your time spent with him.”

Mistress stared him down. “A true courtesan takes pleasure in both her lover’s gifts and the reward of his companionship. There is joy in the sexual union, but equal delight comes in earning wealth. It is the second aim of life. I pursue it with no more apologies than my pursuit of the first aim.”

“You take from your lovers until they can give no more,” Vatsyayana persisted. “Tell me, have you ever lain with someone who could not meet your price?”

Sarama stopped oiling Mistress’ skin. What foolery was this?

Chandi said, “I would be a poor courtesan if I did.”

Her gaze sparkled with mischievous delight. Sarama chuckled at her pun.

Her mistress continued, “A poor man can do nothing for me. He cannot be generous. My lovers are men of high position and power who can afford to spend freely.”

“They are preening peacocks who succumb to the illusion of your favor, when you hold no man in higher regard than any other, except the one who can pay you the most money. You have promised I would learn of the rule of love. Have you ever loved any of the men you take into your chamber?”

Sarama’s hands fell away and her mistress stood, her countenance stern. “I am a woman and have a tender heart that can love. But I’ve been trained in the art of pleasure and I live by my trade. What I provide is pure artifice, the illusion of love, the most dangerous fantasy of all.”

#SampleSunday: On Falcon's Wings, Chap 15

Chapter 15

Kingsholm, Gloucester, England

September 1051 CE

On the evening of their arrival, Edric attended the prayer Mass at Vespers. He stood near the back of the chapel. Cynwise’s melodic singing drifted up over the other women in the hymn of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Even her angelic voice gave his heart no peace of mind. He thought only of Avicia.

How dare she be so happy in her marriage? He claimed contentment but little more. Cynwise’s demonstration of loyalty and her gentleness with their children aside, nothing else recommended her. She did her duty by the Church’s laws, not because she loved him. Surely, the knight loved Avicia and, worse, she loved him.

His mouth crimped in annoyance at lascivious thoughts of them together. Her husband must take immense pleasure in her body at night, his fingers kneading her breasts with her thighs pressed against him. Edric bridled at the images in his mind.

His hands were tight fists at his side when he stalked from the chapel after prayers. He waited outside for his wife in the fresh evening air.

In due course, she came. “Husband, I did not see when you left, you moved so quickly. Lady Edith told me the King devises a royal hunt in the morn. One of his relations, his sister’s husband Count Eustace of Boulogne, shall leave in three days. The King honors him tomorrow with a feast.”

“I wonder why he rode to Gloucester with the King at all, if he leaves so soon,” Edric grumbled. “I am hungry. Let us dine in the hall.”

Congregants streamed out of the chapel, headed for the hall. Cynwise scanned the crowd for Harold’s wife.

Avicia appeared, her arms interlocked with the black-haired man at her side and a woman on her right. She walked directly toward him and halted at his side. She and her female companion curtsied.

“Lord Edric, it pleases me to see you again.”

He blinked with surprise at her flawless Latin. When they had first met at Flanders, she spoke only the Flemish language. 

Now, she regarded him without a hint of emotion. By contrast, his heart raced at the sight of her. The same pert nose and mouth he remembered. Her golden brows flared while he studied her. An uneasy silence stretched between them.

Cynwise rested her hand on his forearm and curtsied.

Recalling his wife beside him, Edric whispered. “This is my wife Cynwise of Elham. Wife, this is the Lady Avicia.”

Avicia said, “I present my husband, Sieur Philippe de Montfort and the wife of our overlord, Lady Alice.”

Edric bowed before them, as each acknowledged him with a slight nod. He straightened. “Lady Avicia, you surprise me, in many ways. Your fortunes have improved vastly since we last met.”

She arched her eyebrows at his statement. Though she seemed ready for a reply, Cynwise interjected, “How do you know my husband, Lady Avicia?”

Blood roared in his ears. Edric waited for the answer.

Avicia regarded his wife, who favored her with a pretty smile. “We met in Flanders three years ago, Lady Cynwise, when the retinue of Godwin of Wessex negotiated his son’s marriage to Lady Judith of Flanders. Milord Edric taught me some English words. Your country is very beautiful.”

