Sheltie Gazette: "Have you got Peter out of Denmark yet?"
Feb 25, 2026 9:31 pm
What do your kids want to know after school, ?
That's what my 9-year-old is asking me lately: Have you got Peter out of Denmark yet?
You see, this weekend, I had one of my teens make dinner and the other put the younger kids to bed, and explained to them that I had gotten Peter INTO Denmark today, and my writing goal was to get him OUT of Denmark again that night. We had a lively conversation at dinner about the English laws of succession and the Napoleonic wars vs. WWII (yes, we argue passionately about history at the dinner table), and I got another scene written while my daughter did bedtime.
However, so far this week, it flooded and one kid had an ear infection and two had doctors' appointments....and I have not yet gotten Peter out of Denmark. My 9-year-old is asking me every day after school. I really need to go rescue Peter.
So, I decided this would be a good week for a short newsletter, with a nice long story underneath! So here's a couple tidbits of news, a puppy picture, and then scroll down to read the opening of The Little White Cat and the Dog Who Didn't!
First of all... my links are working again
I think. Please always let me know if anything doesn't work, and especially if you can't get your bonus stories.
I was going to celebrate by sending you a new bonus, but Peter is stuck in Denmark, so that's going to have to be next week instead! Meanwhile, you can always get Magical Libraries and the short story The Two Rings (it happens between Aiden of Florida and The Boat on the Lake of Regret).
Are you a Kobo reader?
More readers are turning to this alternative to the 'Zon, and their subscription reading service is especially tempting. If you're looking for more books for your Kobo+ account (there's no limit to the number you can download!) here are some suggestions:
And here's a 40% off coupon that Kobo is running for this week only — my books The Boat on the Lake of Regret and The Horned Women & Other Stories were both selected to be included.
VIP40FEB
Or are you looking for some free myths, legends, and fairy tales?
This has a gentleman imprisoned in mirrors, the future Mrs Claus, and a pair of outcast perfumers. No, I'm not sure what they all have to do with folklore, either—I guess we'll both have to read to find out!
Here is Malin in the flood
Do not feel sorry for him — he is having a WONDERFUL time. I just noticed he is standing on a rock in this picture... I love how they're like little kids, and it's always more interesting to balance on something than walk on flat ground!
This is not standing water; it's a rain-dependent stream coming from our property line, across the fenced yard, across and down the driveway, and into the seasonal stream on the other side. Running water is a herding dog's best friend. He can bark and bark at it, and the stream never gets bored of playing or goes to sleep.
And now.... introducing 25 wolfhounds
...an evil sorcerer, and a politely stubborn lady-in-waiting. Here's your super special, editing-in-progress, preview of the opening pages of:
Being a prisoner wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the dogs. Dozens of them, as tall as my chest, black as fate. Everywhere I go, they watch me. They follow.
I am not pleased to be trapped in the Castle of a Thousand Doors, but my days are not terrible. There are extensive gardens surrounding the castle where I may wander as I desire. I have my own room, with a clear glass window that I can open to listen to the birdsong and leave crumbs for the squirrels. The faceless servants are odd, but they bring everything I need and treat me with quiet respect. Every evening, Lord Trencoss points out that I have everything to make me happy and therefore I must be happy.
But the dogs. So many dogs. Dozens of them, as tall as my chest, all black as fate. They all look the same, and I shudder whenever I see them, which is always. Everywhere I go, they watch. They follow.
Tonight, they stand watching me in the back courtyard, sewing in the fading light. When they pace closer, the rabbits dart into the shrubbery, but I cannot escape. The dogs circle round like a shadowy nightmare of collie-dogs, lowering their heavy heads to snap at the air. I am the errant sheep, and they must control.
“I am going,” I tell them, as haughty as a princess. “Just let me put my needle away.”
One of them growls, and I shiver. I glance behind me, wanting to take note of which dog loses his patience so quickly, but already he has crossed paths with another and I can’t keep track of which is which. I can’t tell!
Keeping my head high and my back straight, I let them chivvy me into the castle. Several dogs pace behind me, their nails clicking on the stone. One leads the way, looking back to check if I am following obediently enough. Something about him gives me pause, and I rush forward a few steps in order to see him closely—but no. This dog has a notch on his left ear.
They all look the eerily the same, but they are not the same dog—impossible to tell apart without close examination, quickly lost in the crowd. One has gray in his muzzle. One has eyes too close together. Some have slight limps, or scars making a pattern in their wiry curls. They are real dogs, but there is something sorcerous about having so many of them, so much the same, all together. Real wolfhounds come in all sorts of colors and patterns, and even two black parents will produce brindles and white spots. I don’t understand, so I measure my strides and keep the column of my spine angled just right.
We turn a corner into a broad corridor, pointed windows lining one side and huge doors along the other.
“No,” I tell them. “I don’t want to go into the ball room.”
The dog to my left flickers his teeth. Not a growl, just a warning. Lord Trencoss has ordered me to call it the throne room, and the dogs obey Trencoss.
