TRIVIA ABOUT BURNING TIMES: SO WHAT ELEMENTS WENT INTO THIS BOOK? One of the earliest deciding factors was that I planned this series for four witches, each one representing a "quarter," or element. Brigit is representative of the element of FIRE, which meant she was particularly powerful (and, along with the fact that the characters were married from the start, also resulted in a sexier book!) It's also why I made her a redhead, by the way! Of course when one thinks of fire and witches at the same time, one thinks of the European witch burnings, which nudged me toward my possession plot. And since I had introduced her in WAITING FOR THE WOLF MOON as Sylvie's sister-in-law, she was already married for her book--the secrecy issues made a good conflict for a married couple, and I wanted to create a Family Tradition witch. I also made her Celtic, which fits much of the history of Witchcraft. If her stand was keeping secrets, then for ultimate conflict Steve's stand had to be gathering knowledge--thus he became a reporter (that fit the Air-like communications angle I'd already established for Sylvie, too). The cat, Romeow, is based on my back-up cat, Jonesy. THERE REALLY ARE "FAMILY TRADITION" WITCHES? Absolutely! You don't hear much about them because of the secrecy issues... and hey, if you could name the relatives who had been executed for practicing witchcraft, you might take a vow of secrecy too! Modern Wicca is largely an adult-conversion religion, but the older traditions of the Craft are often hereditary. I had fun playing with the contrast between Brigit and Andy, who is clearly a newbie, as well as exploring some of the biases of Brie's HP (high priestess) mother. WHAT WERE SOME CHALLENGES WITH THIS BOOK? At the time I planned it, I did not fully appreciate how difficult it would be to write a romance about a couple that not only was already married, but was happily so. Some authors have written excellent books about couples who, at the start of the story, are divorced or on the verge of divorce, but I did not want to do that--for me, for this book, that would undermine my faith that they could make a relationship work (you'll notice that while the idea of divorce comes up in BURNING TIMES, it is never embraced by either Steve or Brie). I also had trouble making the story too dark, the first time around, and had to rewrite my proposal to get rid of some of the worst angst. I think the book benefited from it. In the first version, the characters were fighting too much which, again, undermined the romance.... DOES BRIGIT HAVE A TAROT CARD TO REPRESENT HER? Yup. Sylvie was the Queen of Swords, and Brie is the Queen of Wands. HOW DO YOU PRONOUNCE BRIE ANYWAY ? I usually say it as "bree." Like the cheese. But "bry," as I've also heard, is no less correct. If it were a true shortening of her name, after all, it would be "brih." And that just doesn't work. I named her Brigit because Brigit is a Celtic fire goddess. Gwen, her mother, I chose as short for Gwenevere--also Celtic. Steven just sounded truly normal. Peabody came from a rumored ancestor of mine, who may or may not have been hanged as a witch in New England. Conway (Brie's maiden name) came from the author of a book called CELTIC MAGIC, D.J. Conway. WAS BURNING TIMES YOUR FIRST TITLE? Yes and no. I immediately thought of the book as BURNING TIMES, since before I'd written WOLF MOON, but I soon began to question myself. After all, the real Burning Times were a period of true horror for witches and accused witches alike, from 14th-century Europe through the 18th-century--a common witch rallying cry is, "Never again the Burning!" I did not want to trivialize that by making it the title of my book, did I? So I offered some other suggestions to my editor, particularly suggestions that would parallel the first book's title--DRAWING THE DARK MOON was one, and HOLDING BACK THE NIGHT. But they liked BURNING TIMES... and that really is how the book first manifested itself to me, so I took another look. True, there was the sexy double-entendre of the characters "burning" passions, but I certainly don't see either the book or its message as trivial, so I made my peace with the title and have approved of it ever since. However, feel free to disapprove if you like. I'll understand. WHAT MUSIC DID YOU LISTEN TO? Celtic music--lots and lots of Celtic music. Loreena McKennit. Enya. Anam. friend of mine made me a tape with Celtic music from many different artists, and I played that sucker over and over again. I still love Celtic music to this day. WHAT ACTORS DID YOU IMAGINE WHILE WRITING THIS? Now remember; you don't have to envision the same people I do! But for curiosity's sake--I actually envisioned an actress as well as an actor this time! BRIGIT looks, in my mind, like the Victoria's Secret model, Jill Goodacre. (Remember, I wrote this in the 90's). She's readheaded, and has a very mysterious look about her. Steve, I based on the actor TIM DALY, who at the time was starring in the TV show WINGS. |
The Prologue and First Chapter of: BURNING TIMES PROLOGUE: The pumpkin-colored cat normally spent quiet evenings sprawled across the forbidden kitchen table. But tonight he remained alert, a ball of fur, ears pointing toward . . . it. It didn't belong here. It was old and incorporeal, nothing but flickers of memory and tastes of identity. And hatred. Its stale scent and slow, pulsing sound did not even register in the physical realm. And it was seeking outward, bits of it crossing the Veil. Rediscovering its existence. The cat laid his ears back and rose defensively, a growl low in his throat. As tendrils of invisible darkness neared him, the growl escalated into a challenging wail. It hesitated, retreated back into itself--but the cat knew neither he nor his mistress, busy in the back yard, had caused the retreat. The being was not strong enough to exist outside its own realm, outside its portal. Yet. Settling back into a watchful crouch, the cat hissed. The entity wasn't after cats. But it was after something. --"'Tis said the devil plagues us with witches." --The Journals of Josiah Blakelee CHAPTER ONE: Something felt very wrong--for no reason at all. The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway stretched over twenty lonely miles across black, choppy water. Overhead, the full moon lurked behind clouds . . . except full moon was last night. Alone in his '82 Volvo, Steve Peabody shook his head to kick-start his brain. "Blue moon," his wife Brie had said; the second full moon this month. Thoughts of Brie fueled his irrational unease. He noticed his knuckles, pale against the steering wheel in the orange glow of his dashboard lights, and forcibly relaxed his grip. Then he noticed his speed, and let up on the gas, too. The need to get home pressed in his chest, an unnameable weight that had settled there after he'd tried calling home from the Halloween party and the answering machine had clicked on. He'd left the number, asked Brie to call him back. She hadn't. Only this afternoon she'd repeated her insistence that she didn't "do" Halloween parties--a fact three years acquaintance had borne out. "Go on without me, Honey," she'd insisted. Since one of his newspaper's largest sponsors had invited him, he did. The digital clock on his silent car stereo now read 12:08. The witching hour, some would say. She'd probably gone to bed early. The