Well, this is it.
I was sixteen years old when my parents gave me my first year's subscription to my website platform. I, being rather short-sighted at the time, decided to name my website after my book series. And for the past--good Lord, five years now--it's worked great.
Whether fortunately or unfortunately, things don't always stay that way.
As soon as I'm done with Book 3 in the Clouds Aflame series, I'll be taking a break from St. Anne's Cleft. I have two additional books for the series planned, but I've been stuck on this island since I was thirteen and I want to branch out a bit. Thing is, though, I can't very well promote other books on a website designed specifically for the Clouds Aflame series. That's why I'm moving websites. Our new link is www.mjpiazza.com.
It's a lovely website created with the help of a lovely friend of mine. And don't worry, it's a lot like our current website. You might not even be able to tell the difference. But hopefully, it'll work a lot better than my current website. As you might have picked up on over the past several months, I've been having a few technical issues with my current website host.
Well, that's that. Sorry for the short post, but I have two papers to write and a quiz to take. Next week is finals week as well as my 21st birthday, so don't be surprised if I don't post. (Not that I'm planning on getting wasted or anything. I am, however, going to buy some vodka to make some herbal medicine with. And maybe some wine coolers.)
Speaking of which, however, I might as well tell you how my Thanksgiving went. It went splendidly. No one was in the hospital (my father was hospitalized with a heart attack on Thanksgiving in 2017, so it's something I'm always grateful for). We had new chair cushions that I'd never sat in before (this will be important later). In Texas, minors can drink under a parent's supervision, so Mom let me have a glass of a delightful sparkling rose. Anyway, I sat down on the fluffy new chair cushions and started cracking up because my feet didn't touch the floor.
Enough procrastinating for one day, unfortunately. One more week, and then one more semester, and then the hard part of life starts. I'm looking forward, though, to buying some land, starting a nice vegetable garden, hopefully getting married and having some snuggly little babies...living a nice, simple life. One with open windows and homemade cookies and yes, a glass of wine on the holidays. I'm Italian, after all.
​Anyway...Weebly, goodbye (and, to the technical issues, good riddance). Welcome to the future. 

Good evening, dear readers! It's been a good day in M.J.'s world today, thank God. I got to meet up with my parents for coffee, my brain cooperated with me enough to get a page of my important Shakespeare essay written, and I watched Guardians of the Galaxy in my dorm's mini theater. At the moment, I'm curled up with the late Ofra Haza singing in Hebrew on the wonderful Musi app. (If you haven't listened to "Deliver Us" from The Prince of Egypt in Hebrew...what are you waiting for? It's fantastic.)
If you know me in person, you most likely know that I love listening to music that's sung in languages other than English. And I'm not talking about mainstream stuff like Spanish or K-Pop. I'm talking Gaelic (both Irish and Scottish--apparently, the difference between them is less like American vs. British English and more like Spanish vs. Portuguese). Although Gaelic's the main one, I also have the occasional song in Hebrew, Latin, Breton (the love-child of French and Gaelic that's spoken in Brittainy) and, I think, a single song in Icelandic.
One of my favorite songs used to be "La Chanson de Mardi Gras," from the choral group Anuna. It was sung solo in French by a powerfully-voiced young man named Andrew Hozier-Bryne. I was shook for a week when I found out, several months after I'd been thoroughly enjoying "La Chanson de Mardi Gras," that my sweet Andrew has since stuck out on his own as a solo artist and now goes by Hozier. (While I don't listen to his solo stuff very often, I do enjoy "Arsonist's Lullaby" on occasion.)
I'd like to thank Julie Fowlis and the YouTube algorithm for introducing me to Gaelic music. Julie Fowlis also introduced me to the fact that Scottish Gaelic is a dying language. It is spoken, according to Siri, by less than 60,000 people worldwide. (For reference, over 200,000 people are native speakers of Breton, which is a language you didn't know existed until you heard me talking about it.)
I really, really wish I could help preserve this wonderful language. Unfortunately, for as smart as I am, my brain can't seem to pick up foreign languages. I tried with Spanish. I can read Spanish with a decent degree of accuracy, and I can speak it just fine. But, for some reason, my brain can't comprehend it when I hear it spoken. I couldn't even hold a conversation with a three-year-old on my most recent trip to Mexico. (My brain somehow refused to interpret "tres y media," or "three and a half," as anything other than "seis y media," or six and a half" when I asked the girl her age.)
Anyway, I might not be able to become fluent in Scottish Gaelic. But, assuming I can learn how to pronounce the darn language, I can sing it. I can mumble in tongues along with Julie Fowlis until I can wrap my tongue around the phonemes. I've got the "ch" sound down; now for the rest of the language. You thought French was hard to pronounce? In Scottish Gaelic, "ann" and "an" are different words that are pronounced with different vowel sounds. (The first rhymes with "down" and the second with "sand.") Maybe once I get out of college this spring and have the mental energy to devote to such things, I'll sit down with Gaelic for Dummies and figure everything out.
People care so much when animals go extinct. Where is the same concern for languages? I'll be singing "Ann an Caolas Od Oddrum" to the babies in the church nursery until I can sing it to my own children. I will not sit idly by and watch a language die.
If you could learn any language, what would it be? Let me know in the comments below! God bless you, dear readers, and don't forget to review us on Amazon!

