I’m currently writing a pirate-themed fantasy novel titlted The Dread. This week, I thought it might be fun to share a snippet of the novel with my readers and Instagram friends. I’m still in the drafting stages but hope to have a finished manuscript by the end of 2023.
If you’d like to learn more about my writing and my upcoming debut novel, visit my author website or Instagram. Also be sure to scroll to the end of this post for a fun question!
Thank you so much for reading and supporting my creativity.
Arabella Windcroft gripped the deck rail until her knuckles blanched. Seaspray spattered her cheeks. An eastbound wind whipped her dark curls. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a shaky breath of brine and seaweed.
Noise whipped around her. The slap and gutter of canvas. The creak of salt-stiffened rope. The singsong of male voices -- barked orders, sharp laughter, bellowed warnings.
Arabella heard no animals. No birdsong. No babbling brooks or sighing leaves. No rattling stagecoaches or marching Imperial squadrons. This far off shore, the only sounds you heard were the ones you brought with you.
Except for the sea, she thought. The constant breath of the great dark sea.
Waves lapped the ship’s hull. All day and all night, the ocean hissed and splashed and whipped itself into a frothing frenzy.
Suddenly Arabella’s stomach heaved. Her fingernails dug into weathered wood. Gods, she hated the ocean. The boat lurched -- her stomach with it -- and she paled.
“Ari?”
Arabella clenched her eyes as her mouth filled with saliva. Beneath her boots, the ship bucked like an angry horse. Rise, hover, plummet, rise.
Oh, gods. Arabella groaned.
Arabella, pull yourself together. Her father’s voice snapped like the canvas overhead, forceful even in memory. Her stomach tightened with grief instead of sea-sickness.
A gilded parlor floated into her memory: the Rhododendron Tea Room. Arabella saw pink china teacups, stems as delicate as flower petals. A pyramid of powdered dainties, candied flowers, and cold cucumbers towered atop a silver serving tray. Her stomach grumbled, but she couldn’t even eat due to her whalebone corset. Her heart galloped beneath her bodice; her fingers trembled in lace gloves. Over this lace-trimmed scene loomed her father’s frown, severe and dark as a stormcloud. The sausage curls of his wig curled magnificently over his embroidered coat. The rich shot green and black silk garment rendered his eyes piercing blue. His silver wig glowed against his skin, dark as oiled walnut.
Arabella had stared at her father’s chiseled features, unyielding as hardwood, and sought any resemblance to her own. But she had inherited her mother’s face, a fact her father routinely degraded. Soft cupid lips, high cheekbones, and a regal brow. The sole concession to her father was her eyes: iridescent blue and cold as winter. And glistening now with unshed tears.
Father and daughter glared at each other across the simpering tea service. Arabella realized that, color notwithstanding, they never would see eye-to-eye. Certainly not today.
And now, she conceded with sinking dread, perhaps never.
“Arabella, I confess myself disappointed. I’d anticipated a better reception.”
Arabella had stifled a laugh. Her teacup rattled against its saucer as she set it aside. “I don’t know what to say, Father.”
“Your opinion is irrelevant. The matter’s settled.” Sir Windcroft dabbed his mouth with a lace-edged napkin. “I’ve booked your passage aboard the Endeavor. You’ll sail within the fortnite.”
Arabella clutched her hands in her lap. “So soon?”
Unfazed, Windcroft continued: “Your mother’s cousin Eridena will collect you at Portshelm. She’ll escort you to the Governor’s mansion. Your wedding will occur as soon as possible, I’ve been assured.” He sipped his tea and waved a hand. “Regrettably, I’m unable to attend the nuptials but Eridena is sufficient to the task, I’m sure.”
“Sufficient to the task,” repeated Arabella under her breath. She tapped the golden rim of her cup. The lace ensconcing her finger was so diaphanous it appeared tattooed: white swirls and roses against flesh as dark as a coconut husk.
Her father droned as incessantly as the cicadas outside. Arabella stared at her tea -- stared at cream dwindling to surface scum -- stared at her tapping finger -- stared at the virginal tablecloth and hand painted saucer, fragile as a seashell -- stared -- stared -- stared --
“No.” Swift as a bullet, the single word jolted through her.
Her father stopped. Their blue eyes met across the frilly table. “What did you say?” he asked carefully.
Refusal welled up Arabella's throat and burst into the air between them. “No. No, I won’t go. I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to?” Sir Windcroft repeated with the bewildered air of one being told the sky was purple.
Arabella’s cheeks scorched. “I want to stay here. In Imperia.”
Her father’s eyes crinkled. His lip curled. Then he boomed a laugh that made more than one patron glance their way.
“My dear” -- chortling as he poured her a fresh cup of tea -- “ what you want doesn’t matter a whit. The marriage is arranged. Dowry paid, papers signed.”
Arabella’s hands trembled. The teapot clattered on its burner. Sir Windcroft’s silver spoon tinkled against his cup. Such stupid sounds, she thought.
“You’ll depart nine days hence. Here,” her father offered a tray of sugar-encrusted pastries. “Have a biscuit. You’re too thin.”
“Ari?”
A voice dissolved her father’s frown as easily as a biscuit in tea. Arabella turned to find her brother standing at the rail. His auburn curls, soft as ocean-froth, jumped on the wind. He squinted up at her, nose wrinkled. He too had inherited none of their father’s looks but was all their mother: quick laugh, soft hair, lip-biting frown.
“Gods, William,” huffed Arabella. “What do you want?”
“Captain said I’m to man the helm,” gushed the boy. Ten years younger, he still brimmed with glee at any hint of adulthood. “Next bell! Can you believe it?”
Brandishing an invisible sword, he feinted left, then stabbed her side. “I’m captain of this ship now, Windcroft. And ye’ll do as I damn well say or it’s the brig for ya!”
“William!” Despite his cursing, Arabella found herself laughing. She caught his shoulders and assessed his appearance. Shirttails loose, waistcoat unbuttoned.
“Well this uniform won’t do,” she tutted with mock gravity. “Tuck. Button.” As he obeyed, she pulled a black ribbon from her pocket satchel and finger-combed his tousled hair. “There. Fit for duty, Soldier.”
William flashed a glittering grin.
In that moment, the first cannonball struck.
Thank you so much for reading the opening chapter of my in-progress novel The Dread. For more writing updates, be sure to follow my Instagram. If you enjoyed this post, let me know in the comment section, and I will post more fiction in the future!
In the meantime, I could use your help on a dilemma. I’ve written about 50k words so far; but I’m debating whether or not to change the main female character’s name. Presently, her name is Arabella Windcroft. However, the main female character in my upcoming debut is named Gabriella.
Arabella. Gabriella. See my problem?
I’ve tinkered with two alternate first names. Auriana (Auri for short). Or Leila (Lee for short). Which do you prefer?
I get what you mean about the names, as they are very similar. I personally like Leila best!
I love this so much! And honestly I think reading it with ‘Arabella’ makes me love the name best.