This was not exactly the blog that we planned to write. We were going to share a post about our Ghost Story Competition (which this still is), but it has suddenly become very pertinent and personal. On Saturday, only a day after sharing our Puplishing blog, we lost our founding publisher, Orlando. We are all utterly devastated, and Crowvus HQ has become very quiet. It is truly strange not to see him at the bottom of the stairs, or not to have him sitting at my feet while I write this. It is the little, everyday, routine things where his death is most acutely felt. Nine years ago, in our first ever Ghost Story Competition , we received a story entitled Black Dog . I admit, I had preconceived ideas about this one, based on its title, thinking about baying hounds and the Black Shuck. Nothing was further from the truth. A. J. Black's beautiful story was a journey of grief, a coming to terms with a loss of more than life, but of a companion. I remember reading it and ...
I've been talking a lot about my family saga this month, so here's a little excerpt from Beneath Black Clouds and White . Although I published this second, it comes first chronologically. I hope you enjoy it! Chapter Nine Persephone and Rosanna Fotherby wasted little time as Peters left him, but began walking in the direction of Mayfair. After arriving at the house of Sir Manfred Chester so late on the last two occasions he had been a house guest, he was determined to arrive at a civilised time. He reached the white fronted house in the late afternoon and paused at the steps, uncertain that he should presume to simply arrive there. He walked across the road, rebuking himself for his lack of etiquette. He still carried the card that Peters had given him and he wondered at what the address was. It was somewhere in Westminster, and he was on the point of returning into the city when he turned at the sound of his name. “Henry! You have come back to us. You must come in at once.” “...