Sorry for not posting last week. I was isolating (again) because my mom had Covid. She's fine now, thank God, but I'm beginning to think that isolation is a form of psychological torture.
I consider myself an introvert. Unfortunately, human beings are social animals, and turns out that no one does very well when they can't be around other people. After a few days of not being able to leave my house, my brain just sort of...stopped working.
At first, you think that everything's going to be fine. You stock up on tea and hot chocolate and plan on baking those fall treats you've been looking forward to all year. (For me, it's apple cider donuts.) But then you come back from your last grocery run, you lock the door behind you, and all of a sudden...nothing matters.
I unplugged my digital clock because the bright green numbers made it hard to sleep. It didn't matter. Time meant nothing. My schoolwork was uninteresting. I spent my time daydreaming, or else doom-scrolling through Twitter. I tried to crochet. It worked to an extent. But slowly, everything came to mean nothing. I was waiting, waiting, waiting, my heart rotting in my ribcage, my brain puddling around my spinal cord.
It got me thinking, though. If a single week of isolation is affecting me so severely, what would Lukas realistically be like? He spent thirty-nine years, after all, alone in St. Anne's Monastery. Of course, when my thirteen-year-old self started developing Lukas's character, I had no idea what loneliness did to a person. I thought that he would be a bit socially awkward--homeschooled, if you will. I love Lukas the way he turned out, but I wonder how my books would be different if I made Lukas a bit more realistic.
First off, he wouldn't talk much, and he sure as heck wouldn't be as eloquent as I portray him. Sure, he would have read a lot. But I read a lot, and reading doesn't translate to conversing. He would be silent--people would ask if he was mute, and he'd nod, grateful for the chance to be ignored. He probably wouldn't say more than a word or two to Alynn for--weeks, probably. Unless he was reading out loud. His voice would shake.
And when he finally gets to know Alynn--faith, the things I'd change. His statement of "Don't ye know how wonderful it is, to have someone to keep company with?" in Where the Clouds Catch Fire would be something more powerful, more desperate. Something like "My God, all my life I've wanted someone, anyone, just to--just to be with. Fer the first time in my life, I'm excited to wake up in the morning, because I know ye'll be there."
And when Alynn hugs him for the first time, he won't start praying. He'll freeze for a moment. Then, slowly, he'll start crying. This is the second person in his too-long life that he's received physical affection from. He hadn't realized he'd been starving for it. From then on, he'd keep trying to touch Alynn, trying to relive that feeling--a hand on her shoulder, on the top of her head. He'd twirl her hair while they sat together on the hearth on the long winter evenings, Alynn sewing and Lukas reading. Always innocent things that mean the world to him.
But, alas, Lukas is too far gone to be changed. To be honest, I love him the way he is. And I'm not the only one--I've had several people say that Lukas is their favorite character, and I'm inclined to agree with them. (My birthmother, strangely, prefers Rowan.)
I really hope that I don't have to isolate again. But just in case, what are your tips for staying sane when you can't hug or interact with people? Let me know in the comments below! God bless you, dear readers, and don't forget to review us on Amazon!

