Just as when a film editor tightens and sharpens the focus of a film, an author must tighten and sharpen the focus of his or her words. Sometimes it's a whole scene; sometimes it's little more than a mood. Here's a bit that occurs just between Chapter 36 and 37 of The Soul Mirror...

The King's Return

Though I needed to be back in the sickroom, I was drawn to the south wing. For better or worse, Philippe de Savin Journia was the most important member of my family at present. If I or any of my family had a future beyond the Voilline Rift, he would determine it.
    By the time I reached the high galleries that overlooked Castelle Escalon's Grand Foyer, every person in the palace without urgent or specific duty had found a vantage point to watch the king's arrival. The curved arms of the grand stair were jammed with courtiers, the twenty doorways that fronted reception rooms and adjacent halls were overflowing.
    Castelle Escalon's Lord Chamberlain, the white-haired Duc de Marpessai, stood in front of the crowd, perfectly appointed in black velvet doublet and a starched ruff, as if he'd been brought out of a storage box for just this occasion. In one hand he held the hearth cup, the thick wooden vessel that had traveled with Sabria's kings from the old royal seat in upper Tallemant to Castelle Escalon, and in the other the jeweled short sword of the King-in-Residence. First Counselor Lord Baldwin, the true power at the palace in Philippe's absence, stood one step to the right and behind the chamberlain.
    It was perhaps more telling to note who was not in the crowd. Lady Antonia, for one. Dante for another. Ilario's fair head bobbed above the rest as he squeezed through to the front. He emerged, resplendent in sky blue, just behind Lord Baldwin.
    The great doors were opened to the soggy afternoon, the only time I had ever seen them so. They were never opened but for the king's arrival. Even foreign monarchs used the ceremonial doors to either side. Yet on this day ones and twos of tired, wet, and travel-stained men trickled back and forth through the gaping entry, conferring with those in the bright lamplight of the Hall or calling to invisible companions in the daylight beyond.
    At last a company of helmeted, scarlet-cloaked guards marched into the foyer and set up ranks on either side. A murmur of anticipation rippled through the onlookers, only to fall into silence when a lone man strode through the doors and between them. In other circumstances, one would expect cheers or applause at his coming. But with the woman who should have been here to greet him lying fevered, it was unthinkable. On this day, the only sound beyond the tread of his boots were the snapped orders of the guard captain, and the whispering wave of silk and velvet as the assembly genuflected.
    Such pride I'd borne as a girl, when I could tell some new acquaintance that Philippe de Savin-Journia himself was my goodfather. I would have sworn that he was the tallest and most gloriously handsome man in the world, despite my father topping his height by ten centimetres. He had been a dashing young god who exalted my girlish heart by listening with serious good humor to my first forays into adult conversation. I had enshrined the jade lion that was his birth gift among my dearest treasures, until the day he sent his soldiers to arrest my father and I threw it into Montclaire's millpond.
    But the solid, bearded man who downed the wine from the ancient cup and traded the war blade of his fathers for the jeweled sword was scarce distinguishable from the other weary veterans who accompanied him. Though it was a duc removed his traveling cloak, it was no richer cloak than theirs. Yet indeed there was a strength and surety in his presence that made others about him seem insubstantial. His grim aspect was not reassuring.
    Seemingly as an afterthought, the king stepped around the chamberlain and chancellor so that he might touch the shoulders of de Marpessai's wife and a few nobles kneeling in the first rank behind the two lords. Ilario was one of them. Each kissed Philippe's proffered ring before rising, giving the rest of us permission to rise from our bent knees as well. Ilario kissed the ring then touched it to his forehead, taking the gesture of obeisance to its extreme as was his habit.
    In moments my goodfather had signaled his aides to dismiss the crowd and vanished into the depths of the halls with Lord Baldwin. The chamberlain and his wife retreated. Footmen shoved the great doors closed with a resounding thud that reverberated through the palace walls. It sounded like the end of the world.

Sometimes a scene plays out and then you realize you're starting a thread that, no matter how much fun it might be, you just don't have time to pursue. Thus it was with the local law enforcement...

Diverting an Investigation

I had no sooner sat at the writing desk to complete my notes when a footman brought a folded paper sealed with a lump of . . . grease?

