The King of Swords
Ruth Gregory
language
(, Sept. 11, 2014)
A GYPSY GIRL. A BLUE-BLOODED BOY. A PASSION THAT TRANSCENDS ALL BOUNDARIES. AND A DARK HEARTED MAN WHO WILL STOP AT NOTHING TO GET WHAT HE WANTS. Summer 1875. Fifteen year old Romany gypsy Elvie Carey, finds herself witness to a tragic accident. She is left with a strange blood-coloured stain on her palm, and a terrible sense of foreboding. A tarot card reading confirms that there is grave danger ahead. But, passionately drawn to aristocrat Edward Hartley, she soon becomes tangled in a terrifying web of danger, at the heart of which is a dark and sinister stranger.Elvie must draw on her gypsy wisdom and her love for Edward to face her final confrontation with the King of Swords.Excerpt:Elvie turned and began to run, her feet catching in the folds of her dress. Running into the wind, she could hear nothing, but every few moments, inclined her head slightly to the right or left, and saw, out of the corner of her eye, the terrifying figure of the man and beast that were bearing down on her.She could smell the lake somewhere in front of her, near now, very near. She sobbed, expecting any moment to feel her foot alight upon nothingness, accompanied by the lurching of her heart as she fell down the steep bank. She could smell the dank mustiness that awakened in her mind, images of corpses and death and earthy decay. She could see no way out this time, and her thoughts were as dark as the black stallion that pursued her.Finally it was almost upon her. She turned her head slightly and could see its white breath billowing like a dragon’s. She heard the crack of the whip before she felt the pain, as the cord lashed the side of her face and across her shoulder. She stumbled and fell face down into the snow, fingers sinking down to the frozen mud underneath that signalled the edge of the lake’s bank. Scrambling backwards, she managed to get herself into a standing position as the man dismounted and grabbed his walking stick from the horse’s girth. He said nothing, but his gaze never left her as he walked haltingly forwards, his stick dragging a furrowed scar through the virgin snow, like a knife tearing into taut white flesh.