On Sunday morning, my pastor prayed for my employment status. At ten o'clock on Sunday night, I got a text asking if I could work on Monday. I also worked today, meaning I've got fifteen hours of work in for the week and I also have a crap ton of schoolwork to deal with tomorrow and Friday. I've been having mild but frustrating issues with my computer. On top of that, my grandmother has been in the hospital (she's at home now and perfectly fine), so...I haven't exactly had the chance or the mental energy to think about writing in general this week.
I should also note that it's ten fifteen at night, and I spent seven and a half hours wrangling small children. So this post is going to be a bit disjointed.
When I came home from work today, I crashed. I'd scraped by on a protein shake for breakfast and a student-sized portion of cafeteria taco salad (at the ungodly hour of 10:45 in the morning). An hour and forty minutes of my morning was simply scheduled as "Library." Was I supposed to guard the books to make sure they didn't escape? No kids came in, so I read the last two acts of "The Duchess of Malfi" in which literally everyone dies and is pretty much a mirrored version of "Edward II." 
Anyway, I crashed. I laid in bed for three hours straight. Not the best way to spend my time, I know, but college is the perfect time to make stupid decisions. (That's also why I'm writing this blog really late on a Wednesday night.) 
I didn't sleep, and I didn't spend the entire time on my phone. Instead, I daydreamed. I saw my characters, heard their voices, saw the ways they interact with each other. It was nice. I've got a nice group of imaginary friends that I can spend time with and vent my feelings through. It's a nice outlet. Not as cathartic as actually writing, but as soon as the words get put on the page, the fantasy is partially destroyed. Nothing I write will ever match the glory of what goes on in my imagination.
Anyway, one of those computer problems I mentioned earlier involved my keyboard, and I think it's starting to act up on me again. I'd better go before the problem gets worse. Plus, I'm exhausted and still need to shower off all my child-germs. With everything going on this week, I could use a laugh. Hop on my Twitter (I'm @MJPiazza2) and tag me in your funniest meme. God bless you, dear readers, and don't forget to review us on Amazon!

She vows to fight off the Norse alongside him. If they win, she gets the home she's always wanted. If they're defeated, she faces death--or worse, slavery.

Alynn doesn't have much of a chance. But if it means a forever home, it's a chance worth taking. Don't miss this stunning tale of faith, courage, and the power of family.

