Ready to Ride

steep road

I awoke to the persistent rustling of my husband next to me. The room was still dark, and for a moment I thought it was time to get up for work. Then I remembered it was Saturday.

“Honey, we don’t have to get up until 7:30,” I mumbled.

“I know, but I’ve got to get up. I’ve been lying here awake for hours,” my husband said as he jumped out of bed. “You know how I am—just like a kid—when there’s a ride!”

“But maybe I could just lie here a little longer,” I protested to an empty bedroom, as I heard Frank turn on the coffee maker in the kitchen, and start making breakfast. It was no use. We were riding our motorcycle with the HOGs this morning, and I needed to get up and get my gear together. With a sigh, I shrugged aside the mounds of warm quilt and wrapped my long sweater over my tee shirt and yoga pants.

Smiling as I saw the steaming bowl-sized mug of coffee waiting for me, I sat down at the breakfast counter and squinted at the alarming awake-ness of my spouse. He respected my “No talking before the first cup of coffee” rule, and hummed to himself as he prepared our oatmeal in the microwave.

One and a half cups later, and after my brown sugar crusted oatmeal, I was ready to receive my instructions. Frank uncovered Dean, our Road King, and dusted off each painted and chromed surface with a microfiber cloth. I pulled out our jackets, leather chaps, hats, and helmets out of the bedroom closet and staged them in the living room. Then I joined him on the back porch, providing verbal reassurance as he backed the motorcycle out through the narrow passage on the side of the house.

After some colorful language when he hit one of the side mirrors on the wooden gate, my husband parked Dean in the front driveway. The gleaming black and chrome bike seemed to plead with us to take him on the road like our cocker spaniel yearns for a walk.

We dashed back in the house and began layering our gear. Not for the first time did I wish for a squire to assist us as we zipped  and tied up our leather boots, buckled and zipped on heavy leather chaps, added layer after layer of long sleeve shirts, snapped close our vests, and wrestled on our leather jackets. By then we were sweating from the exertion and the warmer temperature in the house, so we exited quickly.

Because you can never have too many jackets and warm clothing, we stuffed extra clothes into the saddle bags. I went through my mental pre-ride checklist.

“Oops! I forgot our waters,” I said, and I waddled back into the house to grab a few bottles. When I returned, Frank was seated on the bike, goggles and helmet on, his body tense with eagerness. Dean was growling as his engine warmed up. I tucked the waters in between the clothes and locked the saddle bag.

“Get on,” my husband said. I put in my earphones and set up my phone for my Flyleaf mix. Then I pulled on my helmet, buckled it, and climbed up on the back on the bike. I slipped on my gloves and gave Frank a thumbs up.
Dean roared with enthusiasm as we drove down the street.

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Cook’s Corner

Cooks corner

First there was the gathering. One by one the Harleys roared into the parking lot, and riders popped off their helmets. They joined the circle standing nearby, which grew minute by minute until the magical KSU time. Old friends met some new friends; names were exchanged, as well as handshakes and hugs.

Suddenly, the appointed time arrived, and riders scattered to their motorcycles, adding layers of leather, earphones, and helmets. The dog pack obediently emptied into the street, patiently holding back the thunderous power that its riders sat astride. The bikes passed through the gauntlet of traffic lights and stop signs, growling with anticipation.

At the appearance of an open road, each bike roared as it took off, eager to stretch its legs in the desert. In the backyard of the city, each twist and turn brought cobbled together mobile homes or spreading mansions into view. Both poor and rich shared the dream of the pioneer—build on the land and claim it for your own. Brick and wrought iron fences did not prevent us from viewing the piles of toys inside, apartment sized travel trailers, boats, vintage cars, and off road vehicles. The next turn revealed boarded up and crumbling shacks that told the story of dreams cast aside.

The road climbed up the side of the desert mountain, and I peered cautiously over the edge. The lake below us was wreathed in mist, deep navy blue. As I looked up, I was dazzled by the snowcapped mountains in the distance. Yesterday, my boots crunched in the January snow up in those mountains, but today I rode behind my husband on our Harley in 60 degree sunshine. Again I was reminded why Californians find it difficult to be transplanted in other states. We take our climatic diversity for granted.

