What we're writing: Rhys writes THE END, but is it?

On Sunday I wrote those two most magic words to any writer THE END.
I had finished the first draft of next year's Royal Spyness book, called Malice at the Palace. I can't give you a cover picture because there isn't one yet. But it takes place mainly at Kensington Palace. Not nearly as well known as its sister Buckingham, it is older and has housed many generations of royals. It was the home of George I. It was where Queen Victoria was born and at the time I write about it was known as the Aunt Heap--because various daughters and granddaughters of Queen Victoria lived in apartments there. More recently it achieved fame as the home of Charles and Diana. It was where William and Harry grew up. It was outside the gold tipped gates that the incredible tribute of flowers was left for Diana. And now it is where William and Kate are raising their family. (second one on the way, in case you haven't heard).

Oh, and it also houses more than its share of family ghosts, some of whom make cameo appearances in my book. I realize I'm sailing a little close to the wind with this story--a real royal scandal of the time. But it is well substantiated in the newspapers so I feel I will not be treading on too many toes.

And of course those words THE END now means that the hard work starts. Going through the whole thing again, examining every sentence for clumsy phrasing. Reading a lot out loud. Making sure that the plot makes sense and doesn't give too much away. And when my polishing is complete to goes to my husband John, who will pull it apart yet again and we'll argue a lot and then I'll rewrite one more time before it goes off to my agent and my editor.

But if you'd like a little preview now here is the scene when Georgie arrives at the palace.

The rain came down harder and the wind buffeted me as I finally came to what I hoped was the right door. I rang the door bell. Nobody came immediately so I tried the door knob and the door swung open. I stepped into a foyer and looked around with surprise. I had expected something like Buckingham Palace—walls lined with royal portraits, antiques and statues everywhere. But this was more like an ordinary home, slightly outmoded and with a lingering smell of furniture polish and damp.  I gave a sigh of disappointment, mingled with a small sigh of relief. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about knocking over priceless objects every time I turned around, the way I did at Buckingham Palace.  It was also rather cold in that foyer, with a draft swirling about my legs.. Not too welcoming a first impression for a visiting princess, I thought. But perhaps they were not planning to turn on any form of heat until she arrived.

            I wasn’t quite sure what to do next. I wondered if the queen would have supplied servants of if Princess Marina was bringing her own and they weren’t here yet.  I realized that I should have asked to be taken to Major Beauchamp-Chough, not have gone straight to the apartment. Protocol probably demanded that he escort me to my quarters. But it was a long, wet walk back to the front of the building.  There was an archway at the end of the entry hall leading to a passageway beyond. As I looked in that direction I saw a woman walk across it.

“Hello,” I called. “Wait a minute, please.”

When she didn’t stop I ran after her, and found myself standing in a long dark corridor that was completely empty. Where had she gone? There were no side corridors and she would not have had time to open and close a door. That’s when I realized she was wearing a long white dress and her hair had been piled upon her head in curls. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. At that moment I heard the brisk tap of feet on the marble tiled floor and a woman came across the foyer toward me.  This one was all too solid. She was probably in her thirties, well fed, in a wool dress that was a little too tight for her, pale faced and with pale hair piled in an old fashioned bun. She spotted me and bore down upon me, wagging a finger.

            “Ah, there you are, you naughty girl,” she said in strongly accented English. “Where have you been? I have been waiting for you.”

            “I didn’t realize there was a specific time for my arrival,” I said, taking aback by her ferocious approach.

            “That is no way to address your betters,” she said, giving me a haughty stare.

            “My betters?” Indignation now overtook surprise. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are, but I rather think we must be equals, unless you are Queen Victoria reincarnated.”

            I saw uncertainty cross her face. “Are you not the girl who was sent to bring me pickled herring from Harrods?”

            I tried not to grin. “I am Lady Georgiana, cousin to His Majesty,” I said. “May one ask your name?.”