moan of the Volvo's wheels deepened as he left the bridge for solid land. The dark expanse over the lake shrank to a looming tunnel of tall pines lurking outside the beam of his headlights on either side of the ditch-lined road. Home. Get home. Something . . . . "What?" he asked out loud, annoyed at this unrelenting, inexplicable tension. He considered paranoia a weakness. Who, what, where, when, why--those provided evidence, showed reality. "Intuition" wasn't worth the air it was plucked out of. Red tail-lights, like glowing eyes, flickered in the midnight darkness; he had to stop-and-start through a minor traffic snarl in front of the local Haunted House attraction. Maybe he just didn't like parties, he mused, frustrated. Maybe he just wished he'd stayed home with his wife, passing out treats to neighborhood children. That might plausibly explain this burning need to get home. How would he know if something were wrong? When the road cleared, Steve had to struggle to keep from speeding through the small Louisiana town of Stagwater. Not soon enough, he pulled up in front of his and Brie's duplex. The two-story building huddled between tangled vacant lots on either side, with a huge oak and thick wood behind it. A faint glow eked through the drapes of both living-rooms. Brie's Blazer sat at the curb, between his next-door-neighbor/ sister's old Pinto and one of her friend's cars. So why didn't Brie answer the phone? Why didn't she call back? Why don't you go in and find out? As he left his car and strode across the squishy lawn, his unease got worse: a heaviness in his chest, a dread. Fear solidified, hard, in his throat--maybe she couldn't call back?--and he leaned into the front door as he pushed it open, bracing himself against . . . Something. A cluster of candles drew a red glow from the Chippendale furniture that crouched on ball-and-claw feet; candles on the coffee table, candles mounting the narrow stairway, candles hovering in a hanging iron holder. Brie loved candles. Beyond the den, the hallway to the dining room lay in darkness. Steve drew breath to call her--to hell with logic, this was his wife he was worried about--but at that moment, from that darkness, she emerged. He forgot to exhale. She'd always been bewitching. Tonight the smoky blue eyes that first caught the light were almost feline. Her red hair fell in a fiery tangle about the folds of a black hood, nestled on her shoulders. Strangely, she wore a robe, like a monk, but Steve's gaze followed the open neckline down a completely un-monkish plunge that hinted at cleavage he knew and loved. The material--silk?--flowed around her and absorbed the subtle candlelight that flushed across her cheeks, but her wild hair caught and reflected the flames in russet sparks. Brigit Something shivery hovered in the room, past the rich scent of melting beeswax, past the ethereal harmony of a Celtic ballad about swan maidens on the stereo. Steve ignored it to gaze at his wife. Those smouldering eyes crescented into a smile. "No trouble getting home?" Brie guessed. "I tried calling the party, but they said you'd already left." When she swept toward him, her absurd black hem hissed across the bare wooden floor. "What are you wearing?" he demanded, more sharply than he'd meant, and shut the door. When he looked up, she'd stayed her approach and planted two sleeve-hidden hands on her hips. Uh oh. She opened her mouth, considered her words. "Gee . . . what night is it, Hon?" He felt a little silly, especially after the ridiculous sense of doom that had driven him here, and folded his arms. So it was Halloween. Another smile tugged at Brie's full lips, and she dramatically lifted one arm and pointed toward the plant stand beside the door, like the Grim Reaper choosing a soul. He noted the nearly empty bowl of candy bars. "You couldn't answer the phone because you were entertaining trick-or-treaters dressed as a . . . a . . . ." A monk, or Death? Did either wear raw silk? It could go either way. She hesitated, her eyes searching him. "I only entertained trick-or-treaters 'till about nine; then Sylvie invited me next door. Cy and Mary were over." Suspicion, and that same knot of unease, whispered unintelligible warnings; he fought to stick to facts. "I thought you didn't do Halloween parties." "It wasn't a party." She shrugged and wrinkled her nose. "Would you rather I wore my corset and garter belt?" she teased, coming to him, sliding her arms around him in a belated, welcome-home hug. A different shivery sensation sapped his skepticism. His hands drifted up; his fingers brushed the rough silk over her shoulders. Then he held her, too, clutched her tightly to him in a wordless dare to anybody, anything else. She leaned into his strength. He felt her softness mold against his stress-weary body, seductive through the loose folds of her costume. "The corset and garter belt? That would be a treat," he murmured into her fiery hair. He could relax now. He was home, with his wife. But something still felt . . . dark. A new threat in the house, almost . . . . "Nothing's wrong, then?" "Were you worried?" Brie nuzzled into his neck, her breath steamy under his jaw. He inhaled deeply, as if she were his drug. Smoke. "I should have left a message on the machine for you when I went next door." When she trailed her nose off his jaw and up his cheek and tipped her beguiling face to him, those dusky eyes expectant, those full lips parting eagerly, he took her mouth with his. At the seductive taste of her, desire rushed through him, hot and inevitable. Burying a hand in her tangled curls, he grasped her hair almost too tightly while he kissed her, while he lost himself in her. She sighed approval, melted into him and their hunger. His inexplicable dread didn't go away; it just became suddenly expendable. For her. Hell, for her, at this moment, Steve would sell his soul. Maybe he already had. 'Twas much like emerging from a heavy sleep, only so much as to recognize that sleep and resubmerge. Something called to lost memories, beckoned forgotten intents, and yet . . . . For what should it risk the pain of awareness? Better to drown in the void of death, keep the pain at bay as by a philter . . . . A witch's philter? Consciousness snapped at that image with a hunger that o'erwhelmed its confusion. A hunger for redemption. A hunger for revenge. Disoriented, it struggled to remember. Brie Peabody reared up in her empty bed with a sob. Half-real memories of a mutilated Egyptian king and a sacrificed forest lord--both wearing her husband's face--smothered her. A nightmare? Her panicked eyes began to focus: home, morning, the bed she and Steve shared right here in the twentieth-century. She was no widow, neither dusky-skinned queen nor woodland lady. She was no kidnapped daughter. Red flannel sheets tangled about her legs as if she'd struggled with them; she tried to kick them off, and when they clung she grasped them and tore them away, threw them off her as she would like to throw off the lingering sense of tragedy. Muggy November air licked at her nakedness, barely cooling the sheen of sweat that coated her body. She pulled her knees up against her chest, buried her face in them until her heart slowed its cadence. November air. Of course. Last night had been Halloween. Now fully awake, she recognized images from her dream as the pagan legend of the sacrificed Holly