Gail Carriger
Gail Carriger
Gail Carriger is the pen name of Tofa Borregaard, an archaeologist and author of steampunk fiction. She was born in Bolinas, an unincorporated community in Marin County, California, and attended high school at Marin Academy. She received her undergraduate degree from Oberlin College, a masters of science in archaeological materials at England's Nottingham University in 2000, and a master of arts in anthropologyat the University of California Santa Cruz in 2008...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionWriter
Date of Birth4 May 1976
CountryUnited States of America
[She] lost her patience, a thing she was all too prone to misplacing.
Later on Lady Maccon was to describe that particular day as the worst of her life. She had neither the soul nor the romanticism to consider childbirth magical or emotionally transporting. So far as she could gather it mostly involved pain indignity and mess. There was nothing engaging or appealing about the process. And as she told her husband firmly she intended never to go through it again.
He nuzzled in at her neck kissing and licking her softly just below her ear. “Just a moment ” he said. “I need a small reminder that you are here you are whole and you are mine.
Alexia gave in to his demanding touch, but only, of course, because he sounded so pathetic. It had nothing, whatsoever to do with her own quickening heartbeat.
What have I done thins time?" he paused to ask before continuing with his oral expedition about her body: her husband, the intrepid explorer.
She filed the image away as an excellent and insulting question to ask the earl at an utterly inappropriate future moment.
No, Lord Maccon was riproaring, tumble down, without a doubt, pickled beyond the gherkin.
Madame Lefoux accepted a cup of tea and sat on another little settee, next to the relocated calico cat. The cat clearly believed Madame Lefoux was there to provide chin scratches. Madame Lefoux provided.
Cats were not, in her experience, an animal with much soul. Prosaic, practical little creatures as a general rule. It would suit her very well to be thought catlike.
Highland werewolves had a reputation for doing atrocious and highly unwarranted *things*, like wearing smoking jackets to the dinner table.
He is clearly bookish. I did not follow a single word of their conversation at dinner last night, not one jot of it. He must be bookish.
They decided the mummy would be unwrapped, for the titillation of the ladies, just after dinner.
Madame Lefoux shrugged. "I do not know about that, my lady. I mean to say, one's life is one thing; one's technology is an entirely different matter.
I mean to say, really, I am near to developing a neurosis - is there anyone around who doesn't want to study or kill me?" Floote raised a tentative hand. "Ah, yes, thank you, Floote." "There is also Mrs Tunstell, madam," he offered hopefully, is if Ivy were some kind of consolation prize. "I notice you don't mention my fair-weather husband." "I suspect, at this moment, madam, he probably wants to kill you." Alexia couldn't help smiling. "Good point.