With the top of the mountain reached, the snarling pack of Harleys threaded themselves through the narrow pass between the peaks. The tree covered mountains stretched before us, looking like a fleece blanket thrown over unknown items. Their mystery remained unrevealed to us as we sped past them, concentrating on the curves of the road. The wind rushed in our faces as impatient sport bikes passed through our line, determined to push the boundary between the capability of their motorcycles and eminent death.

After some time had passed, the mountains spit us out into the hills near the beach. The pack turned, and we enjoyed the tame shrub dotted hills after the rugged pass. The wide, multi-lane road, bordered with elaborate landscaping, spoke of the area’s affluence. The major intersections boasted stores on all four corners, including upscale fast food restaurants. After all, after Mommy’s busy day at the office, or shopping, she doesn’t have time to cook.

A few turns later, we left the red tile roofs and bird of paradise behind and dropped down into a narrow canyon. The crowded big box houses gave way to sprawling ranches nestled under towering oak trees. Elegant horses lounged in white fenced corrals. Bicycle riders in full racing gear shared our mud streaked road. Our Harleys obediently slowed on hairpin turns as we crawled to the bottom. I realized how close we were to the beach when I saw the hull of a large boat under construction in someone’s front yard.

A long line of parked motorcycles signaled the end of our journey, Cook’s Corner. We pulled up next to custom choppers, full dresser cruisers, and lean sportsters. Live music called to us from the patio, smells of hamburgers and fries caused my stomach to rumble. After I peeled off my chaps and stashed my gloves and helmet, I followed my husband and our fellow riders across the wooden bridge. A carnival atmosphere assailed us with booths selling motorcycle clothes.

Inside, men, many bearded and wearing hats, were crowded at the bar, cheering at the flat screen displaying a football game. Spandex coated bicycle riders, an older gentleman in a wheelchair, and bikers with leather jackets announcing various motorcycle clubs all patiently waited in line to order food. A man at the bar turned back to tell my husband, “You see those guys in line? They’re part of this riding club. The dealership sponsors them.” With a laugh, my husband shows the man his patch, and they exchange a few more words.

After picking up our tray of food, we joined the rest of our group seated at a long table outside. The band was cranking out classic rock on the patio a few steps above us, but we were far enough away to enjoy conversation. Looking around, I was again amazed at the variety of people gathered at this place. Not all motorcyclists, yet sharing the love of spending time outdoors on a sunny winter afternoon. For this moment, it was enough to connect us.

 

 

 

 

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College of the Crones-Chp 2 pt 2

 

mask

As the days grew shorter and the nights longer, the prince could not help but brood on his once perfect life. Being immortal gave him endless years to think on what he had lost. This world was a desolate wasteland, cold and dry in comparison to Faery. No one, man or faerie, could leave that perfect place behind and be satisfied elsewhere. That undoubtedly was the reason he had been exiled rather than destroyed. The King knew this would provide long years of punishment.

But I’ve done the best I could to adapt to this barren land.  His smile in the mirror looked convincing enough. He set himself up as a ruler, after disposing of the prior occupants of the castle, and began winning the countrymen’s favor. To those with no conscience, he offered positions as his personal guards. Their obedience could be guaranteed with gold.  He also hired soldiers to keep the peace, and administrators to keep order in the outlying villages. After the wild abandon of Faery, he needed structure around him. It made him feel like he still maintained some measure of control over his life.

Most landowners and peasants were won over easily when they learned of the astounding powers of the prince’s tonic. His potion making prowess had afforded him the perfect weapon. Once the people learned what the tonic could do, his position as their leader was secured.

Of course, I am perfectly suited to be their prince. His charm was legendary. Everyone loved him. Why wouldn’t they? He gave men beautiful wives, and women beautiful parties. That they gave up certain things for these pleasures seemed a logical and fair trade to him.

A quiet knock roused him from his daydreaming. “Your Highness, carriages have been spotted on the road. Your guests are arriving,” a small voice called through the door.

The interruption flashed his anger, and the prince took his heavy silver goblet in hand, ready to pitch it at the messenger as he came in. But the servant waited outside for his reply, accustomed to his master’s moods.

“I’ll come down when I’m ready, not a moment before,” the prince replied. He smoothed his features and sighed.

