Today marks one year since I published the first Chapter of When the Longing Returns.
I can't believe it's been a full year already.
I want to send out a hearty thanks to all my readers, and especially to those who have commented and those who have stuck around for a year as I slowly chip away at it. I really wish I was further along than this, but I'm happy and grateful for the love this story has gotten so far, and I hope it will continue to delight as we move forward.
Speaking of "forward", I'd like to mark this occasion with something special.
This is a scrap I've had written for a while, and will appear in a future chapter. It's without a doubt one of my favourite passages I've ever written, and I can't wait for you all to see it in the full story.
I hope you all enjoy, and as always thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. I feel so blessed <3
The Angel of Music had been a divine being; a creature of heaven--though he comforted Christine, she had also venerated him. She felt she was more closely connected to him in spirit than she was to any earthly being, but she had feared his divinity. It was a solemn thing to be in the presence of an Angel.
When he had appeared in her mirror and she saw, at last, no shining being, but a man...when she had realized that it had been this man all along, she was confused, even frightened, but also thrilled.
His height, his grace and power (even in stillness, he'd exuded them) the plains of the unobscured half of his face beautiful and terrible, like a sculpture of a god; all had enthralled her utterly.
His aspect, though not malevolent, was decidedly not the cool, distant benevolence of one of God's messengers.
His features were certainly not like the those of an angel should be; his lips, vividly sanguine, had a curvature to them that was sensuous. And his eyes! They were icy blue flames that crackled in anticipation as she beheld him, and made her skin crisp with their glittering intensity as the mirror opened and he reached out to her.
Imposing though this figure undeniably was, he was, at once, almost irresistibly inviting. There was a warmth about him, a gentleness which told Christine that she had no need to fear him.
How could she have resisted the incredible tenderness of that proffered hand?
She wanted to know--had to know, fully, completely--the master whose entry she had invited.
The warm tangibility of his fingers closing around hers had freed Christine instantly of any remaining reverent terror, and all she had felt when she followed him down that passage was excitement and fascination.
She'd forgotten all about Raoul. He had rattled her door and called for her, "Christine! Christine!" but his voice faded as soon as she'd heard it, because all that mattered to her in that moment was not losing sight of this man.
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