Alynn stood just inside the stable’s door and looked around. Pigs, sheep, chickens, and a single horse were all pleading for attention. But Lukas didn’t even look at them. One of the stall gates was open.
“What escaped?” Alynn asked.
“The mare. Alynn, stay here. I’m going to look for her.” Quickly, he saddled the remaining horse—a handsome, snow-white stallion—and galloped out the door.
Alynn wasn’t quite sure what else to do, so she went back outside. She walked in an aimless circle before a late-blooming flower caught her eye. She knelt in the rain-dampened grass to touch the lacy white blossom. It looked crushed, as if it had been stepped on—perhaps by the mare.
Alynn glanced up, saw a trail of hoofprints in the grass, and started running.
She ran through vegetable gardens, skeleton plants brushing against her legs until she reached the empty grain fields. The soft soil showed the hoofprints perfectly. She kept running. Finally, she looked up to see a horse, standing still in the field in front of her.
The mare was a beautiful dark bay, with a white diamond on her forehead. Her black mane and tail drifted in the wind as she looked up at Alynn, unafraid yet as gentle as a spring breeze over a heathery meadow. “I’ll not hurt you,” Alynn said. She gently approached the mare, one hand extended for her to sniff. “I’m here to bring you home. I’ll not hurt you.”
The mare took a few steps toward Alynn. Alynn was almost frightened of her, but she kept walking. Slowly, the gap between them closed, until Alynn reached out and touched the mare.
The mare snorted, sniffing the hand that caressed her. Alynn smiled and stroked her forehead. “There you go,” she said. “Good girl. I’m here to take you home.”
She slipped one hand under the mare’s warm mane and held the lead rope with the other. Gently, the mare followed her. Alynn shivered with excitement.
Suddenly, the mare stopped and jerked on her lead, snorting fearful warnings with her frightened eyes. “Gentle, girl! Easy!” Alynn cried. She jumped backward, clutching the lead. The mare reared and screamed like a terrified child. Alynn froze, staring in horror at the sharp hooves that sliced the air inches from her face.
Suddenly, Lukas’s voice shot through the nearby woods. “Alynn, what the devil are ye doing?”
Alynn couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even breathe. Her fingers clutched the lead rope as if they were made of iron. She couldn’t let go.
“I told ye to stay at the—Alynn, don’t move!”
Alynn’s heart skipped a beat. She heard an almost sickening sound behind her—like a demon clearing its throat.
Slowly, Alynn turned her head to see the demon personified. It was a dragon, three feet long with neither legs nor wings, with amber scales and black, undead eyes. It flattened against the ground, lifting its head to stare at her. Alynn had never seen anything like it before. She shrieked. The mare screamed again.
“You’ve got a month of practice? You’ll need some divine intervention, and even then you’ll probably lose a limb. Care for a quick lesson?”
“Pardon?”
Drostan didn’t bother to answer. He quickly lashed out with his sword, and Alynn drew hers just in time to parry. “Drostan Leifson, are you tryin’ to kill me?” she shrieked.
“Nay—just testing your skills.” Drostan calmly parried a couple of Alynn’s lunges. “Only a complete twit would hurt a girl on purpose.”
Well, isn’t that lovely, Alynn thought. “What am I doing wrong?”
“You have good form,” Drostan said. He swiped at Alynn’s head twice and was blocked both times. “Don’t use your elbow so much. It just wastes energy.”
“Thanks. Anythin’ else?”
Drostan parried a blow aimed for his neck. “Your feet,” he said. He tried a thrust, but Alynn dodged him. He nearly fell over. “You look like you’re dancing. You want your feet planted for balance unless you’re shuffling to get somewhere.”
“Grand. Now, what about strategy?”
Alynn twisted Drostan’s sword out of his hand, but he caught it again. They circled each other, swords together, panting with the effort.
“I don’t know,” Drostan finally admitted.
“What’s their weakness? They have to have somethin’.”
“Most of them,” Drostan said. “Some of them have been fighting since they were old enough to hold a weapon. There’s nothing much you can do against them. They’re just too good.”
“What about everyone else?”
Drostan thought for a while. “They’re strong. But they’re also stupid. Talk to them like you’ve never had a conversation before, and they should be confused enough to give you an opening.”
Alynn smiled. “Thanks, Drostan.”
“Remember what I taught you,” he said. “I’ll fight like one of them now.”
Alynn grasped her sword with both hands and parried a downward swipe that nearly wrenched her arms off her body. “What on—”
“When I said we’re strong, I meant it.”
“I can see that now.” Alynn dodged Drostan’s next few thrusts, then decided to use her head. She leapt behind a pine tree and snapped a branch in Drostan’s face.
Drostan stumbled backwards, his head snapped backwards. His face was scratched, and blood trickled out of his nose.
Drostan swore. Alynn leapt onto a half-felled tree for leverage. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I hurt you?”
Drostan blinked pine needles out of his eyes, his hands in angry fists. “You dog!” He kicked the tree Alynn was standing in, and she fell backwards onto the snowy ground. And suddenly, Drostan was angrily lashing out with his sword.

Two days ago, I wrote 1,875 words in a single sitting. That has not happened in a very long time, and I'm not sure when it will happen again. (Unless I get really excited about one of my upcoming academic essays, which is unlikely.) Those words were written for a short story which (hopefully) will be available for purchase on Amazon before the year is out.
I have a single college friend, and I brought up my short story in conversation with her. The story is rather sad--I mentioned as much. I wish I could remember what she said that made me laugh. It might have been something like "Story of my life--Depression," which actually fits. And then, of course, our professor starts class and introduces us to Shakespeare's tragedies. 
It was mentioned that literary critics seemed to prefer Shakespeare's tragedies to his comedies. One of the students mentioned that critics seem to like sad stories in general, to the point that only depressing books are required reading in schools nowadays. It reminded me of a quote I'd run across online a few years ago: "If you do not have depression, the school will provide you with some."
This got me thinking about the books I've read as part of my own education. My high school years were a fragmented mess curriculum-wise. I read The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom, which I highly recommend as an excellent book. I then switched to dual credit college classes, where I read lots of short stories and old novels that ended with a main character's death. Daisy Miller was brought up by one of my classmates. It's a tragic romance, but I don't particularly remember feeling bad for the dead heroine. The Scarlet Letter, though--I felt bad for the reverend. He was such a sympathetic character.
And then comes the college professor I still don't care for, with her penchant for war stories and apocalyptic fiction. She was my unpleasant introduction to the horrible worlds of Margaret Atwood. Reading Oryx and Crake during a global pandemic gave me anxiety. I'd literally have to stop reading the book because it stressed me out too much. That's to say nothing of The Walking Dead, which, for some reason, my professor found important enough to include in her syllabus. I read a graphic novel and watched the first episode. It gave me nightmares.
And then there's Ernest Hemingway. Ernest freaking Hemingway. For Whom the Bell Tolls is the only book that has made me fall asleep--and my mother used to suggest I read books at night if I had a hard time falling asleep. I hated the ending. We spend all this time with Robert Jordan, and we don't even get to watch him die.
The saddest book I've ever read was actually a children's story, and it wasn't for school at all. It was Bridge to Terabithia. I had borrowed it from Uncle Louie (my first-generation Italian great-uncle who's the male version of Sophia from Golden Girls and turns 91 next month) and was trying to finish it at a family gathering so I could give it back to him. I was sitting there in my cousin's backyard with tears dripping down my face.
Writing, I know, is a form of creative expression. I've noticed myself projecting my own insecurities and struggles onto my characters; perhaps they've helped me work through my own problems. Perhaps I'm not the first author to do this. And maybe readers, when they pick up a book that's sad in a way they've felt sad before--maybe they feel sort of that same way. Maybe there's a sense of "Hey, I'm not the only one who feels this way. There are other people like me. I'm not alone." And maybe that helps them feel better.
What's a sad book you've read recently? Let me know in the comments below! God bless you, dear readers, and don't forget to review us on Amazon!