Slowly he untangled himself from the layers of silk and woolen blankets that trapped him into the red velvet arm chair. He picked up his feather-covered mask and put it on. He admired himself in his golden full length mirror on his wardrobe door. Two bright green eyes twinkled at him from behind black feathers and an orange beak nose. He was clothed completely head to toe in black leather. Who could resist me? He pulled himself up straight, set his shoulders, and lifted his chin in his most dashing gentleman pose. Then he buttoned on his feather cape and the costume was complete. Tonight he would reprise his role as the Raven.

 

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The College of the Crones Chp 2

mask

Chapter Two Part One- Masquerade Ball

Although there were nightly parties at the prince’s castle, everyone’s favorite event was the harvest festival masquerade ball.  All the landowners and townspeople came dressed in elaborate and often ridiculous costumes.  The prince savored a sip of Eldertown’s best red wine, as he pictured the party guests. For most of my subjects the foolish apparel is an improvement. Except for the ladies, of course. At least the ladies, thanks to his beauty potion, did not offend his sensibilities. He downed the rest of his goblet.

All the preparations were complete for the masquerade ball. But of course all is ready. I will not tolerate anything less than perfect. Hours of labor had produced a glossy shine on the tile floors. The entire castle had been decked with garlands of ivy and blood red roses. From the kitchen came a whirlwind of noise and aromas, escalating as the hour of the guests’ arrival approached. The band was tuning their instruments. Court ladies reclined in their dressing rooms, allowing their servants and handmaidens to add last minute details to their costumes. All the lanterns and chandeliers had been lit. The castle glistened like a giant star upon the hill. Since it was the end of the harvest season and winter was approaching, it was already quite dark and crispy cool. It was the perfect night for a ball.

Away from the clatter of preparation, the prince relaxed in his sitting room, his chair facing a crackling fire in a massive stone fireplace. The fireplaces were always roaring in his private rooms. All the changing seasons in this world are quite unsettling. He was always layered in fine wool and furs after the leaves began to turn fiery orange and red. His shivering wouldn’t cease until springtime warmed his face once more.

The gold trimmed mirror over the mantle was tipped to catch his reflection. He couldn’t help noticing the way his wavy black hair caught the glint of the firelight, and how his neatly trimmed beard accented his piercing green eyes and prominent nose. No man in this world can captivate hearts the way I can.

            Still, he was too thin, despite his feasting, and not as tall as he would have liked. His narrow pointed ears he kept hidden under his hair. He didn’t need to draw attention to the few differences between mortals and faeries. His people thought his never-ending youth was due to another potion that he kept for himself. If they discovered I was a faerie, they wouldn’t be so eager to trust me.

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Not all those who wander are lost

I love this poem from my favorite author. It reminds me that there is always hope.

strugglingwriter's avatarThe Struggling Writer

This morning, I came across this lovely J.R.R. Tolkien poem by way of the excellent blogger and writer Lindsey Mead.

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king

It’s that “Not all those who wander are lost;” line that really gets to me. To be honest, in life and in fiction I’d rather spend my time with those that have wandered a little bit than those that always knew their path. Though if I were to be perfectly honest, I fall more into the boring camp myself. If if helps though I would attribute this less to knowing something…

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Looking Back at 2015

working

Part of being a good teacher is the ability to reflect and respond. After the kids leave, and you’re sitting in a mess of broken crayons, glue-crusted desks, and overflowing trash cans, it’s time to go over all the lessons that day. “I’ll never do that again!” and “Wow! I can’t believe that worked!” are the thoughts that guide me for future instruction.

But I can’t help being that lifelong learner when I go home. And now it’s New Year’s Eve, and time to clean up the mess and plan for next year.

My husband and I have been going on a planning weekend in January for the past seven years we’ve been married. Besides spending quality alone time together, we have a notebook that we use every year. We go over the goals from the past few years and evaluate our progress toward them. Some ideas make us laugh as they aren’t even concerns anymore. Others make us groan as we realize we didn’t do anything about them.

At the end of December, I have enough free time to start thinking about what I will add to our notebook this year. And to prepare my defense for those goals I didn’t reach.

Financial goals always make me cringe, but this year I want to save more money. I really bombed on this one last year, but my attitude toward spending has evolved. It’s amazing how much stuff you don’t need as you get older. Well, maybe except my phone and computer. And wifi.

