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The Chosen Grandma - Draft 2 - Chapter 1.2

by BlueAfrica


a/n: I'm posting chapter one of my second draft in two parts to get some reviews and revise it before I submit it for a scholarship! Any feedback - big-picture or line-by-line - is appreciated, since this particular chapter needs to be as good as it can be.

Last week, on The Chosen Grandma...

Edna is playing bingo - or rather avoiding playing bingo - when a wizard appears in the nursing home cafeteria and demands to speak to her.

Methodius tugged at his beard some more and considered her from beneath those bushy eyebrows. Her eyebrows had all but disappeared at this point in her life, and she had to color them in every morning if she didn't want to look constantly surprised by everything. But that was one of the perks of being an enchanter. He might be nine hundred years old and have white hair and wrinkles, but he probably didn't have arthritis or a botched hip replacement or hearing loss.

“Have you heard of a sorcerer called Redway?” he asked.

Edna counted her stitches. “He's been all over the news. Something about dragons?”

Something about dragons, but she couldn't quite remember what. Dragon attacks had been on the news a lot in the last year or so, dragon attacks and a sorcerer, but somehow she'd never quite caught the connection between them.

Methodius nodded and tugged harder at his beard. It seemed in danger of coming out.

“Dragons have been attacking Knights.”

Edna thought suddenly of her son but pushed it away. Time for that later. There was a wizard here to talk to her, for goodness sakes.

“Dragons are always attacking Knights,” she said, knitting faster. “It's been that way since the first dragon stole the first maiden and spirited her back to his hoard of gold.”

Not that it wasn't terrible. The Knights had driven dragons largely into Dominion, but it took a lot of men and weapons and work to keep them there, and men and weapons and work cost money. Dragons had been a particular problem during the Cold War, when the government had cut funding to the Knights in favor of throwing it at Russia. Edna's son and his elementary school classmates had practiced hiding under their desks from atomic bombs and dragons, neither of which could be withstood by something as insubstantial as a silly little piece of wood.

Then they'd all come of age, just as the Cold War dwindled and the Knights had funding again, and they'd all gone and joined up to fight the dragons they'd spent their childhoods hiding from.

Methodius held up a finger like a professor making an important point during a lecture.

“A dragon might attack a person or city at random,” he said, “but these aren't single dragons. These are whole flights of dragons, attacking so many bases it's like they're targeting the Knights. Which they can't. They're dumb beasts. It's this sorcerer. Redway.”

Edna thought she could see where the wizard was going, but the idea that she might be involved was ludicrous. Her knitting had taken a back seat in her mind and she'd probably have to redo the stitches later.

“Then I imagine,” she said, “the Council will be naming someone to stop him any day now.”

Methodius stopped tugging on his beard, which looked relieved. Its owner, on the other hand, pursed his lips. “It's already done.”

A Chosen One hadn't been named in more than fifty years.

“I don't mean to sound...it's not that I think I...well—am I—will I be mentoring them?”

The wizard looked sourer than ever.

“It's you,” he said.

Edna blinked at him. “What's me?”

“You're the Chosen One.”

She stopped knitting.

Perhaps she should have been amazed or excited, but, well, there was something lacking in the delivery of this pronouncement. Methodius' lips were twisted in disapproval, and although part of her took offense to it, she could hardly blame him. She was eighty-three and could have been the poster child for old white ladies: pasty, wrinkly, with an old-lady perm and old-lady glasses on a chain so she wouldn't lose them, and a blue housedress that hadn't been in fashion since the 1960s, and a faded floral handbag that had never been in fashion at all.

Besides, old people weren't Chosen Ones. Old people were mentors.

Notwithstanding the fact that all she could hope to teach someone was knitting.

She didn't know how to respond to this momentous news, so she asked the obvious question.

“Aren't teenagers traditional?”

The wizard snorted. “Traditional, yes. But Philostratus did the naming, and his methods are, shall we say, unorthodox. You'd think good, old-fashioned prophecy would be as good for him as for the rest of us, but no, Science has to be involved in some way. Algorithms and equations and the Internet, if you can believe it...”

He was talking more to himself than her at this point and soon devolved into muttering about the offending Philostratus. Edna tried not to worry about the fact that, evidently, the Internet, rather than an oracle, had decided she ought to be the Chosen One. Then again, in her experience, fortune-tellers tended to be fraudulent.

