The World Wrights book 2, On the Wright Path is nearly ready for my human proofreaders, so it’s time for a peek into Rebecca and David’s upcoming adventures!

February, 1871, Brighton England

What a strange surreal feeling, to be sitting in an office in the Wright’s Guild House, in an office with her name—Rebecca Fuller, Master Full Wright—beside the door. Not called in for some infraction, or to be treated as some aberration of nature—a female Wright indeed! But to be there in an official capacity, with an important job to do.

The office had been David Enright’s, before he was named secretary of the Brighton Wright’s Guild. It smelled vaguely like him, perhaps the room’s one redeeming feature. Though once a box room, it had been pressed into service as an office, still as insufficient to the task as it was then. Much as she felt insufficient to her new responsibilities as a Full Wright in the Guild. So many of them she had not expected, did not even know how to carry out. At least Sir Wilbert was allowing her to only focus on the matters of the school for now.

Crowded and cramped, the desk barely fit inside. She had to sidle past the over-full bookcase to get behind the desk, the bustle of her skirts often catching on one shelf or another. Once there, she could pull the chair back only enough to slip into the seat, and no farther. As much as she hated piles and stacks, there was little choice but to allow them, given the shelves and desk drawers were already full.

If only she had the option of taking this all back to her home above the shop, where she could have transformed the parlor or her father’s room into a much more accommodating workspace. But no, workmen were still repairing the damage wrought by the fire Dick Mallory and his son Fletcher had orchestrated there. One day, she would be able to move out of Birdy’s extra room above the Bird’s Nest pub and back home, until then, she was consigned to this not cozy, but cramped box room-cum-office.

She pressed her temples with her knuckles. Now was the time she ought to remember that having an office was more recognition than the Guild had ever given her father. Considering Morris Fuller, the troublesome, argumentative Full Wright was barely tolerated in these hallowed halls, to have been named a Master Full Wright—the only female Master Wright in England and given an office and a mission—it was almost too much to be believed. Some days it still felt like she walked in a dream.

Especially where David was concerned.

But that was another matter altogether. One she would have the luxury of pondering once she got through the stack of correspondence on her desk.

She braced her elbow on the desk and her forehead in her hand. She had to be dreaming. A school? A school? The Guild wanted her to found the first school for female Wrights. And Baron Wareham would be their patron, no less.

She closed her eyes, the school’s trade card half-composed in her mind’s eye: Miss Fuller’s School for the Advancement of Young Female Wrights. The usual academic subjects taught with advanced studies in Fire, Earth, Water and Air. Should the border be scrolls and flowers or would a simple single line suffice?

She let her head fall back and laughed. Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.

Doubly so, the number of letters on her desk recommending young ladies to be trained. Sir Wilbert, their Guild Master pro tem, had promised that the Guild would help her identify students, necessary assistance, considering few believed that female wrights existed at all.

Unfortunately, the help had been a little too proficient, and now she was swimming in a sea of potential candidates to sort through. She only had room this term for five, possibly six girls, assuming the shop building was repaired on time. Then there was the annoying little fact that Rebecca had no idea how to actually train a single student, must less half a dozen.

At five, she had shown her first propensity for fire. An unfortunate bout of temper, which set her brother’s hat ablaze and forced her father to begin teaching her, if only to keep her from burning down the house. Although she never said it, Mama, another female flame-tamer, seemed proud of a daughter following in her ways. Papa not as much.

None of these girls was less than thirteen, some even older. Wrighting was best taught to young, very young, apprentices. Would an untrained eighteen-year-old still possess enough skill to train? It faded so quickly in adulthood when not harnessed.

Perhaps if she stopped trying to look at each student in terms of what they could do, and instead what they might do based on the current situation. At least it wouldn’t make the situation any less clear than it already was. She fished out her father’s fountain pen, the one that still required her finesse to keep the ink flowing properly, from the desk drawer and opened a fresh journal. She skipped the first page. Eventually she would come back and title it, but if she fretted to find the perfect title now, she would never get started. Silly that a title should be so significant, but it was.

Begin with the first letter on the stack. She wrote the number ‘1’ on the first envelope and a corresponding numeral in the journal. So, what was notable about this girl?

She was thirteen, and her father was a master Earth Wright. Apparently, it was he who was writing, as he confessed to secretly teaching her since she was a small child. The girl was a Water Wright, with a propensity for mischief. That was promising. David would probably disagree, but a streak of mischief could be a sign of the strength of character a woman needed to survive as a Wright in a guild dominated by men.

The girl enjoyed splashing unsuspecting passers-by from the small pond on their country estate and blaming the fish. She would lift soup out of the soup plate at the table and drop it upon her sister or brother. Typical childhood pranks. Ah, but here was the rub. The father called the child stubborn and willful and had seen little interest from her in learning how to do anything useful with her Skill. He hoped another Master might be able to convince her along the right path.

That could be a problem. It took determination and patience to become proficient with one’s Skill. And that had to come from within. Perhaps someday she could take on recalcitrant Wrights, but as a first foray into teaching, it hardly sounded like a sound idea.

Rebecca drew a line down the center of the page and titled the columns: favorable and unfavorable. Applicant number one: Prior training and demonstration of some proficiency with water were favorable, no interest in developing Skill was not.

On to number two.

Oh gracious, what a right jolly challenge this one would be. Seventeen and a Fire Wright, taught by her father to keep her from burning down the house in her fits of temper. That sounded eerily familiar. But the father was a titled man and the girl an aspiring debutante who would miss her first chance at a debutante ball if she attended school this term. That did not bode well. But the things he said she could already do with Fire cried out for further training.

Even more so because of her age, if she had such skill now, she was far less likely to lose it. Allowing such ability to go unchecked, that could go sideways quickly—definitely unwise.

There was a thought. Perhaps she should focus on the slightly older girls who showed promise.

Number three was only twelve and a weak and disinterested Air Wright at best. Four, five and six, similarly without distinction.

Heavens above! Number seven she had to admit. Her father was a Master in both Fire and Air, and her mother showed skill as a Water Wright in her girlhood. Her father taught at Oxford and had been unofficially teaching the girl as his apprentice in Fire. Everything about her sounded ideal. Which gave Rebecca pause. Why was the girl being presented like a patent medicine—able to solve every one of their problems?

She filled out her columns and leaned her head in her hands. Breathe, she needed to breathe.

A familiar rap at her door made her jump. “Pray come in.”

Coming soon in ebook, paperback, and audiobook

Who do you think is at the door? Tell me in the comment!