The ink isn't flowing well enough to write today, she thought as she listened to the scratching of the nib on the paper. Clearly, it needs to be cleaned. That damn girl is so forgetful. One of these days I'm going to have to do something about her.
Moira glanced over at the enamel of her small brown angel, then lay down the pen, put the tips of her fingers together and leaned back in her chair.
She closed her eyes and slowly inhaled through her nose. She imagined his small brown body as he slept. His long lashes laying softly on his cheek. His hair mussed. His lips parted. The little-boy snores he made with each peaceful puff of breath in the semi-darkness of the nursery.
"What would Joseph do?" she muttered. Her thoughts were wisps of smoke, blown away before she could pin one down and examine it.
She'd been writing for three days, almost without ceasing, yet all she had to show for it were several crumpled pages of crossed out phrases and half-starts: paragraphs that strayed tangentially, beginnings that somehow lost the way to the middle.
She opened her eyes and massaged her forehead as she looked at the half-finished manuscript and then at the wadded pages on the floor.
Joseph was trapped, and she was the only one who could find him a way of escape. Moira and her pen must bring him salvation.
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