King--she'd recounted the story to her friends last night. Beneath the sheltering oak tree, Cypress Bernard had related a similar Egyptian myth of Isis and her murdered Osirus. Slowly Brie uncurled, adjusted herself to being safe at home. She'd personally restored the oversized mahogany bureau and wardrobe that crowded the panelled bedroom, heavy with age. She'd refinished the floors herself. Pre-dawn gray struggled in through heavy, red drapes that she'd sewn--night lingered longer and longer this time of year. Her subconscious merely blurred the similar stories, that was all. Nothing to dust off her dream journal for--her panic at imagining Steve in dual roles as a doomed husband hardly required little introspection to decipher. Registering the soothing background hiss of the shower, Brie shuddered off the last vestiges of the nightmare. Steve. She rolled out of bed, yanking on a short, scarlet robe as she crossed the wooden floor to the bathroom. This was one of the many benefits of being married: on-site comforting. When she pushed the door open, tendrils of steam reached out to her like living things. For a moment she paused, one foot on steam-slick tile, caught in a flashback of dark, underworld shadows from the deepest recesses of her nightmare. Kidnapped into darkness . . . . Then the shower stopped, the curtain rattled back with a wet sweep and her husband stepped out of the claw-footed, antique bathtub, knotting an oversized towel around his slim waist. A different, more appreciative paralysis stole over Brie. Her gaze lingered on the water droplets marbling Steve's flat stomach, his chest and shoulders--tanned from months of jogging shirtless--before climbing high enough to meet his sharp-eyed curiosity. Dripping hair, darker and straighter than its usual light-brown sweep, clung to his temples and cheekbones, partially hiding his raised eyebrows. Steve had the clean-cut face of a scholar, a poet, a . . . well, a newspaper editor. An incredibly sexy newspaper editor. If Brie had met him in high-school he'd have been the class president/track star and she'd have merely been the artsy misfit, Crazy Gwen's daughter, adoring him from afar. Luckily she'd met him when she was in college, where nobody knew Crazy Gwen. She tried to swallow back the sudden knot of anxiety that rose in her throat. She was still her mother's daughter . . . last night she had come disastrously close to revealing just how much. "You okay?" Steve asked now, brown eyes concerned. The dampness of his hand caught on the silk of her robe as he paused to caress her back. She arched into his strength like a cat, some of her tension draining. "Nightmares?" She knew better than to accuse him of being psychic, no matter her long-held suspicions. "How'd you guess?" "It was an equal-opportunity nightmare," he admitted. After drawing his palm up over her shoulder, skimming her cheek with the back of his fingers as he broke the seductive contact, he leaned past her to snag a hand towel. She watched his planed muscles flex as he scrubbed his hair dry. When he finished, he caught her gaze in the mirror--in the moment before he palmed the hair back, he looked far more wild than Steven Christopher Peabody was ever meant to look. Holly and ivy woven into his hair, brown eyes reflecting the flame of a bonfire, cheekbones highlighted and jaw lost in wavering shadows . . . . She recoiled from images of her own nightmare. "You too? What did you dream about?" He bent to kiss her, a kiss that tasted of toothpaste and smelled of woodsy shampoo and resurrected a chaos of memories from last night. "Can't remember. Tell me about yours while I dress." Then he swept past her, with the barest graze of hard shoulder and nubbly towel, into the reddish half-light of the bedroom. "Just . . . nightmares." She leaned against the doorjamb to watch him dress, apprehension about last night settling into her stomach like nausea. Not that she hadn't enjoyed their lovemaking! In fact, there had been an intensity to Steve's passion, an exciting, primal edge of desperation. He knew. Somehow, he knew she wasn't what she seemed. No, how could he know? She made herself stand up straight, casual. She should be used to keeping secrets; it was part of her heritage. But she'd never meant to keep them from him. Steve shed the towel and too-quickly covered his cute butt with a pair of teal briefs she'd gotten him on his last birthday. Then he disguised the rest of his athletic body with the usual business shirt--slouchy and silk, casually classy like himself--slim green tie, and khaki trousers, occasionally glancing at her. She knew him well enough to see the contemplation behind his attention. He knew she wasn't-- No! His own nightmare had probably upset him, that was all. Steve didn't like to admit being upset by anything. She asked, "Do you think you could take a long lunch and help me pick up the tallboy I bought at the estate sale?" He glanced up from his socks. "Sorry. Town council's having a meeting on the new stoplight--the one past the railroad tracks. Some genius spent beaucoup bucks on a light with a special left-turn arrow, and heads are gonna roll. Could be the biggest scandal Stagwater sees all year." His enthusiasm surprised her; Steve loved his job, but he normally kept it in perspective. "Over a traffic light?" "Mmhm." He slid on shoes and went to the mahogany bureau to comb his hair. "It's a real mess, because there's only the two lanes. Picture this: someone behind a go-straighter wants to make a left turn, watches his arrow come and go. When the light changes and the guy in front goes straight, the left-turner's stuck waiting out the oncoming traffic, blocking any go-straighters behind him. Blood pressures soar. Violence erupts." He dropped the comb back onto the bureau and turned to wink at her, his neat workday self once more. "Can you get out of it?" "Nope. Can't use the shoulder because of the ditch. And the right-turners." "I mean, can't Kent do it?" Kent, the Sentinel's ad salesman, was also the paper's only other full-time reporter. But . . . maybe Steve want to get out of it? Water residue on the tile floor cooled beneath her bare feet; standing on one foot and then the other, to shake the moisture off, she stepped into the bedroom. "Sorry." Steve rolled his shoulders. "Since Kent and Louise cut their honeymoon short to make deadline last Thursday, I gave them today off. And my free-lancers have day jobs. If someone else can help you load the stuff, I'll unload it after work." Passing her, he paused in his cuff-buttoning to level a finger. "If someone can help you load--don't do anything crazy." The twinkle in his dark eyes eased her anxiety--when she moved to bat the finger away he caught her hand, and a playful arm-wrestle ended with her tucked securely against the silk and hard muscle of his chest, her head beneath his freshly-shaved chin, in a hug. When he planted a good-bye kiss on her hair and murmured "I love you," she melted into his strength. "I love you too," she returned, then added as ever, "always have. Always will." Too soon he backed away. She felt suddenly cold. "I met you doing something crazy," she thought to remind him even as he made for the door. Steve paused in the doorway, considering. "No, Red, you did something crazy when you met me." Then he grinned, his special grin for her. He didn't suspect her secrets. Yet. "Quit