She wanted to believe it was true, but it was so outlandish an idea that her voice seemed to have stopped working. Her brain, too. An empty buzzing filled her head. She clutched her knitting and tried to make her fingers work. It took a moment; they were suddenly stiff, as though they, too, were surprised at her fate. At last, however, she found herself undoing and redoing the mangled stitches, and in the process the white noise in her brain formed itself into coherent thought. She was the Chosen One. She was going to leave the nursing home. She was going to go on a grand adventure and save the Knights the way she hadn't been able to save her son.

“Well, then,” she said, “what do I need to do?”

Methodius raised his eyebrows. “Aren't you going to reject the offer?”

Edna laughed. “Good heavens, what for?”

“Well,” Methodius said delicately, “it's traditional...”

“Yes, and it's traditional for the Council of Wizards to choose a teenager. But here we are.”

The wizard had nothing to say to that, so he didn't. He cleared his throat. “Well, then. Right. Yes.”

He tapped his staff on the floor. Or thunked it, more accurately. Probably he could've managed a mere tap, but the heavy thunk of wood on tile was more impressive. The lights in the lobby went out. The receptionist looked irritably over the top of her computer but returned to her podcast without saying anything.

Now the only light was the glow of the computer monitor, the dim daylight that made it past the awning outside to get through the windows on either side of the front entrance, and a magical blue glow around Methodius. Edna leaned forward, impressed despite herself.

Another thunk of the wizard's staff, and an image appeared in midair: a sword with a glittering, jeweled hilt. Edna knew nothing about swords, but even so she thought it was beautiful.

“This is the Sword of Destiny,” Methodius intoned. “You will find it in the keeping of a man named Theobald Smith. Give him my token, and he will give you the sword.”

Edna was about to ask what token, but the blue glow fizzled for a moment as the wizard's eyes shot over to her. No interruptions, then. Methodius closed his eyes briefly. The blue glow shivered and then stabilized. He opened his eyes and went on.

“You will find Theobald Smith in the land of...”

Edna leaned further forward, hoping for Atlantis, the Bermuda Triangle, or even France.

“...Michigan,” Methodius said.

She sat back, disappointed. Michigan was only two states away and had more corn and roadwork than magic. Methodius pretended not to notice her disappointment.

“When you have the sword in your possession,” he said, “you will travel to Dominion, find Redway, and end his reign of terror.”

He made it sound so simple.

The blue glow faded, as did the image of the sword.

“So that's easy enough,” Edna said.

Methodius sighed but otherwise ignored her and worked a heavy silver ring off his finger. A round, blood-red stone glinted dully in its setting.

“Give this to Theobald,” he said. “And for the love of Merlin, don't lose it.”

Edna sighed. As if she didn't have most of the nursing home staff treating her like a child already, now this nine-hundred-and-whatever-year-old wizard had to do it.

But at least, compared to him, she actually was quite young.

She took the ring and stowed it away in an inner pocket of her handbag, wrapped in a handkerchief. People didn't really keep handkerchiefs anymore, but somehow Edna could always find one in her handbag. It was like the opposite of a dryer; instead of eating socks, it spit out handkerchiefs.

“And you should take this.” Methodius pinched his fingers together and made a motion as if unzipping the air. A black hand-mirror with constellations carved into the back appeared from nowhere. “I have the other one. I have a spate of meetings with the Grand Coven in the coming weeks, but if you really need something...”

Edna took the mirror and turned it over, examining the constellations etched into the back. She'd never used a magic mirror before, but it couldn't be any harder than using a computer. Probably it was easier. Magic tended to be more straightforward than technology. Or maybe it was just the fact that it had been around so much longer.

“Thank you,” she said, but Methodius wasn't listening. He was more than ready to wrap things up and get out of here. Not that a few minutes' conversation was that long when he'd been around for nine centuries, but he did have other obligations. He hadn't even wanted to come here. He certainly didn't approve of this choice, but someone had to tell Edna Fisher she was the Chosen One, and it was Philostratus' day off.

He fidgeted with the sleeves of his robe for a moment and then said in lofty tones, “Well, if you don't have any questions...”

“Questions?” The white noise was back, despite her knitting. She had the mirror, the ring, a Fateful Object to search for. Beyond that, her destiny seemed far too big to come up with individual questions about it. “No, I don't think so.”

“In that case...” He inclined his head. “Good luck, Mrs. Fisher. The fate of the Knights rests in your hands.”

