Manuscript Title: The Fakelore Girl
Manuscript Genre: YA Fantasy
Manuscript Word Count: 55k (current), 80-90k (projected)
Is your manuscript finished?: N
Hook:
Seventeen-year-old islander Fenella craves a life that lives up to her creative embellishments. When mainlander Prince Jarek visits on a charm offensive, seeking a wife, Fenella’s not beneath faking interest in him for a taste of the young royal’s lifestyle. She might not be his type looks-wise, but she’s confident her dazzling personality will keep him intrigued.
Then Fenella discovers she’s not the only one being economical with the truth. The prince’s visit masks a more sinister purpose: a subtle invasion to annihilate all magic – and all magic-users – from the land. And since Fenella’s ancestors have kept their island’s oasis of magic a secret for centuries, she’ll use every lie on her tongue to prevent its discovery.
That’s if the prince doesn’t invade his way to her heart first.
First 750 words:
As experiences went, lying spread-eagled on a stone altar while a priestess sharpened her knife beside me wasn’t one I’d forget in a hurry. That blade looked evil, for starters. And the smile on Cressie’s blood-red lips showed just how much she relished her task. Barbarian!
The evening tide advanced upon the open-air temple to the goddess Drina. Waves lapped against the rocks to my distant left, beyond the two stone columns that stood as a gateway to the sea and the krakens that haunted its depths. A small mercy I wasn’t chained to those columns, awaiting my death one kraken mouthful at a time. Farther along the shoreline, to the north behind me, drummers beat a steady rhythm while islanders chanted around their towering bonfires. Wine and ale flowed freely, the same wine they’d forced down my throat earlier. Couldn’t fault the vintage though.
“Shouldn’t I be naked?” I wiggled my toes. The heels of my feet and the tips of my fingers touched the four corners of the granite slab. Grains of sand rubbed against my skin. “I really think I should be naked.”
“What, right now?” The knife stilled. “Fenella, nobody wants to see that.”
“No, not now. For my ceremony the month after next.” For just a few seconds I imagined the full moon casting its silvery light over my nude body on the altar, my generous curves a stark contrast against the hard angles of the stone. I took the image a step farther: a gilt-framed portrait of the scene on display in our meeting hall for all to admire; I’d totally swing it as an artist’s model. “Peony will be naked.”
“There’s a difference.” My sister Cressie leaned over me, her poker-straight brown hair swishing with the movement. “Peony is just a baby and no one will bat an eyelid.” She poked my shoulder and my daydream scattered. “Now stop messing about and get up. They’re coming over.”
I swivelled off the altar and jumped to the ground. Ouch! Something sharp cut into my bare foot. I hopped backwards, wincing in pain. There, poking out from the sand, lay an orange opal, all fiery and hard and jagged.
And utterly, utterly spiked with bad luck.
“No, no, no!” Ignoring my injury, I sank to my knees and pulled the semiprecious stone loose. The uncut opal fitted snugly into the palm of my hand and glittered in the evening sunlight.
“What’s the mat–” Cressie caught sight of it, too. “Oh!” Her hazel eyes met mine, worry and fear mingling; we were doomed.
The chants grew louder. Above the rock pools and driftwood of the high tide strandline, a procession of figures traipsed towards us from the bonfires.
“The last time one of these was found...” Cressie’s voice trailed off.
I swallowed, pressing my lips together, and nodded. The last time an orange opal dared expose itself, an infant died. I had to get this one far away from my baby niece’s dedication ceremony before another victim was claimed; Peony had suffered enough in her short lifetime already.
“Cover for me,” I whispered, clenching the opal in my fist, and slipped away.
A weathered cliff-face formed a natural wall to our summer temple at the west end, leaving the east exposed to the sea while the shoreline continued to the north and south. I followed the cliff-face northwards, the sand beneath my feet still retaining the warmth of the day.
No one from the procession even glanced my way; they were all too wrapped up in my precious, precious niece and her stick-thin arms and her stick-thin legs. I didn’t blame them. Only three weeks ago, Peony had arrived far too early for her due date, barely surviving a long and difficult birth. Every breath she took since was a gift from Drina.
Sand gave way to shingle and rock as I headed inland, taking a gentle path that led up to the cliff-top. The sole of my foot throbbed, the wound irritated by grains of sand, but I’d suffered worse before in my bid for a sandal-free existence. I hurried onwards over the grassy headland, glad of the evening breeze that caressed my bare back and shoulders and cooled my skin. Today’s solstice had been the hottest one for years, maybe even centuries, and another hour or so of sunlight still remained. I didn’t envy Cressie, sweltering away in her heavy, novitiate’s tunic back at the temple. The flirtatiously short piece of silk that passed for my halter neck dress had been my best decision all day.
What do you look for in a beta?:
• Someone with a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. (I have a sweet tooth – no fillings though, surprisingly enough!) 
• Someone who won’t mind waiting to beta until I’ve finished and polished my ms (could be a few months).
• I’m happy either way if you give me general views on what does/doesn’t work (worldbuilding, characterisation, plot, etc), or if you want to give a line-by line. Also, dittoing Sage’s remark on her entry for the previous beta project, I like it when a reader lets me know what they’re thinking as they’re reading – whether it’s a simple ‘Lol’, an ‘Aw’, or an ‘Eeeew!’