while you're ahead." He ducked out of sight. She listened to his receding footsteps drum the stairs, then the bang of the front door. A moment later, she heard the purr of the Volvo's engine. She'd read too much into his fascination with traffic lights. He wasn't trying to cover up distress. Steve was very thorough, that was all. Dedicated. Her mother's warning came back at her, a taunting "I-told-you-so": Be careful what you wish for, Brigit. You just might get it. When Brie and Steve met, Brie knew the gods smiled on her. Here stood all the normalcy, stability, dependability she'd ever dreamed of, in a surprisingly attractive package. It was almost three years ago that she'd been working a Dallas soup-kitchen on Christmas day, her own rebellion against years of never celebrating the holidays on the 25th. He'd arrived to do a story on the charity and stayed to dish stuffing beside her. In conversation--a patter of small-talk to disguise how momentous their meeting felt--she learned that car problems had kept him from his family's traditional Christmas in Chicago, so she'd offered to drive him. Not knowing how little sentimental value Christmas held for her, nor how well she could protect herself, Steve had called her crazy. But he accepted the offered road-trip and, arriving in Illinois mere hours into December 26th, she'd discovered the most wonderfully normal family in the world. The Peabodys had made her feel not only welcome, but as if she belonged. They put her in Steve's old room--he'd good naturedly volunteered to take the couch downstairs--and she could still remember how it felt to lie in his bed, staring at his track trophies, his old typewriter, the pictures still arranged on his bureau. Steve as a gap-toothed little leaguer; with his sister at camp; at his high-school prom--that picture had a small wedding photo of his prom date, maybe three years older, with another man, tucked affectionately into the corner of the frame. She'd lain awake for hours, savoring the love and stability that permeated this place--and thinking about the man downstairs. The next year's Christmas had been even more wonderful, sharing the room--and the bed--with her husband. Be careful what you wish for. Brie knew her fairy tales. Every boon has a catch; every blessing a curse. The irony of getting Steve was that she didn't deserve either his love or his trust. She'd thought to leave her secrets behind, when they married, but she didn't. She'd lied to them both. Brie ducked into the clammy bathroom and started the shower with a violent twist of faucets, shedding her robe, hoping to lose her guilt under the age-old cure of running water. She closed her eyes against the hot water; if a few uncharacteristic tears squeezed out, even she needn't know. She wasn't truly the woman Steve had fallen in love with. She wasn't the person he'd married. Worse, circumstances forbade her even the decency of telling him why. Steam whispered at her bare skin, awakening vestiges of her nightmare. Kidnapped into darkness . . . . No, she knew that autumnal legend too; her friend and circlemate, Mary, had told it during last night's Samhain ritual. The Lord of the Underworld kidnaps the Greek goddess Demeter's daughter, and the Earth Mother's mourning sends the world into a season of cold, and darkness, and death. That one, at least, Brie couldn't cast with herself or Steve. She'd been in no way abducted into marriage, and Steve was no Lord of Darkness--despite her mother's dislike of him. "Everyone is a balance of good and evil," Gwen Conway had warned. "Your Eagle Scout makes me wonder just how deeply he's buried his dark side . . . and what it's been doing while he wasn't looking." But Mom had never liked Steve, because Mom was prejudiced. Steve wasn't a witch. With a moan, Brie turned her face up into the spray and twisted the hot-water faucet.... |
REVIEWERS Love Burning Times! BURNING TIMES is a powerful, dark, and sensual addition to the Silhouette Shadows series.... With a flair for creating a tangible sense of evil, the author pulls readers along through a plot that packs one dramatic punch after another. Readers will be searching anxiously for a night light before they close the cover on BURNING TIMES. (John Charles, GOTHIC JOURNAL, 1994) "Readers of supernatural romances will thoroughly enjoy BURNING TIMES.... There are thrills and chills in abundance as the forces of evil and the powers of love meet in a battle for the souls of three innocent people. Evelyn Vaughn is a momentous storyteller with an uncanny ability to make readers want to believe in the powers of witchcraft." (The TALISMAN, 1994) "BURNING TIMES is a chillingly delightful occult romance, filled with dark spirits and white witches. Evelyn Vaughn challenges her audience, even as she entertains them, into suspending their own belief systems and, for a brief period of time, allowing the magic to overwhelm them." 4-Stars (AFFAIRE DE COEUR, 1994) "The gifted Ms. Vaughn takes another giant step up the ladder of success with this intense and compelling foray into the dark side of romance." Rated 3 of 4 (ROMANTIC TIMES, 1994) "Outstanding character development enhances the intricate story line. Only Evelyn Vaughn, a master of this genre, can keep you spellbound and intrigued in such a fascinating manner. If you didn't believe in the power and possession of spirits from another time, you will after reading the remarkable BURNING TIMES. Five star reading!" (RENDEZVOUS, 1994) "BURNING TIMES is highly suspenseful with a brooding sense of imminent danger that gathers power during the last few chapters. Readers who cannot resist the combination of a creepy supernatural thriller with torrid romance will find this book an exciting offering." (GOTHIC JOURNAL, 1994) |
Bridget Peabody is more than her husband ever imagined. Unfortunately, Steve hasn't been himself lately, either..... BURNING TIMES was a challenge for me in more ways than one. The main challenge was to write a romance novel in which the hero and heroine not only knew each other, but were married--until I started it, I hadn't realized how much rare that was. Another challenge is that I was still trying to find my balance in the Shadows line; for example, the rallying cry seemed to be "make them darker!," and so I did, creating what might be my darkest book to date...only to then learn that one of the things the editors really liked about the prequel, WAITING FOR THE WOLF MOON, was the sense of humor. Oops. I had to go back to the drawing board once, but I am glad I did. The story that developed, about marriages and secrecy and trust--and yes, witch hunts--is one of my favorites and, I think, one of my best written. Click on any of the following links to find out more about Burning Times, including: |
Yvonne Jocks Von Jocks EvelynVaughn |
Burning Times (Silhouette) |
Silence is the Secret of Secrets.... |
