The Second Moonlit Postcard From Thistle Bay.

I attend ritual with the best of intentions. Candles lined up, words rehearsed, prayers folded neatly like offerings. I want it to be perfect. But perfection often slips through my fingers. When the candles topple over and the prayers I’ve carefully written down are caught by the wind, I’ve learned this is where the real magic lives. 

I thought I would weave a recent experience of mine into Thistle Bay. The following isn’t a scene from my novel, but a window into the wider world of Thistle Bay. I’ll be sharing more glimpses like this, moments, characters and fragments that build the atmosphere of the place, even beyond the story on the page. Star is a main character in the book.

Star knelt at the cat cemetery, trying to focus on her whispered prayer. She wanted to get it right, say something solemn, anchor herself in the gravity of the moment. But just as the words settled in her throat, a russet blur darted past.

Fox trotted boldly between the crooked crosses, tail high, as if the cat cemetery were her personal stage. She stopped, scratched her ear with comic exaggeration, then glanced at Star with a look that was part dare, part joke. Wren snorted, trying to hide her laughter. 

The solemnity cracked. Star found herself laughing too, sharp and startled, until her eyes watered. It was ridiculous, and it was perfect. The dead didn’t need her polished words, they wanted her wild, unguarded presence.

The cemetery seemed to breathe with her, a chorus of unseen witnesses stirred by mirth. The dead had no hunger for polished prayers. They wanted her unguarded, alive, her wild laughter ringing through the dark like a spell stronger than any words.

The fox looked back, as if to say, nothing here will go the way you planned.

Wren shook her head, “Fox doesn’t care about your rules.”