In the category of personal goals, 2015 was going to be the year I reached out with my writing. A writing friend suggested joining The Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. When I finally did, I had the opportunity to meet with an agent and have professional editing at a writing conference. In addition, I met some great creatives and listened to their stories of being published in the traditional way. But this group doesn’t meet often, so I found The California Writers Club online. The Inland Empire Branch meets monthly in Ontario so I could quench my thirst for literary conversation and learn more about self-publishing and promotion. Both groups helped me communicate my stories in a more confident and professional manner.

Still questing for additional critique of my almost completed book The College of the Crones, I decided to go back to college—University of California Riverside Extension Program. In September I started working on my Fiction Writing Certificate, a 20 unit program to shore up the structure of my writing. Writing definitely stays on the list for 2016.

In the category of shared goals, my husband and I joined the Harley Owners Group in November, after agonizing about it for over a year. Originally we had wanted to start our own motorcycle riding group, but after wise counsel, we decided to see how it was done first. It has been a great adventure, riding the back roads and starting new friendships. We also started riding with The Black Sheep, a Christian motorcycle ministry. Much to our surprise, the HOGs were much tamer than the Black Sheep. But that’s another blog. It will be interesting to see how the miles will add up this year.

As the hours tick down to 2016, I find myself at peace. There were some events I regret, but mostly it has been a year of growth. Each day is a learning experience, and as long as I remain teachable, the coming year will provide many opportunities to shape my life.

 

 

 

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Riding Along the Coast

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After a windswept journey down the freeway and a twisting follow-the-leader dance down the local highway, we finally arrived in Oceanside. My husband and I had reached our 1 ½ hour sitting limit on our Road King, so we pulled into a small park facing a tiny neighborhood beach to stretch our legs. Bacon smells, from the snack bar, competed with the salty ocean tang. It was the same beach from our summer vacation, but transformed from a crazy quilt of beach chairs, umbrellas, and towels to an open expanse of sand. Even the sea gulls seemed more relaxed as they floated slowly overhead. The parking lot was half empty, with surfers wiping down their boards getting ready to leave.

We munched our granola bars and drank our water bottles dry. Motorcycle cruising always makes me thirsty. We laughed about how leather chaps keep you warm except right in the front. Maybe we should have worn thermals. After discussing our route, we zipped up jackets, donned helmets and gloves, and headed on our way.

Instead of riding the freeway all the way down, we decided to take the coastal route to San Diego. Leaving Oceanside’s shops and cafes behind, we passed over the lagoon and into Carlsbad. Restfulness was replaced by traffic– cars, bikes, and people– in the bustling village. Waiting at traffic lights, we could hear many languages in the crosswalk. Tourists wore tee shirts and shorts in defiance of the cool December weather. Surfers passed us, barefoot with their wetsuits pulled down to their waists. I shivered in my leather jacket.

Finally the traffic lights gave way to the road overlooking the coast. The cadence of smashing waves and glistening foam accompanied us as we rode south. Sometimes the road came so close to the water that I could feel the salt spray splash up under my helmet. My view to the right was brilliant blue, turbulent blue grey, and sparkling white. I pushed the button for my sun visor to flip down as it became painful to look into the ocean’s gleam.

The road turned away from the beach and started to climb into sandstone hills. The ocean was hiding us now, behind hotels, restaurants, and luxurious homes. Then suddenly the road dipped down and the vista of the Del Mar race track and the beach spread before us. As we sped down the hill, I could see dogs running in the surf with their masters following.

The road was our roller coaster and it quickly pulled us back up into the hills again. This time when we roared down, it was into the salt marsh and wide open beach area near Torrey Pines. The craggy cliffs bristling with crooked trees beckoned us, and we flew up into their embrace. Soon we were in the midst of a coastal forest, savoring the fragrance of pine. Hotels and hospitals covered the hills, offering retreat and healing.

Regretfully our road led us back to the freeway where we were going to make up some time and end up at Old Town San Diego. Traffic was light, perhaps due to the Christmas holidays. The hills still surrounded the road with tall spreading trees and dark green bushes. In contrast to Torrey Pines, this landscape was not natural but carefully nurtured and shaped by landscape artists’ hands.