Bridget Peabody is more than her husband ever imagined. Unfortunately, Steve hasn't been himself lately, either..... BURNING TIMES was a challenge for me in more ways than one. The main challenge was to write a romance novel in which the hero and heroine not only knew each other, but were married--until I started it, I hadn't realized how much rare that was. Another challenge is that I was still trying to find my balance in the Shadows line; for example, the rallying cry seemed to be "make them darker!," and so I did, creating what might be my darkest book to date...only to then learn that one of the things the editors really liked about the prequel, WAITING FOR THE WOLF MOON, was the sense of humor. Oops. I had to go back to the drawing board once, but I am glad I did. The story that developed, about marriages and secrecy and trust--and yes, witch hunts--is one of my favorites and, I think, one of my best written. Click on any of the following links to find out more about Burning Times, including: |
REVIEWERS Love Burning Times! BURNING TIMES is a powerful, dark, and sensual addition to the Silhouette Shadows series.... With a flair for creating a tangible sense of evil, the author pulls readers along through a plot that packs one dramatic punch after another. Readers will be searching anxiously for a night light before they close the cover on BURNING TIMES. (John Charles, GOTHIC JOURNAL, 1994) "Readers of supernatural romances will thoroughly enjoy BURNING TIMES.... There are thrills and chills in abundance as the forces of evil and the powers of love meet in a battle for the souls of three innocent people. Evelyn Vaughn is a momentous storyteller with an uncanny ability to make readers want to believe in the powers of witchcraft." (The TALISMAN, 1994) "BURNING TIMES is a chillingly delightful occult romance, filled with dark spirits and white witches. Evelyn Vaughn challenges her audience, even as she entertains them, into suspending their own belief systems and, for a brief period of time, allowing the magic to overwhelm them." 4-Stars (AFFAIRE DE COEUR, 1994) "The gifted Ms. Vaughn takes another giant step up the ladder of success with this intense and compelling foray into the dark side of romance." Rated 3 of 4 (ROMANTIC TIMES, 1994) "Outstanding character development enhances the intricate story line. Only Evelyn Vaughn, a master of this genre, can keep you spellbound and intrigued in such a fascinating manner. If you didn't believe in the power and possession of spirits from another time, you will after reading the remarkable BURNING TIMES. Five star reading!" (RENDEZVOUS, 1994) "BURNING TIMES is highly suspenseful with a brooding sense of imminent danger that gathers power during the last few chapters. Readers who cannot resist the combination of a creepy supernatural thriller with torrid romance will find this book an exciting offering." (GOTHIC JOURNAL, 1994) |
All four of the Circle Books were repinted into French for the Sexieme Sens (Sixth Sense) line. They kept the same covers, though with the colors artistically washed out, but got new names: * Lunes de sang (Moons of Blood) for Waiting for the Wolf Moon * Le cercle rouge (The Red Circle) for Burning Times * Le cercle magique (The Magic Circle) for Beneath the Surface, and * Le cercle du dragon (Circle of the Dragon) for Forest of the Night. Along with those, two of the Circle Series, Burning Times and Forest of the Night, were also reprinted into Italian, for the Sesto Senso (6th Sense?) line. The Italian cover for Burning Times, shown here, is one of my favorites--she really looks like Bridget to me! The title, La Notte delle streghe, seems to mean Night of the Witch. |
BURNING TIMES was rereleased in June, 2002, under the Silhouette Dreamscapes line! |
The Prologue and First Chapter of: BURNING TIMES PROLOGUE: The pumpkin-colored cat normally spent quiet evenings sprawled across the forbidden kitchen table. But tonight he remained alert, a ball of fur, ears pointing toward . . . it. It didn't belong here. It was old and incorporeal, nothing but flickers of memory and tastes of identity. And hatred. Its stale scent and slow, pulsing sound did not even register in the physical realm. And it was seeking outward, bits of it crossing the Veil. Rediscovering its existence. The cat laid his ears back and rose defensively, a growl low in his throat. As tendrils of invisible darkness neared him, the growl escalated into a challenging wail. It hesitated, retreated back into itself--but the cat knew neither he nor his mistress, busy in the back yard, had caused the retreat. The being was not strong enough to exist outside its own realm, outside its portal. Yet. Settling back into a watchful crouch, the cat hissed. The entity wasn't after cats. But it was after something. --"'Tis said the devil plagues us with witches." --The Journals of Josiah Blakelee CHAPTER ONE: Something felt very wrong--for no reason at all. The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway stretched over twenty lonely miles across black, choppy water. Overhead, the full moon lurked behind clouds . . . except full moon was last night. Alone in his '82 Volvo, Steve Peabody shook his head to kick-start his brain. "Blue moon," his wife Brie had said; the second full moon this month. Thoughts of Brie fueled his irrational unease. He noticed his knuckles, pale against the steering wheel in the orange glow of his dashboard lights, and forcibly relaxed his grip. Then he noticed his speed, and let up on the gas, too. The need to get home pressed in his chest, an unnameable weight that had settled there after he'd tried calling home from the Halloween party and the answering machine had clicked on. He'd left the number, asked Brie to call him back. She hadn't. Only this afternoon she'd repeated her insistence that she didn't "do" Halloween parties--a fact three years acquaintance had borne out. "Go on without me, Honey," she'd insisted. Since one of his newspaper's largest sponsors had invited him, he did. The digital clock on his silent car stereo now read 12:08. The witching hour, some would say. She'd probably gone to bed early. The moan of the Volvo's wheels deepened as he left the bridge for solid land. The dark expanse over the lake shrank to a looming tunnel of tall pines lurking outside the beam of his headlights on either side of the ditch-lined road. Home. Get home. Something . . . . "What?" he asked out loud, annoyed at this unrelenting, inexplicable tension. He considered paranoia a weakness. Who, what, where, when, why--those provided evidence, showed reality. "Intuition" wasn't worth the air it was plucked out of. Red tail-lights, like glowing eyes, flickered in the midnight darkness; he had to stop-and-start through a minor traffic snarl in front of the local Haunted House attraction. Maybe he just didn't like parties, he mused, frustrated. Maybe he just wished he'd stayed home with his wife, passing out treats to neighborhood children. That might plausibly explain this burning need to get home. How would he know if something were wrong? When the road cleared, Steve had to struggle to keep from speeding through the small Louisiana town of Stagwater. Not soon enough, he pulled up in front of his and Brie's duplex. The two-story building huddled between tangled vacant lots on either side, with a huge oak and thick wood behind it. A faint glow eked through the drapes of both living-rooms. Brie's Blazer sat at the curb, between his next-door-neighbor/ sister's old Pinto and one of her friend's cars. So why didn't Brie answer the phone? Why didn't she call back? Why don't you go in and find out? As he left his car and strode across the squishy lawn, his unease got worse: a heaviness in his chest, a dread. Fear solidified, hard, in his throat--maybe she couldn't call back?