Welcome
to our Charity Sunday event for May. Today I’m supporting Doctors
Without Borders, otherwise known as Médecins
Sans Frontières, one
of my favorite charitable organizations. MSF provides professional,
free medical care to people who need it most: victims of disasters,
people in conflict zones and patients in environments where health
resources are scarce.
In
fact I did a Charity Sunday for MSF last September, but they need
special help right now. The organization is on the front lines
dealing with the Ebola epidemic in Central Africa, which is rapidly
developing into a crisis that could affect a much larger area. This
epidemic is particularly worrisome because it involves a virus strain
for which there is no vaccine and no known therapy.
To
people in the First World, the Democratic Republic of Congo and
Uganda may seem remote, even irrelevant. As Covid demonstrated,
however, in today’s highly connected world a localized disease
outbreak can easily become an international emergency. Meanwhile, DRC
desperately needs help. The country is poor and riven by factional
fighting. Ebola has already killed hundreds; without the assistance
of MSF, this number would likely increase by multiple orders of
magnitude.
So
for every comment I receive on this post, over the next month, I
will donate two dollars to MSF. Don’t be shy; even an emoji
counts as a donation!
For
my excerpt, I have a bit from the third volume in The Toymakers Guild
trilogy, The Master’s Mark. My heroine Gillian is pretty
tough, but in this segment she is laid low by influenza—and given
tender care by the two heroes.
To
sweeten the deal... I will select one person who comments to receive
a free copy of this alt-Victorian steam punk romp. Be sure to include your name and/or email address, so I can find you if you win!
Excerpt
She
awakened to find darkness shrouding the room. Her eyes prickled as if
they were full of sand. A tight band of pain encircled her head, like
someone had strapped it in a vice. Her mouth was so dry she could
barely swallow. When she did, raw agony flared in her throat.
There
was no fire in the grate, but she felt hot all over. Water.
I need water. When she tried to sit up,
however, the room spun around her, while her limbs seemed to be made
of soft wax. She could not muster the energy to get out of the bed.
Bloody
hell, she thought. I’ve
caught a fever. She sank into her
pillows, woozy, disoriented and angry at the universe. I
can’t afford to be ill. We’ll
never finish the automaton on time.
Lying
back, she attempted to organise her jumbled thoughts. Her mental
faculties seemed as weak as her body. She couldn’t concentrate.
Incoherent voices mumbled in her ears. Visions floated through her
mind’s eye: interlocked gears in furious rotation; the twining wake
of the Invicta; the stark finger of stone topping Brigit’s Tor. The
lively countenance of Volk’s sister appeared against the background
of Gillian’s closed eyelids, staring as if in recrimination, a
message in her sapphire eyes. I am
counting on you. Don’t fail me.
Gillian
tried once more to stand. Every muscle ached. Leaning on the wall for
support, she inched her way over to the bureau. With shaking hands
she poured some water from the carafe she kept there and drank it
down, trying to ignore the fact that her throat felt lined with
barbed wire. The action triggered a fit of violent coughing that sent
her to her knees. Summoning her last ounce of strength, she managed
to crawl back to the bed, haul herself up using the iron frame, and
collapse upon the mattress.
Help.
She had to get word to someone about her condition. With clumsy
fingers she fumbled in the pocket of her skirt for her radio
communicator, without success. Had she left it in her office? No one
would think it strange if she did not show up at supper, especially
since she’d told Amelia she’d planned a walk. It might be
mid-morning tomorrow before someone came looking for her, when they
realised she was absent from the laboratory.
“Help!
Please!” Her voice emerged as a ragged squawk, barely intelligible.
Her throat responded to the effort with a fresh stab of anguish.
Helpless,
frustrated and more than a little frightened, Gillian felt like
weeping, but she was too dehydrated to muster tears. She lay in the
darkness, fighting panic as she listened to the babble of auditory
hallucinations, until unconsciousness claimed her.
*
* * *
She
was back on the Invicta, amid rough seas. Stumbling across the
heaving deck, she struggled to keep her feet. The boat shuddered
beneath her, threatening to pitch her overboard.
“Jill?
Jill, can you hear me?”
There
was a hand was on her shoulder, shaking her gently. She struggled to
raise her eyelids. Every part of her hurt.
Someone
had lit the gas lamp, then turned it down to the lowest level. She
was grateful; even the dim light made her head throb. She recognised
the familiar shaggy head and angular features.
“Rafe”,
she croaked. Relief swept through her, though she still felt
wretched.
“Don’t
try to talk, love. We’ve sent for the doctor. Meanwhile, try to
drink some of this.”
The
infusion was bitter and her raw throat complained, but she managed a
few swallows. She nodded her thanks.
Another
face swam into view, dark-skinned and bright-eyed.
“Jeremiah?”
“Hush
now, lady.” He patted her hand, his skin cool against her
fever-ravaged flesh. “Save your strength.”
“How...?”
The effort to speak set her coughing again. In the aftermath of the
paroxysm, she lay gasping upon the pillow. Silence was clearly the
safer course.
“We
came looking for you.” The former ship’s engineer answered her
aborted question. “We had some ideas to share, ideas about moving
the automaton.”
“Ideas?”
she whispered, recklessly abandoning her recent resolution. Sudden
hope focused her mind, at least temporarily. “Tell me!”
“Don’t
bother yourself.” Rafe smoothed her sweat-damp hair off her
forehead. “Just concentrate on regaining your health.”
Nothing
will heal me as fast as a solution to our engineering problems. She
had enough wisdom not to vocalise the thought.
“Let
us take care of you,” Jeremiah added, without a trace of his usual
levity.
Her
momentary energy deserted her and the temporary mental clarity
dissolved, leaving her once more at the mercy of random visions. She
lay back, limp and burning with fever, and allowed them to remove her
clothing. With a damp towel, Rafe wiped the perspiration from her
face and breasts. Then he held her up in a sitting position while
Jeremiah eased a clean cotton nightgown over her head. Together they
laid her back on the pillow and pulled the sheets up over her
prostrate form.
“That
should make you a bit more comfortable.” Rafe pulled the desk chair
over to sit by the bed.
“We’ll
stay with you until the doctor arrives,” said his companion,
settling into the armchair from which he’d previously threatened
his rival.
I
had to get sick to get them to cooperate, came the giddy notion.
She was too weak to laugh. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to a
sleep laced with uneasy dreams.
If
you’re interested in reading more, go to
https://www.lisabetsarai.com/mastersmarkbook.html
The
novel is available in audio form (the whole trilogy is) as well as in
ebook.
Finally - if you want to help MSF even more, and you'd like another chance to win the free book, go check out my post at Sweet N' Sexy Divas today, too. I'm doing a double Charity Sunday... with a different excerpt to entice you. You will find the link in the list below!