“I have heard much the same of Flanders,” Cynwise said.

“I hold fond memories of it, but my home, my heart is in Normandy,” Avicia replied.

Edric sneered inwardly. How dare she come in all her glory, parading her happy marriage?

He interrupted whatever his wife’s reply might have been. “Indeed, Lady Avicia, much has changed since we last saw each other. Both of us married. You to a French knight. When last we saw each other, you held no lands or monies, and had no marital prospects. You were a mere attendant in the Flemish court. How you must relish your improved fortunes.”

Avicia gaped in stunned silence, while her friend gulped. Wide-eyed, Cynwise’s cheeks reddened.

“A lowly attendant?” A feminine voice intruded. “I am not surprised, for you do not possess the refinement of a true lady.”

Edric looked toward the interloper. A black-haired, green-eyed beauty stood nearby. She tittered behind her hands. The brawny man beside her tugged her arm. “Come along, Mabel.”

Avicia’s husband pulled her close. “A pleasure.”

He led her from Edric’s side. Her friend glared at him, before she followed.

Cynwise cleared her throat. “You embarrassed her, my lord. Why does she inspire such cruelty?”

Lady Edith’s arrival halted his reply. “Forgive me, for I tarried too long with the Queen. She shall let me see Wulfnoth and Haakon after Tierce tomorrow. You may both come with me. I am sure Wulfnoth would be pleased upon seeing Lord Edric again. Oh, the hall must be very full. Shall we go in?”

“I have no appetite,” Edric said.

Cynwise eyed him with an unwavering gaze. “You said you were hungry.”

“Not anymore.” He walked off into the dim evening alone.

Avicia sat beside Philippe on a long bench at the narrow trestle table. For the first time in which they dined together, she noted the coarseness of his table manners. He selected the thickest slices of venison for himself and piled thin scraps before her. He licked his grease-covered fingers. When he poured generous cups of wine for himself from the earthenware pitcher, much of it spilled on the white tablecloth. She sneered at his crude behavior and turned from him.

Across the hall and to her right, Mabel sat with two other women. Avicia could not remember their names, but knew they were also the wives of William’s closest advisors. Mabel met her gaze and laughed openly. The other women bowed their heads and smothered their sniggers. Mabel challenged Avicia with an unrepentant stare. Her green eyes narrowed with disdain before she sniffed haughtily and whispered with one of the women, who laughed.

Avicia’s stomach soured. Why had Edric embarrassed her? She had never experienced ashamed of her service to Matilda of Flanders, but when he belittled it before her nemesis, she felt lower than dirt. No doubt, Mabel had shared the insult among her friends. Most of them already presumed they were her betters, because her husband possessed no land. Now, they likely thought of her as a servant who aspired for higher status.

Mortified at her humiliation, she barely stomached the food. The butter tasted rancid, or perhaps the onset of her pregnancy made her think so because Philippe spooned copious amounts on his bread. The leathery meat and its taste, or lack thereof, disgusted her. She had never liked lampreys and refused them now, steeped in wine and covered in cold sage.

Her husband’s silence about the insult Edric had delivered hurt her. Philippe betrayed her trust and reliance on him. He devoured a leg of roasted pheasant with obvious relish. Not for the first time, she wished he might choke. He experienced no shame in his lack of action. How dare he act indifferent while she suffered?

“You do not eat.” Philippe discarded his bones.

She rolled her eyes heavenward. “How observant of you, husband.”

He raised one of his black eyebrows in a quizzical slant. “Why take such a tone with me? You became ill-tempered after you saw the Englishman….”

“Ill-tempered?” she sputtered. “Ill-tempered!”

Alice and others glanced at her, but she ignored their curious expressions. She stared at Philippe, with her lips pressed tight together.

“Avicia, I beg you do not scowl at me so. Lower your voice at the table.” His visage hardened. “Do not be angry with me, if your reunion with the Englishman went badly. Why did you seek him out? He has the arrogance of his kinsmen the Godwinsons. If he was rude to you, why should you care for his opinion? You shall never see him again, after we leave England.”