--and he leaned into the front door as he pushed it open, bracing himself against . . . Something. A cluster of candles drew a red glow from the Chippendale furniture that crouched on ball-and-claw feet; candles on the coffee table, candles mounting the narrow stairway, candles hovering in a hanging iron holder. Brie loved candles. Beyond the den, the hallway to the dining room lay in darkness. Steve drew breath to call her--to hell with logic, this was his wife he was worried about--but at that moment, from that darkness, she emerged. He forgot to exhale. She'd always been bewitching. Tonight the smoky blue eyes that first caught the light were almost feline. Her red hair fell in a fiery tangle about the folds of a black hood, nestled on her shoulders. Strangely, she wore a robe, like a monk, but Steve's gaze followed the open neckline down a completely un-monkish plunge that hinted at cleavage he knew and loved. The material--silk?--flowed around her and absorbed the subtle candlelight that flushed across her cheeks, but her wild hair caught and reflected the flames in russet sparks. Brigit Something shivery hovered in the room, past the rich scent of melting beeswax, past the ethereal harmony of a Celtic ballad about swan maidens on the stereo. Steve ignored it to gaze at his wife. Those smouldering eyes crescented into a smile. "No trouble getting home?" Brie guessed. "I tried calling the party, but they said you'd already left." When she swept toward him, her absurd black hem hissed across the bare wooden floor. "What are you wearing?" he demanded, more sharply than he'd meant, and shut the door. When he looked up, she'd stayed her approach and planted two sleeve-hidden hands on her hips. Uh oh. She opened her mouth, considered her words. "Gee . . . what night is it, Hon?" He felt a little silly, especially after the ridiculous sense of doom that had driven him here, and folded his arms. So it was Halloween. Another smile tugged at Brie's full lips, and she dramatically lifted one arm and pointed toward the plant stand beside the door, like the Grim Reaper choosing a soul. He noted the nearly empty bowl of candy bars. "You couldn't answer the phone because you were entertaining trick-or-treaters dressed as a . . . a . . . ." A monk, or Death? Did either wear raw silk? It could go either way. She hesitated, her eyes searching him. "I only entertained trick-or-treaters 'till about nine; then Sylvie invited me next door. Cy and Mary were over." Suspicion, and that same knot of unease, whispered unintelligible warnings; he fought to stick to facts. "I thought you didn't do Halloween parties." "It wasn't a party." She shrugged and wrinkled her nose. "Would you rather I wore my corset and garter belt?" she teased, coming to him, sliding her arms around him in a belated, welcome-home hug. A different shivery sensation sapped his skepticism. His hands drifted up; his fingers brushed the rough silk over her shoulders. Then he held her, too, clutched her tightly to him in a wordless dare to anybody, anything else. She leaned into his strength. He felt her softness mold against his stress-weary body, seductive through the loose folds of her costume. "The corset and garter belt? That would be a treat," he murmured into her fiery hair. He could relax now. He was home, with his wife. But something still felt . . . dark. A new threat in the house, almost . . . . "Nothing's wrong, then?" "Were you worried?" Brie nuzzled into his neck, her breath steamy under his jaw. He inhaled deeply, as if she were his drug. Smoke. "I should have left a message on the machine for you when I went next door." When she trailed her nose off his jaw and up his cheek and tipped her beguiling face to him, those dusky eyes expectant, those full lips parting eagerly, he took her mouth with his. At the seductive taste of her, desire rushed through him, hot and inevitable. Burying a hand in her tangled curls, he grasped her hair almost too tightly while he kissed her, while he lost himself in her. She sighed approval, melted into him and their hunger. His inexplicable dread didn't go away; it just became suddenly expendable. For her. Hell, for her, at this moment, Steve would sell his soul. Maybe he already had. 'Twas much like emerging from a heavy sleep, only so much as to recognize that sleep and resubmerge. Something called to lost memories, beckoned forgotten intents, and yet . . . . For what should it risk the pain of awareness? Better to drown in the void of death, keep the pain at bay as by a philter . . . . A witch's philter? Consciousness snapped at that image with a hunger that o'erwhelmed its confusion. A hunger for redemption. A hunger for revenge. Disoriented, it struggled to remember. Brie Peabody reared up in her empty bed with a sob. Half-real memories of a mutilated Egyptian king and a sacrificed forest lord--both wearing her husband's face--smothered her. A nightmare? Her panicked eyes began to focus: home, morning, the bed she and Steve shared right here in the twentieth-century. She was no widow, neither dusky-skinned queen nor woodland lady. She was no kidnapped daughter. Red flannel sheets tangled about her legs as if she'd struggled with them; she tried to kick them off, and when they clung she grasped them and tore them away, threw them off her as she would like to throw off the lingering sense of tragedy. Muggy November air licked at her nakedness, barely cooling the sheen of sweat that coated her body. She pulled her knees up against her chest, buried her face in them until her heart slowed its cadence. November air. Of course. Last night had been Halloween. Now fully awake, she recognized images from her dream as the pagan legend of the sacrificed Holly King--she'd recounted the story to her friends last night. Beneath the sheltering oak tree, Cypress Bernard had related a similar Egyptian myth of Isis and her murdered Osirus. Slowly Brie uncurled, adjusted herself to being safe at home. She'd personally restored the oversized mahogany bureau and wardrobe that crowded the panelled bedroom, heavy with age. She'd refinished the floors herself. Pre-dawn gray struggled in through heavy, red drapes that she'd sewn--night lingered longer and longer this time of year. Her subconscious merely blurred the similar stories, that was all. Nothing to dust off her dream journal for--her panic at imagining Steve in dual roles as a doomed husband hardly required little introspection to decipher. Registering the soothing background hiss of the shower, Brie shuddered off the last vestiges of the nightmare. Steve. She rolled out of bed, yanking on a short, scarlet robe as she crossed the wooden floor to the bathroom. This was one of the many benefits of being married: on-site comforting. When she pushed the door open, tendrils of steam reached out to her like living things. For a moment she paused, one foot on steam-slick tile, caught in a flashback of dark, underworld shadows from the deepest recesses of her nightmare. Kidnapped into darkness . . . . Then the shower stopped, the curtain rattled back with a wet sweep and her husband stepped out of the claw-footed, antique bathtub, knotting an oversized towel around his slim waist. A different, more appreciative paralysis stole over Brie. Her gaze lingered on the water droplets marbling Steve's flat stomach, his chest and shoulders--tanned from months of jogging shirtless--before climbing high enough to meet his sharp-eyed curiosity. Dripping