Tuesday Tales: From the Word Evil

Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the blog where authors share their works in progress with you. Each week, we use a word or picture prompt in our scenes. Sometimes those prompts may make it into the finished product, while at other times, they’ll be edited out.  Today’s word prompt is EVIL.

Last week, I mentioned we would be leaving France along with Murielle, but while she sails south to Martinique, we return to the cold and snow of New France.  Enjoy.

New Year’s Eve

Ville-Marie, New France

All signs of the holiday season at the inn had vanished the day after Roger’s funeral, replaced by the black of a household in mourning. Sophie might not have planned to marry the young soldier, but she’d cared deeply for him, the brother she’d never had. As much as he hated to admit it, Guy knew nothing he could say or do would lift the pall that had fallen over not only the inn but the settlement.

The wind driven snow slammed against the window, but the fire in the bedroom hearth warmed the room nicely. Izzy sat in her  swing chair knitting. As much as he tried to hide his concerns and fears from her, his wife knew him all too well. After three lessons in firing her arquebus, she’d decided that she was as proficient as any of the men at the inn and had declared it her duty to remain by his side. Convincing her otherwise wasn’t going to be easy.

“Izzy,” Guy rubbed his temples where the headache he’d been nursing all day seemed to have intensified. Bad news had a habit of doing that. He raised the cup of willow bark tea his mother had given him and sipped the bitter brew. Much as he wanted to pace, to do so would show her how worried he was. “This argument is pointless. We’d agreed you wouldn’t travel with me after Christmas.”

“That was before Roger was murdered by evil, treacherous men right under our noses,” she argued, putting down her knitting and folding her arms over her slight stomach.

“Be that as it may, traveling at this time of year, is too hard for a woman in your condition.” He winced. Even to his own ears, his words sounded patronizing.

“My lord, since when have I shown myself to be some simpering miss? The babe isn’t due until  spring and it’s barely winter. The native women accompany their men all year long. Why Michelle went out to help her husband harvest the wheat mere hours after she’d given birth. I’m certainly strong enough to sit in a sleigh under a heavy fur throw.” She propelled herself, the swing moving faster in her agitation. “Whoever killed Roger is still out there. What about the missing soldier?” Her cheeks burned an angry red.

“Anselme Raymond has been found.”

That’s it. See you next week. Don’t forget to check out all the other posts on  Tuesday Tales.