Monday, December 5, 2011

Now on Tour The Opera

Dec 5 Tour Launch
Fang-tastic Books

Dec 5 Guest Blog
Flutey Words

Dec 6 Guest Blog
Meredith Allard

Dec 7 Excerpt- Promo
Roxanne’s Realm

December 7 promo
Lisa’s World of Books

Dec 9 Dec 9 Guest Blog

Dec 11 Promo and review
Lissette E. Manning

Dec 12 Excerpt/Promo
The Write at Home Mom

An excerpt from The Opera

Upon reaching the keep’s kitchen, the commander found Alasdair sitting at the table with his early evening tea, reading over his proclamations for the day. He seemed equanimity itself now that his presiding in the royal courts for the day had done; leaning back in his favourite chair, with half a glance toward the yard and half toward his papers, his hand in mid-ascension, the teacup pressed against his lips, expecting to be soothed by his first sip of lemon soother, when the advertisement was thrust before him, causing him to replace his cup upon the table and investigate the announcement directly.

“Oh, this looks brilliant,” Alasdair declared smilingly. “Is this about us?”

“I daresay it is,” the commander said, pointing to the title of the opera, “although I’m hardly recognizable.”

“Well, I can tell it’s you by the . . .” Alasdair made a suggestive gesture toward her chest and left his assertion there, returning his gaze to the poster while a small blush crept up his cheek.

“Those are far too small to be mine.”

The size and shape of her magnanimous proportions could be compared, but Alasdair would not look again; he would not be suspected of gawping for pleasure nor would his gentlemanly sensibilities allow him to be baited so easily. “I suppose you’re right,” he said quickly, keeping his gaze firmly upon the advertisement. He seemed bemused, and pointing to the heroic figure in the piece said, “Is that meant to be me on that white horse?”

“And I do believe that’s meant to be Maeve.”

Alasdair raised a brow. “She would be disappointed.”

“As she should be. What chestnut mare wants to be a white stallion?”

“And she certainly isn’t that . . .” fat was what he wished to say, but at that moment, Martje had trundled in from the larder and Alasdair was forced to check himself. He said a polite hello and his features flushed with colour to think he had almost said the forbidden word in the plump cook’s presence. “I look very well, though,” he said cheerfully. “My hair is tidy and my jerkin looks very fitting. Those breeches, though, don’t go well with those boots. It would have been better to match them with calfskin boots, not these impossible things. Who would wear boots that low when riding? The fabric would chafe, surely.”

The commander laughed and shook her head. “Is that all your worry?”

“Yes, I think so,” he said with stout confidence. He took a moment to regard the remainder of the piece and then decided, “Well, Rautu looks accurate, doesn’t he.”

“You are too horrid,” she said with a sagacious smile.

“I’m allowed to say what I want when he’s not here.”

“You know that he has eyes and ears in every corner of this keep and yet you would ridicule him. You are all bravery, Alasdair.”

“If he can say whatever he wants to my face, then I think I might be allowed to admire his portrait before demands to kill the illustrator.” Alasdair made a defensive humph and began folding the poster. “Has he seen it yet?”


“Good. I’ll send the herald to the theatre with the instruction that everyone involved with this production is to leave the capital immediately.”

“You are the epitome of charity, Alasdair, in giving them such a warning, but I daresay he shall hunt them down and skin them regardless. Will you allow this opera to be performed even though you know its content to be possibly disparaging?”

Alasdair made an abashed smile and took a last peek at the depiction of himself. “I wonder if they’ll have me kill Rautu in a terrific duel or if I’ll merely sing him to death.”

“You know the powers of the Frewyn Players and their ability to depict historical events with perfect accuracy.”

It was said with such wryness that Alasdair was forced to agree with her; the portrayal of Mad Queen Maeve, though highly entertaining, could hardly be supposed a truthful display when all of Frewyn was aware that her end came from her insanity and not from the edge of an envious lover’s knife as the play might have the uninformed believe. They laughed and sighed, both of them in equal dread and anticipation of what such a piece could depict, and stood from the kitchen table, the commander desirous of telling her mate before he could find out from another quarter and Alasdair wanting to visit the tailor.

The Opera Tales from Frewyn
By Michelle Franklin


When due homage is paid to the heroes of Frewyn, what could possibly go wrong?

The Frewyn Players at the Royal Theatre in Diras are looking for new material to perform when a famous director from Marridon arrives to impart a Marridon theatrical pastime that is certain to make them famous. An opera will be their new performance, one that glorifies Frewyn's greatest heroes, but what begins as homage ends as mockery, and the play that would make them the greatest exhibition in Frewyn might instead make them the Den Asaan's most merited enemy.

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Sophia Rose said...

I love the Commander's dry wit too when she starts off 'You know-' and they both await Rautu in dread.

Thanks for the posting! Love the series!

Michelle Franklin is a said...

Thank you for hosting! Thank you to everyone for stopping by!