hair, darker and straighter than its usual light-brown sweep, clung to his temples and cheekbones, partially hiding his raised eyebrows. Steve had the clean-cut face of a scholar, a poet, a . . . well, a newspaper editor. An incredibly sexy newspaper editor. If Brie had met him in high-school he'd have been the class president/track star and she'd have merely been the artsy misfit, Crazy Gwen's daughter, adoring him from afar. Luckily she'd met him when she was in college, where nobody knew Crazy Gwen. She tried to swallow back the sudden knot of anxiety that rose in her throat. She was still her mother's daughter . . . last night she had come disastrously close to revealing just how much. "You okay?" Steve asked now, brown eyes concerned. The dampness of his hand caught on the silk of her robe as he paused to caress her back. She arched into his strength like a cat, some of her tension draining. "Nightmares?" She knew better than to accuse him of being psychic, no matter her long-held suspicions. "How'd you guess?" "It was an equal-opportunity nightmare," he admitted. After drawing his palm up over her shoulder, skimming her cheek with the back of his fingers as he broke the seductive contact, he leaned past her to snag a hand towel. She watched his planed muscles flex as he scrubbed his hair dry. When he finished, he caught her gaze in the mirror--in the moment before he palmed the hair back, he looked far more wild than Steven Christopher Peabody was ever meant to look. Holly and ivy woven into his hair, brown eyes reflecting the flame of a bonfire, cheekbones highlighted and jaw lost in wavering shadows . . . . She recoiled from images of her own nightmare. "You too? What did you dream about?" He bent to kiss her, a kiss that tasted of toothpaste and smelled of woodsy shampoo and resurrected a chaos of memories from last night. "Can't remember. Tell me about yours while I dress." Then he swept past her, with the barest graze of hard shoulder and nubbly towel, into the reddish half-light of the bedroom. "Just . . . nightmares." She leaned against the doorjamb to watch him dress, apprehension about last night settling into her stomach like nausea. Not that she hadn't enjoyed their lovemaking! In fact, there had been an intensity to Steve's passion, an exciting, primal edge of desperation. He knew. Somehow, he knew she wasn't what she seemed. No, how could he know? She made herself stand up straight, casual. She should be used to keeping secrets; it was part of her heritage. But she'd never meant to keep them from him. Steve shed the towel and too-quickly covered his cute butt with a pair of teal briefs she'd gotten him on his last birthday. Then he disguised the rest of his athletic body with the usual business shirt--slouchy and silk, casually classy like himself--slim green tie, and khaki trousers, occasionally glancing at her. She knew him well enough to see the contemplation behind his attention. He knew she wasn't-- No! His own nightmare had probably upset him, that was all. Steve didn't like to admit being upset by anything. She asked, "Do you think you could take a long lunch and help me pick up the tallboy I bought at the estate sale?" He glanced up from his socks. "Sorry. Town council's having a meeting on the new stoplight--the one past the railroad tracks. Some genius spent beaucoup bucks on a light with a special left-turn arrow, and heads are gonna roll. Could be the biggest scandal Stagwater sees all year." His enthusiasm surprised her; Steve loved his job, but he normally kept it in perspective. "Over a traffic light?" "Mmhm." He slid on shoes and went to the mahogany bureau to comb his hair. "It's a real mess, because there's only the two lanes. Picture this: someone behind a go-straighter wants to make a left turn, watches his arrow come and go. When the light changes and the guy in front goes straight, the left-turner's stuck waiting out the oncoming traffic, blocking any go-straighters behind him. Blood pressures soar. Violence erupts." He dropped the comb back onto the bureau and turned to wink at her, his neat workday self once more. "Can you get out of it?" "Nope. Can't use the shoulder because of the ditch. And the right-turners." "I mean, can't Kent do it?" Kent, the Sentinel's ad salesman, was also the paper's only other full-time reporter. But . . . maybe Steve want to get out of it? Water residue on the tile floor cooled beneath her bare feet; standing on one foot and then the other, to shake the moisture off, she stepped into the bedroom. "Sorry." Steve rolled his shoulders. "Since Kent and Louise cut their honeymoon short to make deadline last Thursday, I gave them today off. And my free-lancers have day jobs. If someone else can help you load the stuff, I'll unload it after work." Passing her, he paused in his cuff-buttoning to level a finger. "If someone can help you load--don't do anything crazy." The twinkle in his dark eyes eased her anxiety--when she moved to bat the finger away he caught her hand, and a playful arm-wrestle ended with her tucked securely against the silk and hard muscle of his chest, her head beneath his freshly-shaved chin, in a hug. When he planted a good-bye kiss on her hair and murmured "I love you," she melted into his strength. "I love you too," she returned, then added as ever, "always have. Always will." Too soon he backed away. She felt suddenly cold. "I met you doing something crazy," she thought to remind him even as he made for the door. Steve paused in the doorway, considering. "No, Red, you did something crazy when you met me." Then he grinned, his special grin for her. He didn't suspect her secrets. Yet. "Quit while you're ahead." He ducked out of sight. She listened to his receding footsteps drum the stairs, then the bang of the front door. A moment later, she heard the purr of the Volvo's engine. She'd read too much into his fascination with traffic lights. He wasn't trying to cover up distress. Steve was very thorough, that was all. Dedicated. Her mother's warning came back at her, a taunting "I-told-you-so": Be careful what you wish for, Brigit. You just might get it. When Brie and Steve met, Brie knew the gods smiled on her. Here stood all the normalcy, stability, dependability she'd ever dreamed of, in a surprisingly attractive package. It was almost three years ago that she'd been working a Dallas soup-kitchen on Christmas day, her own rebellion against years of never celebrating the holidays on the 25th. He'd arrived to do a story on the charity and stayed to dish stuffing beside her. In conversation--a patter of small-talk to disguise how momentous their meeting felt--she learned that car problems had kept him from his family's traditional Christmas in Chicago, so she'd offered to drive him. Not knowing how little sentimental value Christmas held for her, nor how well she could protect herself, Steve had called her crazy. But he accepted the offered road-trip and, arriving in Illinois mere hours into December 26th, she'd discovered the most wonderfully normal family in the world. The Peabodys had made her feel not only welcome, but as if she belonged. They put her in Steve's old room--he'd good naturedly volunteered to take the couch downstairs--and she could still remember how it felt to lie in his bed, staring at his track trophies, his old typewriter, the pictures still arranged on his bureau. Steve as a