         An official awaits Damoselle de Vernase at the east-wing clock.
        Would speak to you with regard to your brother.

    Every possible bit of news ran through me: Ambrose was captured, executed, drowned, dying… Ah, please, dear saints, let it be good news!
    I sped down the passage to the atrium just inside the east-wing doors, where one of my goodfather's precious clocks towered over every visitor, its burnished wheels and cogs exposed to the wondering eye. A bench had been set where the visitor could observe the constant motion of the clock's intricate mechanism.
    "Damoselle de Vernase!" A rangy gentleman of middle age jumped up from the observation bench and snapped a curt bow. "Divine grace be with thee and thy ancestors, excepting only those like you and your family, which art culpable of vile and nefarious acts devised to undermine the safety of the Sabrian throne. I've heard of your smart ways and education."
    He had clearly spent more time oiling and training his short brown beard and thick moustache into precise curls than he had spent repairing the rips in his threadbare doublet, replacing the moth-eaten plume of his broad-brimmed hat, or considering the merest human decency. Thus I felt no need to reciprocate his insulting greeting or to thank him for it. But his rudeness gave me caution enough to prevent spilling my fears or begging for his news.
    "And who might you be, sonjeur, and your friend?"
    A young woman had bounced to her feet beside the man. Shorter than I, she filled a stained leather skirt, a thick black shirt, and oxhide jerkin to bursting. Her round face wore a permanent grimace, caused, I thought, by the severity with which she had pulled her hair into a black knot at the back of her head.
    "Magistrate Nicodemus de Rouge of Riverside," the man announced. "Bailiff Violette and I were informed to await you here beside this profane insolence of a machine." This introduction was expressed in profound indignation, whether at the waiting or the bailiff or his judgment of the clock, I couldn't tell.
    "You wished to speak of my brother?"
    "The murderer," stated Bailiff Violette in a grainy soprano, her glance twitching between me and the clock, as if one of us intended to bite her at any moment. "We've come to hear what you know of the criminal's vanishment."
    "Is he found?"
    "Not yet," blurted Bailiff Violette.
    "Mayhap so, mayhap not," said the magistrate at the very same moment.
    The woman's overstretched cheeks flamed as she comprehended her mistake. When Nicodemus growled and bared yellow teeth at her, she retreated a step.
    "I know nothing of my brother's abduction," I said, clutching my relief and hiding it deep, "but I'm sure King Philippe will approve your careful investigation of his goodson's disappearance and your contribution to his healthy retrieval."
    Though the bailiff blanched, the magistrate was not deterred. "King won't like hearing his Spindle Warder's got a shiv in his craw, no matter it was his own goodson done it or his own witch wife masterminded it. Now tell us where the lad's like to have gone or we'll have you down to the stocks and put the question again."
    I could not dismiss the threat, no matter the issuer's stupendous illogic. I could not count on Duplais to rescue me from the Riverside stocks. And clearly my position as the queen's handmaid held no power over this man. So, send him chasing shadows… "Public stocks? All right, all right. I could not bear such a horror."
    I beckoned in a conspiratorial manner, and the two of them stepped forward. "My brother once coerced some poor traveling laborers to build him a small redoubt in the forests of Mont Renard near our home in Aubine. He told me once that he'd go there if he was ever in trouble. I can think of nowhere else he could hide. Certainly no friend or acquaintance would shelter a traitor's son."
    The magistrate's curled moustaches quivered in anticipation—a more repulsive sight than his scowl. "The hounds of justice will drive this murdering fox from his hiding place. And then we shall find who helped him through the water gates. I'll warn you not to run, damoselle."
    As Nicodemus signaled the quailing bailiff to follow, I raised a hand to pause him. "In hopes of mercy for me and my brother, I'll offer this, sonjeur. I've heard that Warder Pognole acquired his position through blackmail. He as much as bragged on it when I visited my brother. Consider, sirrah, my brother was but a child when the King made him hostage. He cared for naught but escaping the prison. He'd never condemn himself to more of it by doing murder." I nodded as if I had just revealed the secrets of the universe. "But look for the person who got Pognole his post and there you'll find your murderer."
    Smirking, he bowed and left the room.
    Smirking, I returned to my duties.

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