My heart thudded in my chest, not knowing what this presence was, or what it wanted. I could feel it in the corner, the spot in the darkest dark of the room. It radiated energy, calling to me.
The women gathering in the house, the evil collecting around them and the terrifying events of the weekend had me shouting to the the group not to do whatever action it was that they were set to do. It was as if I was watching a horror movie.
While I sat sipping this gorgeous cuppa, I felt myself drift all over the world in ecstasy. Memories of South Africa drifted in, sunflower fields of Georgia spilled over, daydreams in Australian gardens flooded my nose, my heart, my mind. The word that came was “sensual.” Not in the romantic sense, but in the spiritual sense. Every one of my senses was engaged.
The first time I went to a convocation, I felt I could die of joy. My hummingbird heart, an anxious pet, sang a dawn song. It wasn’t the entrance hymn, “O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing.” It wasn’t the chancellor in his indigo-velvet cap and doily collar, although his literal orb and scepter made me weak and strong. It wasn’t the presence of so much earnestness, furnish me though it did with purpose and pleasure.
The reader is led to believe various belief constructs along the way, as Emily navigates intrigue after intrigue. This is a true spy novel, in that you have no clue who is pulling the strings. Anyone could be writing the code, and anyone could be the “bad guy.”