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Genre: Fantasy
About Kara GnomeLocation: Mio, Michigan Home Region: Age:51 Favorite novels: Wyrd Sisters, Passages, Waiting for the Galactic Bus, Weaveworld etc, etc, etc. Favorite writers: Terry Pratchett, Connie Willis, Parke Godwin, etc, etc, etc. Favorite music: Anything I can rock out with :) Non-noveling interests: Being outside, my house, the fam, sewing, and on and on. |
Joined: septembre 12, 2009 This Year: Official Participant NaNoWriMo History: NaNoWriMo posts: 18 NaNoWriMo buddies: 18
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Brief Author Bio: I've lived in Michigan for about a year and a half, but I adore it, here. I moved from Arizona, and if I had a chance to move back there, I'd have a very hard time explaining to my mother why I was staying here (g). |
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Synopsis: Stitches
Cookie will find that a dressmaker can encompass much more than needles and the threads between worlds.
Cookie Gerin knows the meaning of 'cloth of gold,' because she owns some, though its color is past all treasure. As a dressmaker, she's saved the cloth, dreaming of occasions she might create because of it, but at last she's decided to put away childish wonders. She must accept her life as nothing to do with golden cloth or with romantic dreams, and when her best friend needs a wedding dress, Cookie knows what she must do.
Between thought and cut, lives hang in the balance. A witch queen, Daema, has been seeking and foreseeing the cloth, but it's remained elusive until now, and the queen thinks it is no coincidence that she's found the cloth when she needs it most. She sends her trusted knight, Fray, to fetch the cloth, knowing that only her skill with magic holds the lines between her land and the uprising hemlands.
In discovering magic and protecting her friends, Cookie finds that magic isn't only about creation. She holds a pair of scissors, and power cuts both ways.
Excerpt: Stitches
By taking the box, Cookie thought that Daema had taken the last remaining thing that was warm, but had no strength to resist. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, thinking of what this might mean for the hemlands. “I’m so sorry.”
“What does she say?” asked Daema.
Apparently the yellow air told her, for she smiled in satisfaction. “As you should be sorry, trying to keep what is not yours and for what you have no use for.”
And they were gone, and Cookie collapsed as her friends had done, leaving her in the wreckage of her store. She trembled to see her body, but she was not a mass of cuts and her skin had not shred; it was a trick of the magic that she’d thought it was.
Lights still played in and out of the piles and bolts of fabric, but they reminded her of moths; they had no direction and no purpose. They fluttered as if they were a magic of loose threads, and yet, she remembered that she had sewn cloth out of air. She flexed her fingers, looking at them, and knew that she would not rest until she could feel such creation again.
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