Hi, friends. The Frozen River— releases in five days and I am both thrilled and terrified. So far it’s gotten rave reviews in People Magazine, Kirkus, NPR, the New York Times Book Review, and Book of the Month (to name a few). I am so grateful! I am so nervous! Because I want you to love the book as well. On Tuesday, it finally will belong to you. Until then, I can give you one last glimpse at the book. For the last several months I’ve been sharing cut scenes—little bits of the story that didn’t make the final draft. (For many reasons that I’ll discuss in my Writing Series at a later date). You can read the first cut scene here, the second here, the third here, and the fourth here. This is the last installment in this series (click here to read a longer excerpt of the finished story). I hope you enjoy meeting this anonymous character. He plays a significant role in Martha’s story so you’ll be seeing him again. Happy reading!
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Outside, in the darkness, something prowls.
Deepest winter has come to rest upon the woods and they are filled with shadow upon shadow, layers of ice, snowdrift, and hard frozen earth. Nothing squirms in the soil, nothing jumps from branch to branch. The falcon hears only wind. Snapped twigs. Heavy breath. The sky is thick as ash tonight, like a heavy cloak, pulled across the face of the moon. Whatever lurks out there, does so in secret. But still, his eyes search the gloom, piercing it like a blade, measuring the depth of every shadow, the distance between every bush and tree.
The door to his cage is open and behind him, warmth and light where the man sits at his table scratching at paper with a long feather, testing a newly made quill. After a moment, the man looks up, watches the falcon’s head swivel, then he turns back to his ledger.
“Where is she?” he mutters.
His wife has been gone for almost two days and not sent word. She’s been across the river. Is she still there? Has she fallen through? Is it foolhardy to send one of their children for word? And what would she think of him if he did? That he has grown soft? Worried? That he cannot manage their home in her absence? Decades they have lived like this and never once has he gone after her. Perhaps it is only that recently the man has realized they are no longer young, that he has no memories of a life without her. That—there will come a day—when one will be without the other. He misses his wife tonight and that is the simple truth of it. He does not want to go to bed alone.
“I will wait until morning,” he says. “And then I will go see for myself.”
The man has been collecting feathers. Some from the cage—the falcon grows a few at the tip of his wings that are long enough—but also in the forest. But he cannot simply dip a feather into ink and write. It is a very specific process. He has to prepare every quill by hand. And between he and his wife, they go through many a year.
First, he must strip the lowest, finest feathers. Then he must harden the shafts.
“Heh,” the man chuckles as he pulls five feathers from the warm ashes at the front of the small wood stove. “I wouldn’t mind if my shaft were hardened tonight.”
Every man remains a twelve-year-old boy, no matter how old he gets. It is a universal truth he has long since stopped fighting. And once the humor ebbs, he takes each feather and lays them on his worktable. He flattens the shaft slightly, until it takes an oval shape, then rounds the tip with his fingers. It doesn’t take long for the quills to cool, only a few moments. Then he removes the point at an angle with his pen knife, followed by a slit at the top of the quill which will pull the ink into the shaft, allowing him to write. His last task is to cut the corners off the nibs and test each pen.
Three of the five are satisfactory and two of those were salvaged from the falcon’s cage.
“Well done,” he tells the bird, as he chucks the two defective quills into the trash.
There. He hears it—clop, clop, clop—the heavy trod of horseshoes on the frozen drive. He goes to the door, sees the weary form of his wife bent over the horse’s neck. The man has a thousand questions, but he chooses to hold them as he meets her halfway and takes the reins. He will keep his questions until morning. It is wise, given the look on her face. He’s not stupid after all. He call read.
Once they reach the gate, he gently lifts her down from the horse’s back. He pulls her close. Smells her neck. Pats her bottom.
“Go,” he says. “Find your pillow.”
She goes, and he puts the horse in its stall. Then he walks back down the path, in the dark, to put the falcon away, to stow the quills, to bank the fire and clean his workspace. To shut the door to his mill. The man is in a hurry to get back to his wife and does not hear the mongrel dog in the woods. Does not hear its padded feet or its low, menacing growl as it approaches the falcon’s cage.
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The Frozen River will soon be available everywhere that books are sold. But you can help indie bookstores in general by ordering from Bookshop.org and my indie bookstore in particular by ordering from Parnassus Books in Nashville. (I would be thrilled to sign these for you).
Local friends: I will be at Parnassus for the launch of The Frozen River on Tuesday December 5th at 6:30. I would LOVE to see you! It’s free to attend, but the store is asking that people register online.
So exciting!! Congrats 🎉 Just in time for holiday gifts. 🎁 I read an ARC and loved it! 🌟
I can’t wait for everyone to read this book!!!!