Her hands. She looked down at them vaguely. Her wrinkled, liver-spotted hands. The word Knights reverberated in her head, and she suddenly remembered that it was her son's birthday, and that she needed to go to the cemetery.

When she looked up, the wizard was gone. It only occurred to her now that she should have asked where in Michigan Theobald Smith lived.


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Aley wrote a review...



Hi, so I'm not going to go quite as in-detail as your last reviewer. I'm going to approach this as a reader who's reviewing within 30 minutes, not highlighting things and commenting in the story itself.

I find it interesting that we get more details about the mage's lack of arthritis and hip replacements than the health of the Chosen One. We also have some context that this is an overlay of the real world, and I'm actually from the LP in Michigan, so if you need details, I can give them. We're a lot more than just corn and construction. We have trees that hug our roads and make people claustrophobic, suicidal and murderous deer, high death rates in two of our major cities, lots of government malpractice, highly segregated populations where you either stand out like a sore thumb or you don't, and a beautiful UP where everyone goes to escape the LP when the heat comes.

Aside from that, I love that you're eluding to the death of a knight son but not explaining it, that's great for development of backstory later, and it gives us some insight that this is a lived woman, not someone who's just old. I want more random details like that to be slipped in through the rest of this.

Also, when you're "undoing" a knitting mistake, if you're "Unknitting" a row, so to speak [which you don't always have to do to fix a dropped stitch, sometimes you can pick it up the next row and it looks fine, there are tricks!] it's traditionally called frogging. Although frogging may be reserved for when you're just pulling all the stitches apart of an entire project, you frog it. There are knit stitches and pearl stitches and then cables and so so much more, if she was doing more than just a ribbing where it's like knit knit pearl pearl or knit pearl knit pearl, like a pattern, she would probably need to pay more attention to her project, and potentially be counting to keep the pattern. It totally depends on what she's knitting, but if it's just a standard knit pearl afghan or something, it could be really easy.

As a reader, I found the set up of your world confusing. If there is a military and a knighthood, then why are they two separate things? Why does a council of mages decide a chosen one and what can a chosen one do against dragons that an army or knights cannot? Why wouldn't it be traditional to choose a military person or a knight? Why a teenager? Are the mages elected? Can he give her health benefits so she can actually lift a full longsword and swing it about? She seems like a normal person, so how does her being chosen give her any ability?

I'm sure you probably answer these later in the life of this story, but I wanted to give you a taste of my curiosity. It feels a little like you're too focused on the beard when you describe him and not too focused on the aches and pains of an old lady, but I could just be sensitive. I just think you should add more about her in the discussion cuz she doesn't start doing the things I've seen grandmothers do, like pull out tissues, offer sweets, toothpicks, change sitting positions to get more comfortable, etc. She just sits and knits. There's also no old people noises from others in the nursing home like the murmurings they just can't hear anymore sometimes.

Aaaaanyway, those are my comments. I hope they help.




BlueAfrica says...


Fun fact, I am also from the LP of Michigan, although I live in Ohio now! In draft 1 there was a joke about Michigan having people who point to their hands a lot, but no one got it bc nine of the readers were from MI. Our Heroes actually stop off at a fictionalized/magicalized version of my parents' university, plus the town I grew up in (okay technically I grew up 15 minutes outside of town but shhh), as well as Detroit's Eastern Market!

I really want to thank you for your comments on knitting in particular - as you have no doubt worked out *cough* I do not knit, and I've been waiting for a knitter to read part of the story so I could find out how badly I'm writing a person knitting lol. I knew there was probably a lot more to it than knit one, pearl two, but that's the extent of my knowledge. If I had more time and weren't so lazy, I'd learn to knit just for the sake of this story, but for now I need to rely on knitters to go "HEY WAIT A MINUTE!"



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Zoom wrote a review...



I’m a lazy scrub so I’m going to quote the whole story and put my live thoughts in bold for you. If you hate that then let me know.

Methodius tugged at his beard some more and considered her from beneath those bushy eyebrows. Her eyebrows had all but disappeared at this point in her life, and she had to color them in every morning if she didn't want to look constantly surprised by everything. But that was one of the perks of being an enchanter. He might be nine hundred years old and have white hair and wrinkles, but he probably didn't have arthritis or a botched hip replacement or hearing loss.

“Have you heard of a sorcerer called Redway?” he asked.

Edna counted her stitches. “He's been all over the news. Something about dragons?”

