This is a draft of an excerpt from the upcoming second in the Glamorgan Progeny series. Let me know what you think in the comments section. Thanks for reading!
I was sitting on
the wicker chair with a few papers, books, and mobile scattered across the
matching coffee table. It was a damp,
early winter day and I could sense the greenhouse’s residents breathing and
talking to one another – I am psychically sensitive like that. I had been working on a drash, a
biblical interpretation, to justify critical points in my article for Tikkun
magazine. I am Desmond Mac Innes-Reese,
1st Viscount of Glamorgan.
Close friends call me Deetz. I am
a rabbi over a small but growing Welsh congregation that was gaining some
international statue because of its unapologetically progressive politics. We were a welcoming space for Jewish misfits
ostracized by more traditional settings.
I stood up,
stretched, and sighed at my lack of progress in light of the lateness of the
day. The moon was nice though and I
found myself missing my husband of six years, Angus Reese, the 12th
Earl of Glamorgan. He is an MP
representing Cardiff in the House of Commons and currently away on diplomatic
business. He's been gone for two
weeks. The Crown often presses him into
secret diplomatic service because of his grasps of multiple languages – a big
advantage during high stakes negotiations.
He wasn’t due back until tomorrow.
We are quite ‘close’ and I’ve been missing the feel of his body against
mine. If asked, Angus would claim he
wasn’t gay but then again, neither am I.
I walked over to
the samovar to get some more tea, reckoning on a few more minutes of work
before I went to bed. Sipping at the hot
brew, I looked out to the rest of the garden, bits of snow dusting the bushes
which surrounded the ancestral estate.
Remodelling of the mansion was nearly over and our entire clan of
reprobates had settled throughout it. We
were related by deeds and blood, having saved one another’s lives more times
than we cared to remember and in ways 007 wouldn’t have dreamed of. But that’s another story . . .
I started back to
my seat when I felt a rustling behind me.
I turned around and Mr Handsome appeared like someone teleporting from Blake’s
7 Liberator. More likely he flew our
jumbo, private jet. “Oi! You’re home early!” Ah, finally a legitimate excuse to stop
working. And what an excuse Angus
was. He still looked like a model off
the cover of an Arthurian romance novel - long-hair, beard, and all. Whereas he is buff, I’m slight and tight,
like Bruce Lee’s brother from another mother.
We both have random Oriental and Welsh tattoos all over our bodies, only
I have a tree of life brand that lights up when I get emotional. Luckily I was no longer in puberty where
burning a hole in my shirt was embarrassingly commonplace. “Things must have gone well, eh?”
“Right,” he said
in a low growl. He came into the
light. I noted how his suit was wrinkled
and his hair was untied. “I’ve crossed
three datelines to get to you.” He
looked a bit wild, his grey-green eyes were dark, glaring at me with a smouldering
intensity. He placed his suitcase on a
nearby chair unceremoniously and walked to the middle of the room, hands behind
his back. “Come here.” I looked at him incredulously. “Now.”
