Two flame-haired girls, both fourteen and living in London, but four hundred years apart. A powerful and charismatic man, an Egyptian mummy and twenty spells written in hieroglyphics on parchment. An emerald casket, a gold ring and a ropewalker. All are united by blood and by a devastating prophecy.
A day in the life of Deborah White
I wake up early. 6am. Have two cups of tea, a bowl of cereal and clear up after my ancient cat Martha, aka The Phantom Widdler. Then, without getting dressed or having a shower, I start work at my computer. Luckily, when the editor rings at eleven to ask whether the schedule she’s e-mailed me for Book Two is workable, she can’t see me. (A friend skyped me from Australia only last week…totally forgetting I could see what she was doing. Gross.) I tell the editor the schedule is very reasonable. (what a massive porky. I’ll never get the book finished by then, will I?) I keep writing, spurred on with the thought of that deadline…and massive amounts of coffee, even though I’m writing total rubbish. Lunchtime. Phew. I get a cup of tea and a sandwich and watch Bargain Hunt. NOW I have a shower and get dressed. Sweet smelling and confidant, I ring my agent. “What’s the longest anyone’s ever gone over deadline with a manuscript?” “Fifteen years,” he says. I feel much better. Even I will have Book Two finished way before then.
Now I get to do the fun bit. Edit. Back at the computer I re-read what I wrote in the morning and suck in my breath in horror at that cheesy sentence, that clunky paragraph. Zip…out it goes. And by the time I’ve finished, the thousand words I wrote this morning has been cut in half. Oh ******. Suddenly fifteen years seems reasonable.