I stop, my heart beating fast at the flash of tooth. My birth father was the dog-master for a king wealthy enough to keep an entire pack of wolfhounds, and I know in my head the beasts will not hurt me. But when they rear onto their hind feet these dogs are taller than a man—and I am much smaller. They keep records of their success on the battlefield, and I’ve seen them take down an elk. It is hard not to feel helpless when there are so many of them, all around me.
The dogs in the back pad closer. The one to my left shows all his teeth, and the one on my right fixes me with a stare. The leader moves towards the doors, checking me over his shoulder.
“I do not want to go in,” I repeat. Wolfhounds will not hurt a human, I remind myself.
Not unless it’s war, and their master told them to. What did Trencoss tell them?
They crowd closer. A growl—so deep that it seems to come from the stones—rattles into my bones.
Fine. I lift my chin and go where they tell me. I am not afraid, I am—very well, I am afraid. There are so many of them, and they are so much the same.
The carven doors swing open as we approach; yet another unsettling element in this castle-that-is-not-right. Trencoss is seated on the far side of the vast room, blue and gold tiles set in a pattern that radiates like a sunburst around him, while a hundred candles flicker in lanterns arranged in tiers towards the ceiling, invisible in the dark above us. The whole effect is so absurdly over-done. Knowing he is seeking my attention, I avert my eyes. A small, polite, rebellion.
Instead, I look for the dogs.
There are two lines of six by the walls, each sitting at attention. They are half in shadow and I see nothing beyond what I already know—black curly hair falling over their deep-set eyes, powerful shoulders, strong muzzle. They each wear the same collar with spikes all around, Trencoss’s symbol forged in the iron with his magic fastening them closed. My own six-dog escort crowds me forward, and I yank back my fingers before they brush the closest shoulder.
“Come and sit at my table.” Trencoss smiles, a thin line on his ghostly face. He is one of the White People, born with magic in his blood. “So glad you could join me for dinner, Princess Ailbe.”
I do not sit down. I am not a princess, but I am tired of repeating myself. He can think what he wants.
“Don’t you wish to dine?” Trencoss raises his eyebrows. “Princess. Sit.”
He gestures to the dogs, which is worse than if he could control me directly, and one bumps my ribs with his great head while another paws my chair into position. My heart hammers with sheer horror, and I jump away from the solid pressure behind and try not to cringe away from the mouthful of teeth that is far too near.
Resigned, I sit at Trencoss’s table, but I fold my hands in my lap and fix my gaze on my gold-rimmed plate. He cannot make me smile, and he cannot make me eat.
But Trencoss just smiles, leaning back in his chair as though we were old friends. “So, Princess, how was your day? I see that you ventured to the fountains in the west gardens. I hope you found them to your liking?”
I hate how he knows where I have been. I don’t know if he uses magic to watch me, or if the dogs tell him.
“Do you like the clothes I have prepared for you? Yes, you do, for you are wearing the crimson dress with gold trim. It complements your dark hair, my lady. And did you have a pleasant time sewing in the garden, with the finest silk that I have dyed in the most vivid colors for your enjoyment? Yes, you did. The weather was perfect. I make you very happy here, Princess Ailbe.”
It is never any use to argue with powerful men, but I am truly tired of these one-sided conversations. “I thank you for your gifts, but they do not bring me joy while I am trapped within these walls. Give me my freedom, Lord Trencoss, and you will make me happy.”
He chuckles. “Will it, my lady? What if I open these gates tomorrow, and let you leave…alone?”
I do not reply. We have had some variation of this conversation at every dinner since I arrived, and he knows I want to leave as I arrived—with my companion.
“But my poor darling!” Trencoss tut-tuts, his face contorted into a parody of concern. “Once you leave my protection, there will be dangers! You might encounter monsters…. or brigands intent on ravishing a beautiful girl like yourself…or…wolves!” He breaks into cackling laughter.
All around us, the wolfhounds rustle and stare.
I would bring them all if I could.
continued....
Who are the dogs, and what do they want? They aren't what you'd think — and they aren't what Ailbe thinks, either.
The Viking's Daughter, by Herbert Dicksee, and one of my inspiration images
Want to read on? You can click this link, then click into "read a sample in your browser," and read the first three chapters (or so). Also, I'll be sending out a couple more sneak-peeks in this newsletter — next week, the sassy cat!
"I immediately took to Ailbe and felt for both her situation and the fortitude with which she faced it....The Little White Cat and the Dog Who Wasn’t is a terrific addition to the Castle in Kilkenny fairytale series!"
-Karen, advanced review on GoodReads
Happy reading and dog-petting,
Christy & the Shelties
P.S. Wait, Christy.... who is Peter and why is he in Denmark?
Peter is the lively, teasing, and totally eclectic hero of my upcoming historical romances.
And I really can't tell you how he got to Denmark. 🫣 But it was quite an adventure, and he thought he was just doing some errands for his wife.
