Cedar smoke and rain on cobblestones

Rain is learning the rhythm of the Edinburgh cobbles again, and I have cedar incense curling beside a half-loved cup of lapsang. Nina Simone's low stretches are stuck between the margins; words rearrange themselves to match the chord that lingers.

I spent the afternoon coaxing a new scene into being — a forbidden house that keeps its consent like a secret — and read it aloud by candlelight to hear where the language softens. If you've read one of my novels and can tell me the sentence that made you tangle or think, say so; patient readers are the kind I keep close.