Three hours’ work on The Heart of the Beast tonight, netting 4,200 words, about 4,500 words of new text. That’s the whole of one chapter and the beginning of the next.
Project is at 62 hours and 71,800 words. A bit more than halfway done, methinks. (Mehopes, in fact.) Assuming I stay on track, I’ll be done with this draft by the end of February, which I’ll then hand back over to Jeff VanderMeer, warts and all.
Even before he was done speaking she had started to trace to the leather texture of his brows, where a scaled serpent writhed in the textured language of scars writ large upon his body.
Song began to make a reply, his lips just parting, when she stole the first kiss.
The taste of him is the distilled liquor of which his scent had only been a vapor. She could climb onto him and lock herself upon his mouth, breathe his air, suck his tongue into herself until she was saturated.
Something in the way he stirred told Moot that the Scarred Man was feeling much the same.
“I will trade you an orphan’s tale for your song of fire,” she whispered. “But not here where the priests look down from their tower.”