Although he acknowledged her suffering, he simply did not care about it.

He continued, “His actions do not matter. When we were in London, you said it meant so little to see the man again. Eat some food for the sake of our child.”

She forced a smile. “You only care about your heir. You did naught while Lord Edric shamed me before Mabel de Belleme.”

He chuckled and sought her hand. “She cannot harm you either.”

She tugged her fingers from beneath his grasp and stood. “How can you be so blind to my misery? I must leave. I shall return shortly.”

“You cannot wander alone in this strange place.”

“Please, leave me be!” She stifled a sob and darted from the hall. High-pitched laughter chased her.

Edric pressed his head against a timber post. He had behaved stupidly. Avicia’s happiness rankled on two accounts. Her marital pleasure surely outmatched his. She had given her heart in full to her man, while his wife did not love him.

He and Avicia had known each other only for a short time. Still, it seemed a betrayal that she loved another. She had forgotten him.

His heart ached with nostalgia. She had found someone else who made her happy. Her disloyalty hurt. For years, he had kept memories of her afresh and alive in his mind and heart.

Still, she had not deserved a measure of his pain, but like a fool, he had belittled her, reminded her of her humble origins. He gained little for his trouble, except more cause for regret.

He sank down on the dank earth and tugged his grandfather’s wolf skin pelt around him. Across the yard, a hound nosed for a few scraps in a heap. He emitted a baleful whine when he found nothing, before he loped off. Edric drew his knees up, rested his elbows on them, and slumped into silent misery.

Avicia stumbled into the courtyard and headed for a dense copse of thick leaves. Her eyes watered with every step. She wiped the tears aside as soon as they fell, intent on the solitude the thicket offered.

“Avicia?” In her path sat the source of her embarrassment.

When Edric rose, she stepped back. He advanced and she put her palms up, warding him off. His fingers closed on her wrists.

“Get away from me! By your own recent observation, I am a lowly retainer, worth no one’s notice.”

“Stop this. I did not mean to hurt you.”

She wriggled from his grasp, desperate for an escape. “Let me go, or I shall scream.”

“You behavior draws unnecessary attention. The King’s guards look at us.”

Two huscarls, who warmed themselves by a fire, nudged each other with shrewd leers. One winked at her and gave a raspy chuckle before he whispered to his companion, who also laughed.

“Come with me,” Edric urged.

She bridled. “Leave me be! How dare you?”

His hand clamped on her wrist. He dragged her toward a timber structure. Behind them, the sounds of laughter echoed.

He pried open the door and pushed her inside. Birds squawked in loud protest at the intrusion. They stood in the King’s mews.

“I am the wife of a knight, not some peasant you can abuse. Let me out, my lord, or I shall scream this place down!”

He barred the door and stepped closer.

Her stomach fluttered and she licked her dry lips.

She wiped her clammy hands in her skirts before she balled them into fists. Her senses grew attuned to the sound of his even breath, the smell of horses and grass that lingered on him. Masculine power emanated in his square shoulders and powerful legs.

“I acted without foresight. I regret my earlier behavior, my lady.”

“You regret it? You regret it! You embarrassed me before my friend, my husband, and a woman whom I despise. Yet you can counter my feelings with simple regret.”

“Shall I fall on my knees and beg forgiveness? I shall if you want!”

As if giving proof of his words, he did so. His body hit the earthen floor with a heavy thud. She held his rapt gaze in silence. The King’s birds quieted.

 “Why did you do it?” Her eyes watered again.

“It was unforgivable. I was angry. I did not expect that you might marry, might love another.”

 “Should I have brooded forever in your absence?”

He smiled but it seemed insincere, forced. “Was it too much to hope?”

She turned her back on him. “You are an English lord’s son. I lived by the whim of my uncle. Your status and mine dictated our fates.”

“My father is dead. I am the lord of his lands now. Your fate changed for the better, too. You left Lille and your cruel uncle behind.”

