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    Perilous Chance
    Perilous Chance
    Perilous Chance
    Ebook66 pages46 minutes

    Perilous Chance

    By J.M. Ney-Grimm

    ()

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    About this ebook

    If only Mama were well. If only Papa were . . . not like this.

    Clary needs a miracle, but wonders rarely step forth to solve life's problems.

    While her mama lies wearily abed and her papa spends the day . . . elsewhere, Clary struggles to look after her younger sister and their baby brother. And longs for more than making do. If only.

    Then, one spring morning, Clary and Elspeth visit the old bramble-grown quarry to pick wild cabbage leaves. Hidden within the rock's cleft, Clary's miracle awaits. But this miracle sports razor-sharp talons, world-shaking power, ravenous hunger, and a troll-witch to guard its sleep. When it cracks the egg, will Clary survive?

    Something wondrous this way comes!


    Praise for Perilous Chance

    "It's a tale of mistakes and redemption, and the power to do the right thing now, even if you can't change the past… [The sense of mystery] creates a wonderful release of tension…and a very satisfying ending…expertly written, and subtle enough that I found myself pleasantly surprised at the resolution of the plot. [Ney-Grimm] has an ethereal sort of quality to her writing which is extremely effective…it's almost mystical…absolutely unique, and absolutely engaging." – James J. Parsons, Speaking to the Eyes


    Excerpt from Perilous Chance

    She was eleven, and she was hurt.

    Her leg lay under her, knee throbbing. Her arm ached, the broken bone within sickening in its pain.

    But worst of all, worst of all, a vast shadow loomed above her, dark wings spanning distances too great for the grotto enclosing them, razor-sharp talons sparking with the spitting blue fire of a strange power.

    "No, please, no," she whispered.

    How had it come to this? Her day had started so ordinarily, getting breakfast for herself and her sister, because Mama could not. She cast her thoughts desperately back to the morning.

    I'm there. Not here. I'm there.


    About the Author

    J.M. Ney-Grimm lives with her husband and children in Virginia, just east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She's learning about permaculture gardening and debunking popular myths about food. The rest of the time she reads Robin McKinley, Diana Wynne Jones, and Lois McMaster Bujold, plays boardgames like Settlers of Catan, rears her twins, and writes stories set in her troll-infested North-lands. Look for her novels and novellas at your favorite bookstore - online or on Main Street.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJ.M. Ney-Grimm
    Release dateSep 12, 2017
    ISBN9781386627289
    Perilous Chance
    Author

    J.M. Ney-Grimm

    J.M. Ney-Grimm lives with her husband and children in Virginia, just east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She's learning about permaculture gardening and debunking popular myths about food. The rest of the time she reads Robin McKinley, Diana Wynne Jones, and Lois McMaster Bujold, plays boardgames like Settlers of Catan, rears her twins, and writes stories set in her troll-infested North-lands. Look for her novels and novellas at your favorite bookstore—online or on Main Street.

    Read more from J.M. Ney Grimm

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      Book preview

      Perilous Chance - J.M. Ney-Grimm

      Perilous Chance

      ~ A NORTH-LANDS TALE ~

      by J.M. Ney-Grimm

      Copyright © 2012 J.M. Ney-Grimm

      Cover photography:

      Purple Lightning Bolt

      by Martine De Graaf / Dreamstime.com

      Griffon 01

      by Henner Damke / Dreamstime.com

      For all mothers and fathers

      who have struggled with serious illness,

      and for their families

      Table of Contents

      Perilous Chance

      Author Bio

      More Titles by J.M. Ney-Grimm

      Perilous Chance

      She was eleven, and she was hurt.

      Her leg lay under her, knee throbbing. Her arm ached, the broken bone within sickening in its pain.

      But worst of all, worst of all, a vast shadow loomed above her, dark wings spanning distances too great for the grotto enclosing them, razor-sharp talons sparking with the spitting blue fire of a strange power.

      No, please, no, she whispered.

      How had it come to this? Her day had started so ordinarily, getting breakfast for herself and her sister, because Mama could not. She cast her thoughts desperately back to the morning.

      I’m there. Not here. I’m there.

      *   *   *

      That morning, Clary had stood in the front room, turning slowly.

      The cloth on the table under the windows hung askew, its corner tassel dragging on the weathered pine floor. The candles had guttered in their sockets, the wicks drowning amidst congealed wax. One, burned only halfway, lay fallen under the gluey drips from the gravy boat.

      Clary’s fingers crept to her mouth.

      Why did this morning after an impromptu party feel so different?

      The murmur of conversation last night, rising to her bed chamber, growing louder as the hour latened, had seemed normal. Uncle Maury’s deep laugh boomed as always. Aunt Theosia’s mandolin sounded as sweet.

      But it hadn’t been the same.

      She stared at the welter of mismatched briar-wicker chairs, one tumbled on its side.

      I won’t think about that. Or who knocked it over.

      But she knew who. I won’t think about it, more fiercely.

      Lyrus was whimpering upstairs in the nursery. She’d ignored him on her way down, hoping her mother would see to the baby. But she wouldn’t. She hadn’t risen before the children for . . . how long had it been? This was Thyril. Spring.

      Had it truly been eight months? Last Sanember in fall?

      Clary drew her fingers away from her lips to count, but she didn’t really care how long it’d been. Too long. What she wanted to know was: would it end?

      Mama hadn’t been this bad all that time. But this last month. This last month with Papa being . . . I won’t think about it . . . and Mama feeling his neglect. This spring had been bad.

      Clary bit her lip.

      A soft footfall sounded behind her. Then Elspeth crept to her side, slipping a small hand into hers. Clary? she whispered. Lyrus’s crying.

      Clary knew. She could still hear him, faintly.

      There’s some figs in syrup left over, she told her sister. No one had spilled wine in the dish, for a miracle. The bottles were empty, and the wine glasses held only dregs. You could have them with some bread.

      Elspeth shook her head. Will you get it?

      Clary opened her mouth to say: get it yourself. But she didn’t say it. I’m the eldest. I’m stronger. She didn’t feel strong. Not right now.

      The baby’s wails were growing louder. She’d better not delay any longer.

      Okay.

      Elspeth followed her back through the passage to the kitchen.

      You don’t have to come, Clary urged.

      Elspeth merely ducked her head and reached for Clary’s hand again. Maybe she just wanted company?

      The morning sun flooded through the kitchen’s eastern windows, casting myriad small curls of shadow from the peeling white paint on the sills. Clary’s grip on Elspeth’s hand tightened. They navigated around the chopping table toward the vast range, avoiding the inner aisle between the table and the pantry cabinets.

      Papa lay there on the bricks, quietened from his earlier snores.

      Elspeth said nothing.

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