Finally, our exit approached, and I nudged Frank to remind him. We came off the freeway near the transit center, a maze of trains, buses, and trolleys ready to move the masses into the crowded downtown areas of San Diego. Old Town was right on the edge, and still maintained a small town feeling. The sidewalks were narrow and steep, the brick and wood buildings tall with narrow windows. Signs indicating historic locations drew tourists into old school yards, wagon barns, and candle shops. Guitar music and booths packed with striped ponchos, leather purses, and Day of the Dead sequined skulls tempted visitors.

After finding a parking place, we stopped and peeled off the layers of leather that had kept us warm on the trip. Looking around, we decided we should lock up the helmets. When Frank discovered we forgot the key to our lock, he asked the nearby flag shop if they could hold our helmets. They kindly agreed, and we were reminded again of the friendly nature of San Diegans.

As we walked stiffly across the street, we entered Old Town and headed for our favorite Mexican restaurant. Smells of tamales, carnitas, and beans led us in the right direction. The hostess seated us on the patio, next to a crackling fire pit, and we talked about the ride.

About circling sea gulls, glittering surf, laughing vacationers, and towering pines. The roller coaster road we never would have experienced had we driven down by freeway. We knew we might up with sniffly noses and sore hips tomorrow, but it was a small price to pay for an adventure.

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College of the Crones- cont.

tonic

Chapter One- The Funeral Part 4

But now it was time for her decision. She couldn’t put it off much longer. All week long, gentlemen had left their calling cards at her house. The cards sat in a silver bowl in the entry hall where the crone had collected them. Erin had ignored them like unpaid debts. Her friends all advised her that it was time to move on, but she just couldn’t picture herself as another man’s wife. She twisted the large diamond ring on her finger, unwilling to remove it.

What was the alternative? She feared the day when her green eyes would turn back to their natural brown color. Then the transformation would begin as she aged rapidly over the next two years until she was a wrinkled, hunchbacked monster. Could she face her reflection each day as she twisted up her hair? She imagined one of the house crone’s wrinkled faces in the place of her lovely one. Nightmares on top of nightmares, and I’m not even asleep!

Without a husband, where would she live? According to their laws, since she was childless, her father would own the shop and blacksmith trade. Her home would be sold to pay the prince’s death tax. Although she could move in with her sister and her husband, they would be forced to hide her because of her hideousness. Forced to disappear from all social life, she would wander as a wraith through the corridors of the house until she perished in her ugliness.

Am I seriously considering becoming a crone? A shiver ran through her as she realized she was contemplating remaining unmarried. She wasn’t a rebel. Her entire life obediently followed the traditions of her people. But her pain gave her courage she had never known. Courage to honor Mikel by allowing her beauty to follow him in death.

If she chose this path, there was another place for her. The College.

She had heard that some widows went there and learned to support themselves. They didn’t need husbands to survive. Erin had always admired the crone healers who came to the village to treat the sick and injured. If she studied to be a healer, she could have a meaningful occupation. Maybe her pain could be buried in her studies so that she could feel like herself again. Her family would not miss her as they rushed to keep up with their social lives. Seeing her would prolong their grief, as she was a reminder of her failed future at the royal court.

With a sigh, Erin stood up and walked stiffly toward the door. Even as she argued with herself she knew her mind was set. The memorial service made Mikel’s death a reality and it set for her a starting point—or a jumping off point, she thought—to begin anew. It was time to leave her locked tower of grief. She would make an appearance at the wake and graciously thank all of her neighbors and friends. After all, they meant well. Then she would return home for the last time. A few items needed to be packed. She would say her farewell to her sister and parents. At one time she had loved them deeply, but her heart was lost with Mikel.  Emptiness drove her to action. She could remain in Riversedge as a shade, but she felt the slightest flutter of hope. It was time to follow it.

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College of the Crones- cont.

tonic

Chapter One- The Funeral- Part 3

But the prince was overwhelmingly handsome, charming in speech, and strong in will, and none of the women who joined his court could resist him. Mikel had shielded her, his importance as a blacksmith affording him a few privileges.  But now she was exposed, husbandless. Their ruler could take her as an act of charity, sparing her destruction.

Some of the wives came forward to offer their condolences and admire her fine mourning clothes. Mikel would have loved this dress. It contrasts perfectly with my pale skin and pink lips. Her neighbor Madelin approached her with hugs and kisses, wishing her good fortune in seeking her next mate. Adel, already a veteran of six marriages, tried to introduce her to a potential suitor, one of her distant relatives. How can they be so cold? My dearest friend and husband is suddenly gone, and they choose this moment, his memorial, to begin the matchmaking. 