            “Oh, thousand pardons,” the woman stammered, thoroughly flustered now. “I did not expect… we were not informed that His Majesty’s cousin would be visiting.  And I did not expect a royal person to arrive alone in such a manner.” And she looked at my sodden mack and the puddle accumulating around my feet.

‘Yes, I’m sorry. I realize I don’t look very royal,” I said. “But it’s raining cats and dogs out there and I don’t have a motor car.”

She went and peered out of the window. “I do not see any cats and dogs,” she said.

“Just an expression.”

“Ah,” she said solemnly. “An English idiom. I must learn these things. Cats and dogs.”

And an interesting little thing happened to me when I started writing this book. A friend was moving from a big house to a retirement home. "I thought you might like this old print," she said. It was framed and very old. I thanked her then I looked at the caption at the bottom. Kensington Palace, 1789. I took it as a good omen. 

So I'm interested to know, dear Reds and Readers--how do you feel about real people as characters in fiction? I try to keep mine as close to their true lives as possible but what do you think of books that take liberties with them--Queen Elizabeth as a sleuth? Hitler as a sleuth?

Malice at the Palace will be published by Berkley Prime Crime August 2015.

What we're writing--multitasking Rhys

If you have a vision of the writer, sitting in a lonely garret, waiting for the muse the strike, please think again. I am trying to keep on schedule for my new Royal Spyness book, due at the end of September. And then I get the edits from my other editor for the next Molly Murphy book, THE EDGE OF DREAMS, coming out next March. She wants them by the end of July. They are not huge but they involve moving some action around to bring it nearer the beginning of the book. So a trifle complicated.

Oh, and did I mention that I have had up to 16 people in my house this week? My son got married on Saturday and we had family from all over the world staying here. Not the most conducive atmosphere to letting the muse hover around my shoulders.

Also my next Lady Georgie novel QUEEN OF HEARTS comes out on August 5th, and guess what--I'm off on a book tour. Help!


It's hard to write when real life intervenes. When I'm writing I am really caught up in the lives of my characters. I think through upcoming scenes in the book when I am driving, when I am throwing clothes into the washer, or when I awake in the middle of the night. If I have no quiet downtime I can't be creative. So I'm trying to be patient this week and enjoy family and not worry about getting those edits done and staying on schedule for the next Lady Georgie book, which is called, can you guess......MALICE AT THE PALACE.

It takes place at Kensington Palace (you know, home of William and Kate, and, as it turns out, quite a number of distinguished ghosts)


And if you'd like a tiny peek at what has happened so far:

                It was not raining for once as the car drew up outside Kensington Palace, but a large puddle had formed outside the entrance to our apartment. “I’ll stop a little further down, your royal highness,” the chauffeur said, “ so that you don’t get your feet wet. There’s a raised pavement beside the house where you can walk back.”

                “How kind. Thank you,” Marina replied.

                We climbed out of the back seat. Marina went ahead of me. I was about to follow when I glanced back and thought I saw that strange greenish glow coming from the archway below the clock tower. I had to see for myself where the light was coming from and began to walk toward it. Then I stared harder. Surely something was lying there? Something white. My heart was beating faster and I wanted to turn and hurry into the safety of our apartment but I couldn’t help myself. I was drawn toward it. If it was the ghost of Princess Sophia I had to see it for myself. But why would a ghost be lying anywhere? Surely ghosts wafted about as they wished. As I approached the thing lying on the cobbles I saw it was indeed a dark haired young woman in a white silk dress, lying slumped over, face down. I kept moving closer, walking more slowly now. Surely the specter would vanish when I came too close?

                But it didn’t. I stood there, taking in every detail—the rather flashy rings on the hand that lay outstretched a few inches from my foot, the very modern short haircut with its permanent waves, and then, as I moved around to get a better view I saw her eyes, open and staring at me blankly from a deathly white face, contrasting with the bright red lips.

                Whoever she was she was no ghost. She had been recently alive and now she was very dead.

And I'm very proud of myself. I've managed to kill somebody on page 70. Usually in my books nobody dies for at least a hundred pages!  And I'm curious to now how other Jungle Reds handle multi-tasking.