Meet the White Devil

A little something from the new book – something of a departure for me, a light time-slip romance with a playwriting 17th century hero – Pen Corder, aka the White Devil.

He did not recognise himself, painted and jewelled like a trollop – his hair braided up and tucked under a sinister black velvet hat, a great glass pearl teardrop dangling from his ear.
He did not much care for the shading on his cheekbones and about his eyes, that he thought made him look more angular and more feline than was strictly human. He looked like a minor demon, he thought, and couldn’t quite stop himself from glancing over his shoulder lest the ghosts of his poor mortified parents should appear there at the sight of their only son mincing on a stage in an ill-fitting white satin doublet.

He could not do it. Every single word had seeped out of his head, and he could not remember a line of it. Mayhem poked his head round the door. “Decus et dolor,” he said – the boy spoke theatre-slang like a professional, the product no doubt of a misspent youth poking actresses. “Kate says five minutes?”

Pen took the awful hat off, forgot his hair was braided, and ran a shaking hand through it. “Tell her I’m sick,” he said.
“So was she. Out of the window, God be thanked, or Orietta would’ve ended being poisoned in her underlinen.”
“I have forgotten the words!”

“So just go and scowl. You’re the villain, aren’t you? Five minutes.”

He could not do it. The door closed behind Mayhem, and outside he could hear a murmurous swelling of voices.
Oh God, they actually had an audience.
He couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t not do it, for they depended on him.
Pen clapped the disreputable hat back on his head and scowled at his horrible black-eyed, red-lipped reflection. “Decus et dolor,” he said to himself, swallowed hard, and stepped out into the unknown.

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