Gail Carriger - Blameless

“Following in its mother’s footsteps already, the little pup. How verra charming.” His big hands began moving optimistically in a northward direction.

“Now what are you about?” wondered his wife.

“I have some further reacquainting to do. Must evaluate size differentials,” he insisted.

“I hardly see how you could tell the difference,” pointed out his wife, “considering their oversubstantial nature to start with.”

“Oh, I believe I am more than equal to the task.”

“We all must have goals in life,” agreed his wife, a slight tremor in her voice.

“And to determine all the new particulars, I must apply all the available tools in my repertoire.” This comment apparently indicated Conall intended to switch and use his mouth rather than his hands.

Alexia, it must be admitted, was running out of both token protests and the ability to breathe regularly. And since her husband’s mouth was occupied, and even a werewolf shouldn’t talk with his mouth full, she determined that was the end of their conversation.

So it proved to be the case, for some time at least.

Ms. Carriger began writing in order to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small-town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in higher learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She now resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported directly from London. She is fond of teeny-tiny hats and tropical fruit. Find out more about Ms. Carriger at www.gailcarriger.com.