The Stewartsland Chronicles
The adventure begins
“Not Every Girl has pretty much everything you want in a fantasy book. Excitement. A well-built world. A handsome prince. A spunky heroine.”
– Young Adult Book Central
Olivia Davenport’s plan is destined to fail.
She is going through with it anyway, of course. After all, it is the chance of a lifetime. The unreasonable rules of others should not stand in her way.
In her small kingdom of Stewartsland, Olivia trains with the squires and harbors a secret dream. She longs to become a knight under the command of the Master-of–Arms, who just happens to be her father. He has indulged her passion so far, but they both know a simple fact – girls may not attain knighthood. Dismayed by the constant discouragement of her ambitions, she makes an impetuous decision to disguise herself as a boy in order to sneak on a mission. The consequences are not at all what she anticipated.
When her deception is revealed, she is sent home in disgrace; however, an unexpected turn of events puts her at the center of a dangerous plot against the King. The ensuing adventure finds her grappling with mercenaries and outlaws, yet these pale in comparison to her newly awakened emotions. She finds not only her life at risk, but also her heart, when the aloof Prince Liam begins to affect her in ways she never thought possible. In the end, it is her courage and unique spirit which must guide her through the challenges she encounters both physical and emotional
Excerpt from Not Every Girl
I hear an angry voice yell, "Peter! Where are you?"
It is Sir Michael. He is not happy. Freezing in my tracks, I spin around to him, as does nearly everyone else.
"Get over here, lad," he yells in my direction, "this stupid lace has broken."
In an instant, I am at his side. Indeed, the end of the leather lace that secures the left side of his jerkin has snapped off. His supply sack sits nearby. I rummage through it, hunting for a replacement cord. Surely, Puck packed an extra lace or something that can be used as a reasonable substitute.
Dread drifts in, envelops me in its icy claws. My stomach becomes lead. Puck had spoken about replacing the laces of Sir Michael's jerkin in the armory the other night. Obviously, he had planned to do it before the journey, but he did not get the chance—because I had interrupted him with dinner and…
My heart races, sweat beads on my brow. I am paralyzed with fear until a boot toe jabs my side. "Look alive, boy!" Sir Michael orders. Mechanically, I resume groping through the bag hoping to find something—anything—that I can improvise with. There is nothing.
"What I don't understand is why these laces were not replaced prior to this trip. They clearly needed to be," he snaps.
Unsure what else to do, I mumble an apology.
Sir Michael takes this as insolence and yanks me up by the armpit. Spinning me around to face him, he roars, "I am speaking to you, Peter, and therefore require your undivided attention. Do you understand?"
I stand there mutely, aware that his yelling has drawn the attention of everyone. Certainly, they all try to act as if they are not listening, but I am sure every ear is perked up in this direction. Before I can think of a way out of this situation…
"And take off that blasted helmet so you can look me straight in the eyes when I am talking to you!" In one fell swoop, he reaches out and knocks my helmet to the ground. "Surely I have taught you more respect than…"
His words abruptly cease.
Under different circumstances, his expression would be quite comical. He has stopped yelling in midsentence, his mouth agape, eyes wide and disbelieving. His face resembles those painted masks some gypsy vendors sell at our city's festivals. Lydia has one; she always tries to scare Grace with it. Since no response from me seems to be required, I stare at the ground and wait for all the pieces to fall into place for him. To my surprise, he draws his sword and points the tip right at my throat. For some reason, at this stressful moment, my brain manages to register that this is the second time in three days I have had a sword to my throat. Not such a good track record. His next words surprise me even more.
"Who are you?" He scowls. "Speak quickly!"
"Olivia," I say in a strangulated whisper. It dawns on me that Sir Michael does not have the first clue who I am. For all he knows, I mean them harm, particularly the King, whom he is sworn to protect with his life.
"Who?" The point pushes painfully into my neck.
This time the voice isn't mine. It is my father's. He rushed over at the sound of the commotion and now stands with much the same expression Sir Michael had a moment ago.
"How…? What are you…? Explain yourself, young lady!"