Something about dragons, but she couldn't quite remember what. Dragon attacks had been on the news a lot in the last year or so, dragon attacks and a sorcerer, but somehow she'd never quite caught the connection between them.

Again, you echo “dragon attacks” and it’s kinda disruptive

Methodius nodded and tugged harder at his beard. It seemed in danger of coming out.

“coming out” is awkward phrasing. I’d go with something punchier, more illustrative, like “snapping off”.

“Dragons have been attacking Knights.”

Edna thought suddenly of her son but pushed it away. Time for that later. There was a wizard here to talk to her, for goodness sakes.

Nice hint to backstory here, but also nice sidestep away from it so it doesn’t bog the story. That was masterful

“Dragons are always attacking Knights,” she said, knitting faster. “It's been that way since the first dragon stole the first maiden and spirited her back to his hoard of gold.”

Not that it wasn't terrible. The Knights had driven dragons largely into Dominion, but it took a lot of men and weapons and work to keep them there, and men and weapons and work cost money. Dragons had been a particular problem during the Cold War, when the government had cut funding to the Knights in favor of throwing it at Russia. Edna's son and his elementary school classmates had practiced hiding under their desks from atomic bombs and dragons, neither of which could be withstood by something as insubstantial as a silly little piece of wood.

I love your choice to have this world mirror our own history (what’s the word for that genre again?)

Then they'd all come of age, just as the Cold War dwindled and the Knights had funding again, and they'd all gone and joined up to fight the dragons they'd spent their childhoods hiding from.

Methodius held up a finger like a professor making an important point during a lecture.

“A dragon might attack a person or city at random,” he said, “but these aren't single dragons. These are whole flights of dragons, attacking so many bases it's like they're targeting the Knights. Which they can't. They're dumb beasts. It's this sorcerer. Redway.”

I’m not overly fond of how this explanation quickly rushes to the conclusion. It’s more the phrasing of these two sentences I’ve bolded. I can’t think of how I’d reword them myself, though. Sorry if that’s really unhelpful.

Edna thought she could see where the wizard was going, but the idea that she might be involved was ludicrous. Her knitting had taken a back seat in her mind and she'd probably have to redo the stitches later.

“Then I imagine,” she said, “the Council will be naming someone to stop him any day now.”

Methodius stopped tugging on his beard, which looked relieved. Its owner, on the other hand, pursed his lips. “It's already done.”

I’m not sure you can really get away with that haha. I see the joke you’re going for but I think you’re taking liberties. It’s too abstract, and without a tangible description of what this might look like to Edna, it falls a bit flat for me

A Chosen One hadn't been named in more than fifty years.

“I don't mean to sound...it's not that I think I...well—am I—will I be mentoring them?”

The wizard looked sourer than ever.

“It's you,” he said.

Edna blinked at him. “What's me?”

“You're the Chosen One.”

She stopped knitting.

Perhaps she should have been amazed or excited, but, well, there was something lacking in the delivery of this pronouncement. Methodius' lips were twisted in disapproval, and although part of her took offense to it, she could hardly blame him. She was eighty-three and could have been the poster child for old white ladies: pasty, wrinkly, with an old-lady perm and old-lady glasses on a chain so she wouldn't lose them, and a blue housedress that hadn't been in fashion since the 1960s, and a faded floral handbag that had never been in fashion at all.

Love this paragraph. Really well written.

Besides, old people weren't Chosen Ones. Old people were mentors.

Notwithstanding the fact that all she could hope to teach someone was knitting.

She didn't know how to respond to this momentous news, so she asked the obvious question.

“Aren't teenagers traditional?”

The wizard snorted. “Traditional, yes. But Philostratus did the naming, and his methods are, shall we say, unorthodox. You'd think good, old-fashioned prophecy would be as good for him as for the rest of us, but no, Science has to be involved in some way. Algorithms and equations and the Internet, if you can believe it...”

He was talking more to himself than her at this point and soon devolved into muttering about the offending Philostratus. Edna tried not to worry about the fact that, evidently, the Internet, rather than an oracle, had decided she ought to be the Chosen One. Then again, in her experience, fortune-tellers tended to be fraudulent.

I would’ve liked a short example here of one of her encounters with a fraudulent fortune-teller. It’s too interesting and promises too much hilarity to just fly by it like this (although I’m guessing you were hesitant to disrupt the story?)

