She Lies in Shadow by Sarah Connell

It's fast, it's fun, it's original – it’s also on trend. I could give it to loads of teenagers and young readers and they would absolutely love it.’ - Elle McNicoll, Novelist

‘It’s tightly plotted and the layers of the mystery unravel in a satisfying way, in a full realised Elizabethan setting.’ - Caroline Carpenter, Literary Critic

‘Who wouldn’t want to read about a highway woman? It’s sharp, accomplished, pacey, original – and feels relevant to where the readership is.’ - Clare Wallace, Literary Agent

Excerpt from the winning manuscript

All robbery is a performance of sorts. For the cost of a sixpence you can have your heart shaken and the tears wrung from your eyes. But highway robbery is theatre at its finest. The pinnacle of the art form. And this would be a performance like no other.

Kate closed her eyes to steady her thoughts and listened for the march of her heart in her chest, the howl of the wind whipped up from the Channel, and somewhere, far away, the drumming of hooves.

Tonight will be your crowning glory, she told herself, to drown out the whispers of doubt and the omens that had plagued her day. The raven that had swooped into the hearth at Underwood Hall, scattering ash across the floor. The black rabbit that scarpered across her path, and finally as she approached the heath, the creak of the empty gibbet swinging in the wind.

She gripped her father’s pistol like a talisman and shook the thoughts away. Superstitious rubbish. She didn’t have a choice. A week at best to settle her brother’s debts and a full moon was waxing - any brighter and she’d lose her advantage. What she lacked in a man’s height or strength, she’d make up for in cunning. A full moon on a clear night and any fool could see her a mile away. But in the darkness, that was different.

There was a whicker from the road below and her heartbeat quickened. It was beginning. Kate counted to ten and cocked the old weapon, her hand slick with nerves as she palmed back the smooth dog’s head into position. The aging mechanism slid back wearily, jaws easing open, waiting for her signal to strike.

The opening act was starting.

She swallowed down the dust in her throat and tugged the length of black velvet over her mouth and nose. Now, she told herself, kneeing the horse forward, now.

Her horse surged and Kate cried out, ‘Halt!’

‘Who’s there?’ came the answering cry. There was a hunched shadow on horseback and then a face twisted with fear as the rider came into view.

‘Halt!’ she repeated and squeezed the trigger. But there was no answering flash.

Quick, she reminded herself before fear could set its claws in, recover, Kate. Dropping the reins she rammed the old dog’s head back further until it clicked beneath her hand.

‘Hold! I’m unarmed.’

Shaken, Kate fired wide. A blast of light illuminated the heath, and the stranger cried in alarm. His horse reared in panic, lashing the air, and he cried out again, ‘Hold!’

She nudged her horse forwards, reloading her weapon with a blind instinct practiced over years. Don’t rush, as the shot dropped into position. He was going nowhere.

The pistol could rightly be called an antique. A relic. It was clunky and temperamental, and she should have replaced it long ago, but a pistol was hard to come by with an empty purse and a girl’s face. And at that moment, this antique might be the one thing that kept her alive.

‘Your saddle bags,’ she replied, hiding her tension in a gruff imitation of a man’s. ‘If you please.’

How I did it

We’d just moved out of London when I started writing the book. I’d been working on another novel for a few years and I wanted something to take my mind off the endless editing and querying.

I remembered watching a comedy thriller as a teenager, about two highwaymen, set in the 18th Century, calledPlunkett & Macleane. It made me excited by the idea that you could change your fate – I wanted to recreate that excitement for other teenagers.

I have a writing desk tucked away at the top of the house. I also write at the kitchen table, or sitting on the floor of kids’ clubs, or waiting for the mechanic to fix the car.

She Lies in Shadow was mainly written early in the morning, or late at night when the kids were asleep, telling myself if I can just write 1,000 words, I can finally go to bed. And much of the work happened in my head: running scenarios in the shower; playing with character ideas while walking the dog; unpicking plot holes at two in the morning.

Over the years, I have found a group of critique partners who were also determined to improve, who have spurred me on to put myself out there.I try to plan now, but not rigidly. I learnt the hard way with previous projects that I need to know the direction of travel to prevent things drifting. But I find the story takes its own shape, no matter how much I plan. Characters don’t fully emerge until late in the drafting process and unexpected threads beg to be pulled.

That’s the fun part of writing for me. I had a massive wobble before I started querying this novel, but I signed up for mentoring with the amazing Melinda Salisbury, who reassured me that it was ready. I’ve always told my children when I’ve sent my work out – and when it’s rejected. I want them to learn that nothing comes without hard work. I want them to see me fail and get up again afterwards.

SARAH CONNELL lives in Dorset and is currently on sabbatical from her career in foreign affairs. Her story ‘Estie’s place’ was published in Paperbound and an earlier novel was shortlisted in a Guppy Books submission round.

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