Mikel was Erin’s first husband. Will I ever bond with another mate only to lose him as well? He carried my heart away with him that night. I have nothing left for another.  In a culture where arranged marriages and third and fourth husbands were the norm, it seemed love was a luxury few women enjoyed. But for Erin, life would forever be divided into two parts: life with Mikel and life without him. Her loss was a fortress surrounding her, separating her from the kindness of others. She refused to be comforted, preferring instead to remain captive in sorrow.

After crone singers opened with a solemn song, the mayor began the memorial, saying many fine things about her husband. He praised their blacksmith’s every accomplishment, from the shoeing of the prince’s famous steeds to the construction of the elegant village clock. After he was finished, the prince’s representative delivered a stirring eulogy praising the marvelous weapons Mikel had forged. Erin’s step-father and sister sat dabbing their eyes and sniffing. Her mother’s striking features were dry, her pale green eyes narrowed slightly as her gaze fell on her eldest daughter. Erin sat next to but far apart from them, trying not to get caught up in their grief, having too much of it herself to take on more.

Next was Old Tong, who shared his memories of training Mikel as his apprentice. Old Tong had been a precise craftsman in his day, concerned with every detail, from heating the forge to shaping a nail. This eye for detail stamped into young Mikel as well, as the elder blacksmith spent many hours insisting that they adopt standards of excellence. “Hot forge, cool head, steady hand, stout heart,” he’d always said. Mikel was the finest student he had ever trained.

Erin listened to her husband’s teacher, brimming with pride.  But her face and body betrayed no emotion at all. She knew if she allowed any feelings to show she would lose all control. It was hard enough to keep the knives quiet in her heart without allowing tears to seep through. She had not cried since she was a young girl. Crying made her eyes look puffy. She kept her eyes on her lace gloves. They seemed to need constant adjustment.

After all the words were shared, songs sung, tears wept, and family members hugged, the crones took the children home to bed while the rest headed over to the pub. After assuring her sister that she would soon join them, Erin allowed herself to relax in the empty room. As difficult as it was to attend her husband’s memorial, somehow some of the crushing weight was gone.

 

 

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College of the Crones-cont.

 

tonic

Chapter One- The Funeral- Part 2

Even though his body was never found, Mikel was declared dead, in accordance with the law in Beautiful. Because of her husband’s great service to their village, the mayor wanted to make sure the blacksmith had a proper memorial. It would also serve as the public declaration that Erin’s period of mourning was over and the time for courting had begun.

Every morning she checked her face in the mirror for wrinkles. Although she had celebrated only eighteen birthdays, she had reason to worry. The small brown bottle was empty on her dressing table, reminding her that time was running out for her beauty.

The tonic.

Erin remembered the first time she saw the small brown bottle sitting on her mother’s dressing table, right next to a silver hand mirror. She had picked it up and tried to pry out the cork when her mother entered the bedchamber and quickly rescued it from her three–year-old hands.

“No! Bad girl!” she had cried in panic. “Don’t play with Mother’s things!” Her mother was wide-eyed and flushed of cheek, still beautiful but also frightening enough to make Erin cry. She was too young to understand the bottle’s importance. Only years later, when she was sent to finishing school, did she realize the tonic’s value.

Her training told her she needed to remarry so that she could maintain access to the tonic. The alterative, turning into a hunched over, shriveled up crone was unthinkable. The only cure was the prince’s tonic, which he was willing to sell to husbands at a high price. But Erin knew that a new husband and beauty tonic that came with him would never cover the ugly pain in her heart.

Was it the thought of marrying someone else, or was it the prince who frightened her? She remembered his eyes measuring her every time they attended the prince’s festivities. The prince presided over every birthday and ball and when giving his blessing, if he was taken with the presumed bride, it was his right–and one he exercised from time to time–to take the woman for himself. Their husbands could not reclaim them, but instead must choose a replacement wife.

The prince could command the hand of any woman he chose, even one with a family. If he took a woman with children, she wouldn’t see her children again until they were wives themselves, visiting the castle for parties. To be at the whim of the prince was part of the price the citizens paid for the tonic.

Some were more willing than others.

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