Dear Readers,
This rather titillating story was recently received by your faithful publisher:
On a day filled with cloudy drizzle, Lady G and Lady A strolled through the imposing gates of Montagu House, the grand but fading Baroque mansion that housed the British Museum. Once inside, the scents of old stone, polish, and vellum clung to the high-ceilinged corridors. A liveried attendant took Lady G’s letter of admission, glancing over it before nodding them through.
They made straight for the Egyptian hall—in truth, if it could be called a hall, for it was little more than a wide room lined with relics. They perused the dark and impressive Rosetta Stone, fascinated by the nearly four-foot-tall slab of black granodiorite etched with three distinct scripts.
“Onward!” Lady A said after a few minutes. “I must see what all this fuss is about the Parthenon marbles.”
Lady G nodded. “Lord Elgin has certainly taken some harsh criticism.”
They traipsed through narrow halls to a room smelling of fresh paint where the Parthenon sculptures loomed larger than Lady G had imagined.
There were shattered gods and half-draped goddesses aplenty.
“The marbles are magnificent, are they not?” Said Lady G.
Lady A walked to a frieze, “The Lapiths and the Centaurs,” and then to a nude male warrior. She shook her head. “The ones that remain intact…I shall never understand.”
Lady G tilted her head. “Understand what?”
Lady A walked to a small sculpture and wafted a hand over Hercules seated on a rock. “His intact phallus, one of the few not broken off. The size! It’s smaller than my pinky! They are all like that.” She waved her hand around the room. “My Horace… Well, I confess I am rather shocked by their diminutive size.”
Lady G tittered. “I saw the ‘Farnese Heracles’ in Naples and ‘Laocoön and His Sons’ at the Vatican. I found it passing odd as well.” She offered Lady A a mischievous look. “So I investigated.”
“How shocking!” Lady A whispered, her eyes glittering as she moved closer to Lady G.
“Indeed.” Lady G giggled. “You see, large phalluses in Ancient Greece were undesirable.”
“Really?” Lady A said. “Why ever not?”
“The Greeks believed small genitalia implied that person had an expansive and potent intelligence up top.”
“No!” Lady A said. “How very odd.”
“Statues with small genitalia make clear the sculptors believed these men were rational and intelligent, their urges under control.”
“My Horace certainly does not…” Lady A cleared her throat.
“Aristophanes,” Lady G said.
“Who?”
“The famous comedic playwright,” Lady G said. “He said in his The Clouds that the ideal male had ‘a gleaming chest, bright skin, broad shoulders, tiny tongue, strong buttocks, and a little prick.’”
“How do you possibly remember that?”
Lady G gave her a knowing look. “How could I not?”
Lady A tittered.
“Naturally, Priapus was the exception. Yet any man with a large member was considered lustful, depraved, and villainous by the ancient Greeks.”
“How very unfair!” Lady A.
Lady G smiled. “I always thought my Samuel was somewhat villainous!”
The Seer
A quest for truth. A legacy in stone. A love forged in danger.
When Lady Claire Pheland is publicly humiliated by London’s Society of Antiquarians, she vows to prove her radical theory: that the iconic ancient Greek statues were once vividly painted. Claire’s search for evidence leads her to Greece in the company of Lord Theseus Ashworth—a brilliant scholar on a dangerous mission of his own: returning his father’s Greek sculptures to their rightful home.
Their journey is fraught with peril. Bandits lurk in the shadows, a Greek prophetess whispers cryptic warnings, and a traitor mirrors their every move. In Delphi, tensions erupt when Lord Byron arrives, a priceless bust vanishes, and a villager is murdered. As Claire nears proving her theory, Theseus’ mission spirals into a deadly game when seven ancient sculptures are stolen and a second life is taken.
What begins as a battle of wits between Claire and Theseus soon ignites into a passion as fiery as the dangers surrounding them. But when Theseus is brutally attacked upon their return to England, they realize the thieves will continue their murderous ways until they are stopped. With time running out, they must unmask the killers before they become their next victims. Will they uncover the truth—or be buried by it?
Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/Seer-Book-Secret-Tales-ebook/dp/B0FCDMJPB2
About the Author
Vicki continues work on her Afterworld Chronicles and her award-winning mystery/thrillers feature homicide counselor Tally Whyte.
Vicki tapped into her love of knitting to produce Chest of Bone The Knit Collection and co-write 10 Secrets of the LaidBack Knitters.
After running The Writers Studio with her late husband, William G. Tapply, Vicki taught fiction and modern media writing for six years at Clark University.
She grew up in professional theater and planned to become an actress. Instead, she slung hamburgers, managed a scuba shop, and became a college professor. She is a mom to two wonderful humans and a furry pack. Her passions for scuba diving, fly fishing, knitting, and horses pop up in her novels, as do chocolate, bourbon, and lobster. Currently, she’s playing with her menagerie while working on THE UNSEEN (as SANNA BRAND) , the fourth book in The Secret Tales.
Dearest Readers,
Wedding Fever Series
Dearest Mr. Clemens, thank you for the delightful Tea you arranged for my sister and I before we left London. As you predicted, there is much delicious information to be had at Sir Peter and Lady Somerville’s house party in the lovely Sussex countryside. My sister Prudence will have already alerted you to the goings on of the night rider Captain Midnight. There will be more on that subject!
28 February
Liliana’s Letter
Lady P, with more than the latest on dits—I have a confession to make! There have been a number of strapping young footmen over the years who had my heart fluttering, imagining stolen embraces in the linen closet, the tack room in the stables, the alcove… do forgive me for rambling. But, I simply must call your attention to the sixteen handsome-as-sin Irishmen who have been an even greater source of distraction as of late. Fueling more than one day dream because I do so hate to use the word fantasy.