gap-toothed little leaguer; with his sister at camp; at his high-school prom--that picture had a small wedding photo of his prom date, maybe three years older, with another man, tucked affectionately into the corner of the frame. She'd lain awake for hours, savoring the love and stability that permeated this place--and thinking about the man downstairs. The next year's Christmas had been even more wonderful, sharing the room--and the bed--with her husband. Be careful what you wish for. Brie knew her fairy tales. Every boon has a catch; every blessing a curse. The irony of getting Steve was that she didn't deserve either his love or his trust. She'd thought to leave her secrets behind, when they married, but she didn't. She'd lied to them both. Brie ducked into the clammy bathroom and started the shower with a violent twist of faucets, shedding her robe, hoping to lose her guilt under the age-old cure of running water. She closed her eyes against the hot water; if a few uncharacteristic tears squeezed out, even she needn't know. She wasn't truly the woman Steve had fallen in love with. She wasn't the person he'd married. Worse, circumstances forbade her even the decency of telling him why. Steam whispered at her bare skin, awakening vestiges of her nightmare. Kidnapped into darkness . . . . No, she knew that autumnal legend too; her friend and circlemate, Mary, had told it during last night's Samhain ritual. The Lord of the Underworld kidnaps the Greek goddess Demeter's daughter, and the Earth Mother's mourning sends the world into a season of cold, and darkness, and death. That one, at least, Brie couldn't cast with herself or Steve. She'd been in no way abducted into marriage, and Steve was no Lord of Darkness--despite her mother's dislike of him. "Everyone is a balance of good and evil," Gwen Conway had warned. "Your Eagle Scout makes me wonder just how deeply he's buried his dark side . . . and what it's been doing while he wasn't looking." But Mom had never liked Steve, because Mom was prejudiced. Steve wasn't a witch. With a moan, Brie turned her face up into the spray and twisted the hot-water faucet.... |
Burning Times has been thrice blessed with good covers that capture the mood and the characters. To the left is the new cover for the June 2002 Dreamscapes rerelease, and below is the cover from the initial 1994 Silhouette Shadows version. |
TRIVIA ABOUT BURNING TIMES: SO WHAT ELEMENTS WENT INTO THIS BOOK? One of the earliest deciding factors was that I planned this series for four witches, each one representing a "quarter," or element. Brigit is representative of the element of FIRE, which meant she was particularly powerful (and, along with the fact that the characters were married from the start, also resulted in a sexier book!) It's also why I made her a redhead, by the way! Of course when one thinks of fire and witches at the same time, one thinks of the European witch burnings, which nudged me toward my possession plot. And since I had introduced her in WAITING FOR THE WOLF MOON as Sylvie's sister-in-law, she was already married for her book--the secrecy issues made a good conflict for a married couple, and I wanted to create a Family Tradition witch. I also made her Celtic, which fits much of the history of Witchcraft. If her stand was keeping secrets, then for ultimate conflict Steve's stand had to be gathering knowledge--thus he became a reporter (that fit the Air-like communications angle I'd already established for Sylvie, too). The cat, Romeow, is based on my back-up cat, Jonesy. THERE REALLY ARE "FAMILY TRADITION" WITCHES? Absolutely! You don't hear much about them because of the secrecy issues... and hey, if you could name the relatives who had been executed for practicing witchcraft, you might take a vow of secrecy too! Modern Wicca is largely an adult-conversion religion, but the older traditions of the Craft are often hereditary. I had fun playing with the contrast between Brigit and Andy, who is clearly a newbie, as well as exploring some of the biases of Brie's HP (high priestess) mother. WHAT WERE SOME CHALLENGES WITH THIS BOOK? At the time I planned it, I did not fully appreciate how difficult it would be to write a romance about a couple that not only was already married, but was happily so. Some authors have written excellent books about couples who, at the start of the story, are divorced or on the verge of divorce, but I did not want to do that--for me, for this book, that would undermine my faith that they could make a relationship work (you'll notice that while the idea of divorce comes up in BURNING TIMES, it is never embraced by either Steve or Brie). I also had trouble making the story too dark, the first time around, and had to rewrite my proposal to get rid of some of the worst angst. I think the book benefited from it. In the first version, the characters were fighting too much which, again, undermined the romance.... DOES BRIGIT HAVE A TAROT CARD TO REPRESENT HER? Yup. Sylvie was the Queen of Swords, and Brie is the Queen of Wands. HOW DO YOU PRONOUNCE BRIE ANYWAY ? I usually say it as "bree." Like the cheese. But "bry," as I've also heard, is no less correct. If it were a true shortening of her name, after all, it would be "brih." And that just doesn't work. I named her Brigit because Brigit is a Celtic fire goddess. Gwen, her mother, I chose as short for Gwenevere--also Celtic. Steven just sounded truly normal. Peabody came from a rumored ancestor of mine, who may or may not have been hanged as a witch in New England. Conway (Brie's maiden name) came from the author of a book called CELTIC MAGIC, D.J. Conway. WAS BURNING TIMES YOUR FIRST TITLE? Yes and no. I immediately thought of the book as BURNING TIMES, since before I'd written WOLF MOON, but I soon began to question myself. After all, the real Burning Times were a period of true horror for witches and accused witches alike, from 14th-century Europe through the 18th-century--a common witch rallying cry is, "Never again the Burning!" I did not want to trivialize that by making it the title of my book, did I? So I offered some other suggestions to my editor, particularly suggestions that would parallel the first book's title--DRAWING THE DARK MOON was one, and HOLDING BACK THE NIGHT. But they liked BURNING TIMES... and that really is how the book first manifested itself to me, so I took another look. True, there was the sexy double-entendre of the characters "burning" passions, but I certainly don't see either the book or its message as trivial, so I made my peace with the title and have approved of it ever since. However, feel free to disapprove if you like. I'll understand. WHAT MUSIC DID YOU LISTEN TO? Celtic music--lots and lots of Celtic music. Loreena McKennit. Enya. Anam. friend of mine made me a tape with Celtic music from many different artists, and I played that sucker over and over again. I still love Celtic music to this day. WHAT ACTORS DID YOU IMAGINE WHILE WRITING THIS? Now remember; you don't have to envision the same people I do! But for curiosity's sake--I actually envisioned an actress as well as an actor this time! BRIGIT looks, in my mind, like the Victoria's Secret model, Jill Goodacre. (Remember, I wrote this in the 90's). She's readheaded, and has a very mysterious look about her. Steve, I based on the actor TIM DALY, who at the time was starring in the TV show WINGS. |