Manuscript Genre: YA Fantasy
Manuscript Word Count: 55k (current), 80-90k (projected)
Is your manuscript finished?: N
Hook:
Seventeen-year-old islander Fenella craves a life that lives up to her creative embellishments. When mainlander Prince Jarek visits on a charm offensive, seeking a wife, Fenella’s not beneath faking interest in him for a taste of the young royal’s lifestyle. She might not be his type looks-wise, but she’s confident her dazzling personality will keep him intrigued.
Then Fenella discovers she’s not the only one being economical with the truth. The prince’s visit masks a more sinister purpose: a subtle invasion to annihilate all magic – and all magic-users – from the land. And since Fenella’s ancestors have kept their island’s oasis of magic a secret for centuries, she’ll use every lie on her tongue to prevent its discovery.
That’s if the prince doesn’t invade his way to her heart first.
First 750 words:
As experiences went, lying spread-eagled on a stone altar while a priestess sharpened her knife beside me wasn’t one I’d forget in a hurry. That blade looked evil, for starters. And the smile on Cressie’s blood-red lips showed just how much she relished her task. Barbarian!
The evening tide advanced upon the open-air temple to the goddess Drina. Waves lapped against the rocks to my distant left, beyond the two stone columns that stood as a gateway to the sea and the krakens that haunted its depths. A small mercy I wasn’t chained to those columns, awaiting my death one kraken mouthful at a time. Farther along the shoreline, to the north behind me, drummers beat a steady rhythm while islanders chanted around their towering bonfires. Wine and ale flowed freely, the same wine they’d forced down my throat earlier. Couldn’t fault the vintage though.
“Shouldn’t I be naked?” I wiggled my toes. The heels of my feet and the tips of my fingers touched the four corners of the granite slab. Grains of sand rubbed against my skin. “I really think I should be naked.”
“What, right now?” The knife stilled. “Fenella, nobody wants to see that.”
“No, not now. For my ceremony the month after next.” For just a few seconds I imagined the full moon casting its silvery light over my nude body on the altar, my generous curves a stark contrast against the hard angles of the stone. I took the image a step farther: a gilt-framed portrait of the scene on display in our meeting hall for all to admire; I’d totally swing it as an artist’s model. “Peony will be naked.”
“There’s a difference.” My sister Cressie leaned over me, her poker-straight brown hair swishing with the movement. “Peony is just a baby and no one will bat an eyelid.” She poked my shoulder and my daydream scattered. “Now stop messing about and get up. They’re coming over.”
I swivelled off the altar and jumped to the ground. Ouch! Something sharp cut into my bare foot. I hopped backwards, wincing in pain. There, poking out from the sand, lay an orange opal, all fiery and hard and jagged.
And utterly, utterly spiked with bad luck.
“No, no, no!” Ignoring my injury, I sank to my knees and pulled the semiprecious stone loose. The uncut opal fitted snugly into the palm of my hand and glittered in the evening sunlight.
“What’s the mat–” Cressie caught sight of it, too. “Oh!” Her hazel eyes met mine, worry and fear mingling; we were doomed.
The chants grew louder. Above the rock pools and driftwood of the high tide strandline, a procession of figures traipsed towards us from the bonfires.
“The last time one of these was found...” Cressie’s voice trailed off.
I swallowed, pressing my lips together, and nodded. The last time an orange opal dared expose itself, an infant died. I had to get this one far away from my baby niece’s dedication ceremony before another victim was claimed; Peony had suffered enough in her short lifetime already.
“Cover for me,” I whispered, clenching the opal in my fist, and slipped away.
A weathered cliff-face formed a natural wall to our summer temple at the west end, leaving the east exposed to the sea while the shoreline continued to the north and south. I followed the cliff-face northwards, the sand beneath my feet still retaining the warmth of the day.
No one from the procession even glanced my way; they were all too wrapped up in my precious, precious niece and her stick-thin arms and her stick-thin legs. I didn’t blame them. Only three weeks ago, Peony had arrived far too early for her due date, barely surviving a long and difficult birth. Every breath she took since was a gift from Drina.
Sand gave way to shingle and rock as I headed inland, taking a gentle path that led up to the cliff-top. The sole of my foot throbbed, the wound irritated by grains of sand, but I’d suffered worse before in my bid for a sandal-free existence. I hurried onwards over the grassy headland, glad of the evening breeze that caressed my bare back and shoulders and cooled my skin. Today’s solstice had been the hottest one for years, maybe even centuries, and another hour or so of sunlight still remained. I didn’t envy Cressie, sweltering away in her heavy, novitiate’s tunic back at the temple. The flirtatiously short piece of silk that passed for my halter neck dress had been my best decision all day.
What do you look for in a beta?:
• Someone with a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. (I have a sweet tooth – no fillings though, surprisingly enough!) 
• Someone who won’t mind waiting to beta until I’ve finished and polished my ms (could be a few months).
• I’m happy either way if you give me general views on what does/doesn’t work (worldbuilding, characterisation, plot, etc), or if you want to give a line-by line. Also, dittoing Sage’s remark on her entry for the previous beta project, I like it when a reader lets me know what they’re thinking as they’re reading – whether it’s a simple ‘Lol’, an ‘Aw’, or an ‘Eeeew!’
: This is my (only) entry. 
. (And getting beta readers for her story is a bonus. 