She wanted to believe it was true, but it was so outlandish an idea that her voice seemed to have stopped working. Her brain, too. An empty buzzing filled her head. She clutched her knitting and tried to make her fingers work. It took a moment; they were suddenly stiff, as though they, too, were surprised at her fate. At last, however, she found herself undoing and redoing the mangled stitches, and in the process the white noise in her brain formed itself into coherent thought. She was the Chosen One. She was going to leave the nursing home. She was going to go on a grand adventure and save the Knights the way she hadn't been able to save her son.

This is a bit too “chucked in” for my liking. It’s stated so matter-of-factly that it’s like, why even bother making a mystery of it in the first place. I would have liked to of uncovered this development in a more satisfying way

“Well, then,” she said, “what do I need to do?”

Methodius raised his eyebrows. “Aren't you going to reject the offer?”

Edna laughed. “Good heavens, what for?”

“Well,” Methodius said delicately, “it's traditional...”

“Yes, and it's traditional for the Council of Wizards to choose a teenager. But here we are.”

The wizard had nothing to say to that, so he didn't. He cleared his throat. “Well, then. Right. Yes.”

He tapped his staff on the floor. Or thunked it, more accurately. Probably he could've managed a mere tap, but the heavy thunk of wood on tile was more impressive. The lights in the lobby went out. The receptionist looked irritably over the top of her computer but returned to her podcast without saying anything.

Now the only light was the glow of the computer monitor, the dim daylight that made it past the awning outside to get through the windows on either side of the front entrance, and a magical blue glow around Methodius. Edna leaned forward, impressed despite herself.

Another thunk of the wizard's staff, and an image appeared in midair: a sword with a glittering, jeweled hilt. Edna knew nothing about swords, but even so she thought it was beautiful.

“This is the Sword of Destiny,” Methodius intoned. “You will find it in the keeping of a man named Theobald Smith. Give him my token, and he will give you the sword.”

Edna was about to ask what token, but the blue glow fizzled for a moment as the wizard's eyes shot over to her. No interruptions, then. Methodius closed his eyes briefly. The blue glow shivered and then stabilized. He opened his eyes and went on.

“You will find Theobald Smith in the land of...”

Edna leaned further forward, hoping for Atlantis, the Bermuda Triangle, or even France.

“...Michigan,” Methodius said.

She sat back, disappointed. Michigan was only two states away and had more corn and roadwork than magic. Methodius pretended not to notice her disappointment.

“When you have the sword in your possession,” he said, “you will travel to Dominion, find Redway, and end his reign of terror.”

He made it sound so simple.

The blue glow faded, as did the image of the sword.

“So that's easy enough,” Edna said.

Methodius sighed but otherwise ignored her and worked a heavy silver ring off his finger. A round, blood-red stone glinted dully in its setting.

“Give this to Theobald,” he said. “And for the love of Merlin, don't lose it.”

Edna sighed. As if she didn't have most of the nursing home staff treating her like a child already, now this nine-hundred-and-whatever-year-old wizard had to do it.

But at least, compared to him, she actually was quite young.

She took the ring and stowed it away in an inner pocket of her handbag, wrapped in a handkerchief. People didn't really keep handkerchiefs anymore, but somehow Edna could always find one in her handbag. It was like the opposite of a dryer; instead of eating socks, it spit out handkerchiefs.

Ehh, this simile is a bit too laboured for me. The comparision didn't add any interest or insight into what I was already imagining.

“And you should take this.” Methodius pinched his fingers together and made a motion as if unzipping the air. A black hand-mirror with constellations carved into the back appeared from nowhere. “I have the other one. I have a spate of meetings with the Grand Coven in the coming weeks, but if you really need something...”

Edna took the mirror and turned it over, examining the constellations etched into the back. She'd never used a magic mirror before, but it couldn't be any harder than using a computer. Probably it was easier. Magic tended to be more straightforward than technology. Or maybe it was just the fact that it had been around so much longer.

Interesting. I hope that you eventually go into more depth on this topic, answering the questions I now have, such as, what need did technology fulfil that magic couldn’t, is magic not readily accessible to the masses to the point where people needed to create their own solutions etc

“Thank you,” she said, but Methodius wasn't listening. He was more than ready to wrap things up and get out of here. Not that a few minutes' conversation was that long when he'd been around for nine centuries, but he did have other obligations. He hadn't even wanted to come here. He certainly didn't approve of this choice, but someone had to tell Edna Fisher she was the Chosen One, and it was Philostratus' day off.