“Philippe rescued me.”

Stillness descended in the room again. Stifling warmth grew and swelled in the enclosure. Edric’s boots scraped the earth behind her. She whirled and faced him. He stood with arms rigid.

Perspiration glided down her back underneath her garments. She backed off, but he reached for her and held her firm.

“Do you love the Frenchman?”

“I married him.”

He jerked her toward him. “That is no answer. Do you love him?”

His breath warmed her cheeks. His mouth drew her gaze for a moment before her eyes flitted back to his. “I love him! I carry his child. Did you believe I would never find love again, content with shallow memories of you? There is a great divide, which separates us forever. Hope forsook me when you told me you belonged to another. Philippe found me. He desired and loved me. I chose to love him, too.”

Edric released her so fast, she stumbled a moment. He turned from her, his shoulders hunched. Waves of misery cloaked him. Her heart wrung with pity at the sight.

“Cynwise is no true wife,” he muttered. “She does not love me. I married her because Godwin wished it. She tolerates me at best.”

Avicia blinked back tears. His voice seemed so wooden, remote. With trepidation, she put a hand on his shoulder. Muscles bunched beneath her touch.

“I am sorry for you, my lord.”

He spun around, his face a dark mask. “Do you think I want your compassion? Am I some object of your pity, scorned and ridiculed for my loveless marriage? Do you congratulate yourself for the happiness of your union with the Frenchman?”

“Please, I meant no such thing! I would never pity you, or think myself above you. You have confused me and made me say things I do not mean.”

Edric captured her face in his hands, forced her gaze upward.

Her eyes traced the contours of his mouth. She remembered the pleasure of his lips on hers. Her heart fluttered in tiny ripples.

He loomed closer. “Did you forget me, Avicia?”

She tugged at her lips with her teeth. He inhaled sharply, desire warming his gaze.

“Please release me. I am a married woman, my lord.”

“What did you feel when you first saw me? Why did you stare openly? Did you remember our days together? Have you missed me as much as I have missed you?”

“I love my husband. Edric, do not do this….”

His lips hovered dangerously close to hers. “You forgot to say ‘please’.”

She drew breath in one space. In the next, the feathery light touch of his kiss trailed across her mouth. So softly, her mind scarcely acknowledged it. She leaned toward him, seeking proof of the phantom caress. With a low, urgent chuckle, his mouth pressed against hers in full. She responded with keen insistence. Their lips and breath melded together. Her hands swept up his arms to his face. She held it firm between her fingers.

The distance and time between them faded. His kiss outmatched the hesitant, exploratory embrace of their past. He grew bold and brutal, possessive. She moaned when his hands slid down her waist, cupped her buttocks beneath the coarse wool and lifted her against him. He hardened beneath the layers of cloth, and pressed against her firm, rounded belly where the child grew inside her. Philippe’s child.

She broke the kiss. “This is madness!”

Rushing for the door, she escaped into the evening air.

Alice whirled toward her in the middle of the courtyard. “Avicia! I have been looking everywhere for you! Philippe was worried and I….”

Her voice faltered when Edric emerged from the mews. Stiff-backed, he bypassed them in lengthy strides. Alice gaped at him before her gaze returned to Avicia.

They fell into step together. Near the hall door, Alice halted. Cold speculation frosted her gaze. “I shall not speak of what I have just seen.”

“You saw nothing….”

“Do not contradict me! I know what I saw. I love Philippe, Avicia. He is dearer to me than my own brother is. I shall never let anyone deceive him, not even you.”

“I love him, Alice! I would never betray him with Edric.”

Alice frowned, her lips drawn tight. “I do not believe you. I do not know why you and he were alone together. You are my friend, but if Philippe ever suspects your fidelity to him, I shall not defend you.”

“Naught happened, Alice!”

“I wish you spoke the truth. Yet, your lips are too full and moist, those of a woman who has just been kissed, passionately so.”

Alice continued toward the hall. Avicia fell into place behind her. She touched her swollen lips and shivered.