Please enjoy this gripping excerpt from Along the Watchtower by David Litwack. Then read on to learn how you can win huge prizes as part of this blog tour, including a Kindle Fire, $650 in Amazon gift cards, and 5 autographed copies of each book. Becky
On the ground floor, the center of the
hospital opened into a small courtyard, an insecure space with too many places
for insurgents to hide. I took a quick breath and tensed.
“Wait up, Ralph.”
“It’s okay, Freddie. You’re safe here.”
“Give me a minute. It’s my first time out.”
I surveyed the perimeter. A few benches. A
flower garden dominated by hydrangeas, but not like the softball-sized blossoms
my mom used to grow. These were small and paler than the Cape Cod variety,
which were a blue that could compete with the sky.
At once, I could see my mom, hands buried
in the hydrangeas, grooming her flowers—one of the few memories I could bear to
recall. Me and my brothers in the driveway shooting hoops. Mom telling us to
keep the ball out of her garden. She was happy then, surrounded by her family,
her garden, and the ocean.
I looked past the hydrangeas to find purple
asters and some lilies too. But no roses. For some reason, I’d been hoping for
roses.
Despite the nice day, the courtyard was
deserted, except for a woman about my age who sat on a wooden bench, finishing
up a brown-bag lunch. Her eyes were closed and her head tipped back to take in
the sun, making her appear to be dreaming. Sitting alone on the bench, her face
seemed framed by flowers.
When she heard us coming, she sat up,
straightened her scrubs, and smiled.
“Hey, Ralph. What do you have there?
Another victim for me?”
“Becky,” Ralph said. “What’s up? This is
Freddie, Lt. Williams, our newest patient. We’re trying to bring him back from
the dead. Freddie, meet Becky Marshall, one of our physical therapists.”
I nodded a greeting to her, not much in the
mood for small talk. She tilted her head to one side as if evaluating me. Then
she gave me the kind of look that said we’d met before, if not in this world
than in another, and that she intended to make a difference in my life.
“Is he ready for me?”
“Soon. If he’s assigned to you.”
My attention was drawn to a soda can on the
bench next to her. I’d seen too many IEDs in soda cans.
She caught me fixating on it and grinned.
“Just my diet Pepsi, Freddie. See?”
She chugged what was left and tossed the
can into a nearby trash basket. Then she crumpled the bag into a ball and to
show off, stepped off exactly five paces and shot the bag into the basket in a
perfect arc.
“Nice shot,” I said.
“I make that shot every time.”
“Yeah, right.”
She came close enough that our knees were
almost touching and hovered over me, sizing me up.
“You’ll be mine,” she said finally. “I can
tell. I get all the hard cases.”
As she walked away, light on her feet like
a dancer, I fumbled for the wheel of the chair, trying to spin it around so I
could watch her go. But Ralph had set the brake.
The Gardener
The white butterfly fluttered before her
face. When she saw it, she reached out a hand and at once it landed on the
curve of her wrist.
“Now there’s a fine omen for you,” she
said. “Light knows we need one these days.” She whispered some words and the
butterfly flew off across the courtyard and out over the castle wall.
A fine omen? Perhaps. But I’d learned to be
wary. I stepped forward, scuffling my boots to make noise. She ignored my
presence. Not until I was a pace away did she turn.
It was hard to say if she was beautiful or
even pretty. Soil from the garden had splattered her cheeks and marked her
forehead with a splotch that looked like a raven. A muddied apron hid her
shape. But I took note of a glint in her gray-green eyes, as if the flowers had
conspired to lend their color. And her mouth was a crescent moon upturned on
its side.
The corners of the crescent twitched when
she saw me but only for an instant. Then she went back to her work as if I were
invisible. Her hands cradled each bloom as she sliced off the heads with a
small knife.
“Are you spirit or demon?” I demanded.
She made no answer.
I drew my sword, relieved it slipped so
easily from its scabbard, and stretched it in her direction. She watched the
point from the corner of her eye but kept her head down and continued to work.
Finally, I nudged her with the tip.
She let out a yelp. Only then did I realize
I’d thrust too hard, and the blade had slit her garment. I backed off at once,
ready to apologize, but then recalled my encounter with the assassin. I poked
again, more gently this time.
“Why do you keep doing that?” she said.
“To see if you’re real.”
She stood and faced me, feet set wide and
planted squarely on the ground.
“Why shouldn’t I be real?”
She was tall for a girl, her head rising
above my chin, and had a bearing unlike a servant. When I continued to
challenge her, she reached out and eased the point of my sword to one side.
“Would you put that silly thing away?”
I began to back off, then remembered the
circumstance and held firm. “Why didn’t you say anything when I first
approached you?”
“Because we servants aren’t supposed to
talk to you royals.” She lowered her gaze and turned back to the flowers. “I’m
sorry . . . Milord.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rebecca.”
“Rebecca. My name is Frederick.”
She paled and then bent in a deep curtsy,
her brashness collapsing into two whispered words. “The dauphin.” . . .
I wandered in a circle, hands folded behind
my back, and inspected the flowers, unsure of what else to say. Then a thought
occurred to me.
“Do you have roses in this garden?”
“No roses, Milord. I have asters and
hydrangeas. Some fall crocus. And climbing the wall to the watchtower, sweet
autumn clematis. A bit of monkshood underneath and tulips in the spring. But no
roses.”
I must have looked disappointed. She came
closer and reached out, but not enough to touch me.
“It must be lonely, Milord, a terrible
burden. Every morning as I walk from my village to the gardens, I see the
darkening clouds and wonder where my strength will come from. Then I remember.
The dauphin will protect us. Save Him Oh Goddess, I pray. If only I could do
something to help.”
I mumbled a thank you and turned to go, but
stopped when I saw her examining her damaged apron.
“Are you here every day?”
“No, Milord, I have other gardens as well.”
“Come tomorrow, and I’ll bring you a new
apron to replace the one I tore.”
She curtsied more deeply this time.
“I’d be so grateful, Milord, but I have
nothing to give in return.”
“No need.”
“Ah, wait.” She took her small knife and
clipped off a bulging blossom at the stem and handed it to me. “Now place it in
water the first chance you get.”
I accepted the gift and admired her through
its petals.
“Thank you,” I said. “Tomorrow at noon.”
As I walked away, I glanced over my
shoulder to get one last look at the gardener. She was back at her work,
resuming her song and snipping away, so light of hand and foot. As she blew
away a curl that had drifted across her face, the summer dress rustled against
her skin. I inhaled the scent of the flower and thought I caught the sun
peeking through the clouds over Golgoreth.
And for the first time since my father
died, goodesses seemed possible.
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