Reading in the Spiegel Tent'n'Tavern

Caucasian woman, mid 30s, with long blonde hair, wearing a blue tunic and brown linen pants, flip flops flapping quietly as she takes the stage.

The Outlander, Gil Adamson (House of Anansi Press)

Page One:

It was night, and dogs came through the trees, unleashed and howling. They burst from the cover of the woods and their shadows swam across a moonlit field. For a moment, it was as if her scent had torn like a cobweb and blown on the wind, shreds of it here and there, useless. The dogs faltered and broke apart, yearning. Walking now, stiff-legged, they ploughed the grass with their heavy snouts.

There's a distinct smell of bacon. The floorboards swelter of deck wood. A young man sweeps the floors and then, remarkably, the tables, like we're not looking. The music is piped in xylophone jazz. The pillars are mirrored. The light is gemmed, crisp, noon high sunshine filtered through stained glass. Above, a trapeze swing is tied off clumsy like an absent-minded ponytail. A stand alone fan oscillates near an open door, a toddler standing in the hazy sun, his bike helmet resting too far off his crown to be safe, a random adult hand pulling at his shoulder, a Come here this instant. She reads, a gentle breeze keeping the space easy and pleasant. The young man loosens his grip, pushing the broom into the floorboards, swish-swish-swishing his way through the set.