Not sure you need most of the content in this paragraph. You’ve already stated his age, the fact that he disapproves of her, etc

He fidgeted with the sleeves of his robe for a moment and then said in lofty tones, “Well, if you don't have any questions...”

“Questions?” The white noise was back, despite her knitting. She had the mirror, the ring, a Fateful Object to search for. Beyond that, her destiny seemed far too big to come up with individual questions about it. “No, I don't think so.”

“In that case...” He inclined his head. “Good luck, Mrs. Fisher. The fate of the Knights rests in your hands.”

Her hands. She looked down at them vaguely. Her wrinkled, liver-spotted hands. The word Knights reverberated in her head, and she suddenly remembered that it was her son's birthday, and that she needed to go to the cemetery.

When she looked up, the wizard was gone. It only occurred to her now that she should have asked where in Michigan Theobald Smith lived.


Okay, interesting, interesting. Solid first chapter overall, and again I would read on.

I think the one thing that stands out to me, is that while your narration really is well attuned to Edna, (honestly, well done), I would maybe expect to see more unusual turns of phrase within the prose, interesting similes, really just any traces of outdated linguistics. Any old person I’ve met cannot go more than a few sentences without uttering something I’ve never heard anyone say before. You’ve gone out of your way to make Edna as old lady esque as possible (which is good, because if you’re going to use an old lady to play with a chosen one trope, I want her to be as old lady esque as possible), so why not go the whole hog and sprinkle some quirky linguistic devices in while you’re at it.

Great job for setting up so much so quickly. Now that the quest begins, I’m going to want to learn more about Edna, in terms of characterisation and backstory, which you’ve alluded to already, and I’m glad you didn’t go into detail about, but I’m going to want all of that real soon. You’ve hooked me with this delightful premise, now I want to root for Edna and feel like her adventure is one worth following.

You should feel immensely proud of this.

-Zoom




BlueAfrica says...


Definitely don't mind this mode of review! It's basically the way I give feedback if I've got a Word doc of someone's story; I use the comment feature to leave thoughts and suggestions as I go, and then I leave an overview at the end.

I love your choice to have this world mirror our own history (what%u2019s the word for that genre again?)


Alternative history or something??? That's the only genre I can think of, although I tend not to think of this that way because I'm like "lol it's literally our world, only magic exists and everyone knows about it." But it might also be because I've never read any alternative history if that's even the right term

I would%u2019ve liked a short example here of one of her encounters with a fraudulent fortune-teller. It%u2019s too interesting and promises too much hilarity to just fly by it like this (although I%u2019m guessing you were hesitant to disrupt the story?)


I actually have an example of this later! It is Plot Relevant, so it was more a case of "More on this later."

This is a bit too %u201Cchucked in%u201D for my liking. It%u2019s stated so matter-of-factly that it%u2019s like, why even bother making a mystery of it in the first place. I would have liked to of uncovered this development in a more satisfying way


(A quick potential spoiler ahead, just an fyi in case you care.)

Question about this, because on the one hand I feel like I could go without the line you're talking about here - now that I read it in the context of your review, it makes it seem as if Edna, like, had the chance to save her son but couldn't? But he was a Knight who was killed in the line of duty, so she wasn't around or anything - it'd be like if you had a kid in the military and they died off in some distant country. Like you can't do anything about that (although I imagine as a parent you'd feel like you should've been able to).

But at the same time I do want to tie him in here, because I want it to be clear that - aside from leaving the nursing home and going on an adventure - Edna's motivation for doing as the wizards have asked is not just a general "ah yes, the Knights, they're good and perform an important service" but a lot more personal like "I could save Knights like my son." So I don't know if you have a suggestion for changing this so that I tie that in without it coming across the way it does currently, but I thought I'd mention my concern here.

(End of potential spoiler.)

Not sure you need most of the content in this paragraph. You%u2019ve already stated his age, the fact that he disapproves of her, etc


Upon rereading I think the only thing I really need from this paragraph is the bit about it being Philostratus' day off - mostly because, you know, Methodius is here but he's so disapproving that people are kind of like, "if he's so against this then why is he here instead of that Philostratus guy who actually chose her?" So I'll have to figure out how to insert that while getting rid of basically the rest of this paragraph, since I definitely see your point that it's largely a repeat of information we already have. Do you think Edna could ask him why he's here when he seems so against it, or does that draw too much attention to something that only needs a brief explanation?




"Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known."
— Chuck Palahniuk