My church has multiple locations. One is in the city my parents live in; another is about two miles down the street from my college dorm. Unfortunately, my local campus only has Wednesday services once a month. Which is sad, because I was really looking forward to meeting some cute guys at the new campus, and I spend Sunday mornings at my old location because they're used to having me volunteering there.
Anyway, I went to the new church for the first time last night. Unbeknownst to me, it was a baptism service. Since several children got baptized, all the kids were sitting in service with their parents so they could watch their friends get baptized.
When the pastor announced that his short sermon was over and the baptisms were about to start, a little boy sitting next to me jumped up and said, "Bath time!"
​Kids really are the cutest, aren't they?

One thing I really enjoy about living on campus is the ability to experience new things. So far this semester, I've interacted with people from Saudi Arabia, Australia, India, Columbia, and somewhere in Africa (I haven't gotten to ask him which country he's from yet). I've eaten cafeteria food (yuck) and read books I wouldn't have otherwise picked up. But I wasn't expecting to have old memories pop up, too.
It's always the little things that bring you back to years gone by. I was homeschooled for ten years, and my family used the Abeka curriculum. It's an excellent curriculum, and it's also used by the school my church runs--the school I substitute teach for. One day, I was tasked with collating worksheets for the kindergarten classroom. Turns out, Abeka has a certain smell to it that I'd forgotten about.
I remember sitting on one of those too-small chairs in the library, papers stretched out before me and a small pile of paper clips half falling off the table, sniffing papers. This was my third-grade math book, my sixth-grade grammar, my high school chemistry. Heck, I'd been immersed in that smell since my own kindergarten years. It felt good to smell it again.
But somehow, being in college has stirred an even deeper memory in me: the crack of a baseball bat.
I've never been good at sports. I was the tall, gangly, scrawny kid who read too much. But, when I was probably nine or ten, I played softball with my local public school league. I lived in a small town, and we didn't even have our own school district. We shared with Kingston, a town that was somehow even smaller than we were.
The first year I played, I don't think I hit a ball once. But I was still a good player. The pitchers all sucked--except for one, a tall girl who wore a helmet with a face guard while she pitched. We all hated her and her sixty-mile-an-hour fastballs. Anyway, the pitchers all sucked, and nine times out of ten I'd get to first base on a walk.
The second year I played, the pitchers got a bit better, and my parents started paying me to literally swing the bat, even if I missed. I still got a lot of walks. And I sat on the bench a lot. I played outfield when we weren't batting which means I spent most of my time beheading dandelions with my cleats.
But still--when we practiced, our coach would pitch. And sometimes, my dad would throw a couple balls in our backyard. And so I came to love the sound an aluminum bat makes when it hits the softball. 
We have a baseball diamond on campus. Apparently, we have a baseball team that's practicing right now. And so sometimes, when I'm outside at the right time, I can hear the crack of the bat. And it sends me back to my younger years, to the practices and my coach's voice and the teammates who nicknamed me "Evil Eye" because of the way I glared at a girl who accidentally spilled my water bottle once. Good memories like that. I had a kind coach, and that made everything so much more enjoyable.
What noise brings you back to your childhood? Let me know in the comments below! God bless you, dear readers, and don't forget to review us on Amazon!

