Paisley Clan

While busily revising The Keepers of the Emerald Cave Book 1: THE MISFORTUNE OF THE EMERALD THIEF, I have begun plotting book 2 of the series which is set in the quiet town of Paisley, Scotland. 

The paisley pattern is named that because of its origin in Paisley, Scotland.
I know... I had no idea, either!
For decades the world wore Paisley shawls, each one made in Scotland. 

Coats & Clark thread? That thread that people have been using forever?
That also started in Paisley. It was the thread capital of the world.
Who knew.

The history of Paisley has inspired me, and the story is taking shape in my head and on paper. I am so excited...and this will dove-tail with the family vacation to England and Scotland we are planning in 2013...*after* the Olympics are over. LOL

Now, on with the preview of my new story...

Denim the Bubble Ranger and Ravenna the Time Bender have their work cut out for them when they travel to the misty fields of Scotland to help unravel the mysterious deaths of members of the secret Paisley Clan. They meet their Scottish cousins -- Finella, D.J., and Sally McDonald, learn about witches and wee folk, and how sometimes that thing you're looking for is no farther than the nose on your face.

Here is the very early, hot-off-the-presses opening scene, just to wet your whistle and enough for my Scottish friends to help me to write in the very distinct and lovely Scottish dialect I love so much.

Enjoy.

Oh, and be sure to have some neeps and tatties to get you in the mood.

:-)

Peace and paisleys, 

Cynthia

The beautiful Paisley Abbey
Paisley, Scotland

The Keepers of the Emerald Cave: Book 2

THE CURSE OF THE PAISLEY CLAN

by C.L. Moyer

Outside of the quiet town of Paisley in the southwestern corner of Scotland, stomping feet crossed a foggy field at dusk.

Panting for breath, praying to every saint who would listen, the man ran for his life, ducking around a handful of sleepy cows. He scrambled over a fence, ignoring the rose trellis tearing at his clothes. Landing in a garden, he lost his balance and knocked over a stack of plastic chairs. A wee dag somewhere inside barked at the intrusion into its peaceful evening. The wooden back door of the cottage cracked open and light burst out, sending broken shards into the night.

“Oy! Ooo is it? Is someone there?”

The voice of a young woman met his ears. As she turned to go back in, the man pushed through the door. He ignored her screams as he slammed the door behind them and fell into her home.

From his new position on the floor, visions of a ceiling fan and long red curls swirled before his eyes. He was so cold. Pain shot through his abdomen and he knew his time was short. The lack of blood pumping through his head and his heart made it difficult to speak, but he tried. He had to tell someone before he died.

“I say, are you all right, mistah? Mistah! Are ye awake?” She dropped to her knees at his side. “My god, yer covered in blood.”

“Aye, I am. They did this to me.” His hands again tried to stop the bleeding, but the branch had been too big, the wound too severe. And running through the night had not helped his recovery. He knew it was too late. He gasped for breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m dyin’ lassie... you have to tell my clan...only my clan...’tis the clan of the agate cave...dinnae call the police.”

“Why? Who did this to ye?”

“T'was them, the witches. The Paisley witches. They've come back for us all, they have.”