Again. Freaking again. I sit down. I write an excellent blog post. I go to the top corner where there's a big orange button that says "Post"....
And Weebly logs me out of my account, erasing my blog post and forcing me to start from scratch.
I'm mad. I'm so mad at this God-forsaken website host. This is the third time AT LEAST this has happened to me. 
I was GOING to tell you about the first few sentences of the three new books I got on sale at the bookstore, but my fingers are tired and I don't feel like typing another 500 words.
Instead I will tell you that I can open my window now. I will tell you that I can see the sunlight gleaming on the leaves of a tree just outside my window, and the blue sky between its branches. I will tell you that I can hear a dog barking, and the hum of an air conditioning unit, and cars as they pass along the street. I will tell you about the large patch that I sewed on my window screen, and the tape that runs along the bottom of it to keep the bugs from getting in.
Oh, the smell of fresh air! It makes my dorm feel less like a prison cell and more like a home, although a few more pictures on my walls would have a similar effect. I've never been good at hanging pictures. I want a nature scene--perhaps a forest in spring, with plenty of pastel pinks to go with the rest of my room--hanging on the other side of my desk. That way I'll see it in the mornings, before I open my window, and it'll make me smile.
I'll tell you about the plants on my windowsill. I dropped them when I moved in, and they spilled everywhere. I re-planted them and now they're growing towards the sunlight again. Succulets don't need much root, I suppose.
Anyway, what can you see out your window? Let me know in the comments below! God bless you, dear reader, and don't forget to follow us on Facebook!

But they're not alone. A Norse army led by Chief Konar the Mad is making its way to St. Anne's Monastery. In a desperate attempt to save their home, Lukas teaches Alynn how to wield a sword. She vows to fight off the Norse alongside him. If they win, she gets the home she's always wanted. If they're defeated, she faces death--or worse, slavery.

Alynn doesn't have much of a chance. But if it means a forever home, it's a chance worth taking.

Don't miss this stunning tale of faith, courage, and the power of family. Where I Stand, Book Two in the Clouds Aflame Series, is now available on Amazon.

A faint voice was vying for Alynn’s consciousness, but she brushed it away.
If she woke up, she’d be cold again. Her arms and legs would burn with a cold that felt like fire, and she would shiver until she was nauseous.
But the voice refused to go away. Something shook her shoulder, and she cried for it to stop.
“There ye go, lass,” the voice said. “Open yer eyes. Look at me. Ye’re safe, ye’re out of the water. Ye need to look at me.”
The man’s voice was calm and comforting, with a brogue that was neither lilting Irish nor the type of Scottish that Captain McMahon spoke. Alynn knew she’d heard it before—she’d spent the night at an inn when she was moving from Corgrigg to Kilteery, and she’d lain awake listening to a man telling stories. A Highland Scot, he’d been.
“Come, now. Look at me.”
Alynn tried to open her eyes, and the first thing she saw was a ribbon of red racing across the horizon. It was nearly dawn.
A blurry figure was kneeling in front of her. Warm hands were shaking her shoulders, touching her face and pressing two fingers into her neck. Alynn felt as if he were trying to choke her. She cried out again.
“Yer pulse is strong, lass. Ye’re going to be fine. Be quiet, now, and we’ll get ye out of here.”
A strong arm slipped under Alynn’s back, and suddenly, she was lifted into the air. She shrieked.
“Shh! We can’t let them—just—don’t say anything. I’ve got ye, lass. Ye’re alright.”
Warmth seeped through Alynn’s soaking clothes as the stranger carried her down the pier. She started to relax.
“Ye need to stay awake.” The stranger sounded like an adult, someone at least as old as Rowan or Captain McMahon. “Talk to me. But quietly. We can’t let them find us.”
“Who’s trying to find us?”
Alynn’s voice sounded so slurred to her, she wondered how the stranger could understand her. But he answered her in a comforting tone. “No one ye need to worry about, so long as ye say a prayer fer us.”
Alright, then. Saint Mary, protect us.
“What’s yer name?” she asked.
“Lukas McCamden.”
“Where am I, Mr. McCamden?”
“Just call me Lukas, if ye don’t mind. We’re on the outskirts of a village.”
“Alright, then….Where…what kind of village is…is this Scotland?”
“Not quite. We’re on an island, north of—”
A new voice rang through the air. “Excuse me!”
“Say that prayer now,” Lukas whispered.