Nutbush City Limits
Also known as "The Third Appearance", Case 002 from The Moonstone Files
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New here? I write Regency-set fantasy romance adventure with shapeshifting sea dragons, where our cast search for Arthurian treasures to save the world from ecological collapse.
Except for today. Today is all Wendy Russell’s fault. This is also the Third Appearance in The Moonstone Files, an occasional series wherein characters confront The Author.
No, you haven’t missed one. I haven’t transcribed the letters from Selene yet. Been a bit busy writing an Arthurian-era prequel to the current serial. Heaven help me if either one of those leads show up in The Moonstone Files. I’ve been putting them through hell and they both know how to use swords.
Oh, you can read these cases in any order.
4th July, 2026
I’ve shared the story before about how I imagined a conversation with one of my characters. Lately, though, it’s gone next level.
Last night, the old barn blurred with golden lights and flashing shiny fabrics. This wedding reception knew how to party.
I cast a weather eye towards my husband. He sat in a corner, deep in conversation, in his happy place.
I snagged a fresh glass of white wine and turned to see if the mother of the bride, my best friend since kindergarten, had surfaced from the loo.
I spotted him lounging against a post. To be honest, I forgot about everything else. Tall, dark, handsome, with a flowing full beard. Drop dead gorgeous. He looked incredibly out of place in an outfit better suited to a Shakespearean stage.
He wore a slashed doublet and breeches, ridiculously puffed with cream linen peeking through the slashes and at his chest. A jaunty cap of the same striped fabric gathered up his black hair, except for a few loose strands that framed his face.
“Oi, who told you this was a theme wedding?” I’m impressed he’d had the confidence to stay.
He levered off the thick upright and headed in my direction. “You,” he drawled. “You have something I want.”
Not again.
His gaze dropped to my bosom. I love a good push-up bra and my boobs had yet to collapse into their future as wrinkled sheets.
“Hey, eyes up.” I’d had a few, so the filters had gone, along with the inhibitions. His very presence drew me to him. A little flirting wouldn’t hurt. “On second thoughts…”
“That.” He pointed at my chest. “That jewel.”
“But I’m not—” I tapped my chest and hit something cold and hard. I looked down. “— the hell?” Reader, I said something instead of the em-dash.
This time, the moonstone hung suspended from a small gold cap instead of embedded in the ornate setting. I don’t remember putting it on. Plus, Labradorite is more my style.
I looked up, slightly cross-eyed. “Who are you?”
“Panawr, the Obsidian Prince. If you would hand it over…” He extended an elegant hand.
I gasped. The morally grey hero of Obsidian and Flame? The one who took me to task for letting Arddun die in the original ending to the series? In the flesh?
The insistent throb of a bass line blared through the speakers, disrupting my shock. “Whooo!” I shrieked, flinging my arms over my head. “You want it, you gotta dance. Come on!”
I dragged him into one of the forming lines.
“Mi—Milady…” He stood stiffly beside me, warily eying the suddenly over-excited crowd.
“The steps are easy.” I wagged a finger at him. “Dance or no deal.”
Tina sang. “Church house, gin house …”
“Right right, left left, back back…” I yelled out the steps. Panawr isn’t the only one who’s a beat behind. “Criss cross turn clap!” I shrieked.
He danced behind me, I remained hyper aware of him. Did anyone else see him? I kicked once, twice. My glittery flats somehow stayed on.
We turned, danced, and turned again. The entire room overflowed with the absolute heights of joy, the crowd laughing, giggling and moving with something not even approaching precision.
Panawr fitted right in. Except for his intense expression of concentration. From behind, I saw how his white hose outlined his thighs and calves. No wonder Arddun fell for him.
The music faded out to be replaced by The Angels.
Breathless, giggling, I collapsed against Panawr. It was like falling into a brick wall. My cheeks blazed. I tried to care.
“I need air.” I led the way out of the barn. The winter night was a welcome balm to my heated skin. I slumped against the post, sucking in air, pulling him to me.
I caressed his face, fingering the slightly wild beard. “Yeppeuddah.”1
He frowned. “Milady, focus.”
“Why is your beard so bushy? I imagined it as quite elegant.”
“Milady.” He injected centuries of unspoken suffering into the word. “You have put us through great trials. Of which that lunacy is the most recent.” He pointed to the barn.
I sighed, wistful, letting my hand drop. “Lunacy? Perhaps. It’s an Aussie tradition.” I straightened, pushed away from the railing and repeated some of the dance moves. “It’s a Tina Turner song we learned as children. No way was I going to miss that! Not even for you.”
He shuddered, leaning against the post I just vacated. “Whatever it is, it shook something loose. Post-nutbush clarity?”
I stumbled, mid-criss-cross-turn. Dizzy (I swear), I fell against him, wheezing. “I don’t think that phrase means ….”
“No?” he purred. His codpiece prodded against my belly. If only he wasn’t a character from my imagination very much in love with another imaginary person.
“You sure it’s not—“ I glanced down and back up, crooking an eyebrow. “Prenut clarity?”
His eyes darkened. “It’s padded,” he got out between gritted teeth.
“Uh huh.” I grinned, utterly unrepentant.
He set me away from him, steadying me before I completely lost my balance. “This is my prophetic dream. You are the Author. You’re supposed to know where I can find this moonstone. It will save Arddun.”
“I do? It will?” I’m desperate for some post nut clarity myself. I unfastened the necklace and handed it to him. “Go. Save her.”
Panawr clutched the chain. “How?”
“When you wake, you’ll know.” I hope he doesn’t see through my bluff. Also, doesn’t he know I loathe deus ex machina?
“For you.” He pressed an exquisite, fine handkerchief into my palm. “So you don’t forget me.”
As if I could.
With a lavish Tudor court bow, he vanished into mist.
Through the open doors, the guests scream the response to the refrain of “Am I ever gonna see your face again?” “No way! Get f—ked! F— off!”
I woke next morning, head throbbing. The handkerchief means it was real. Everyone I spoke to thinks he bumbled into the wrong wedding reception. He was seen. He was really there.
I have a strong compulsion to research moonstones and UK gemstones. I feel like Panawr has put me on notice and my honour is now at stake. I must provide the draig môr with a satisfying plot.
I’ve started putting together a physical case file, using Ink and Page Journals June freebie project called “The Registry of Recovered Materials”. This two page spread contains all the clues Panawr needs to save Arddun. Of course I’m not showing them, that would be a spoiler (but the statue is a clue.)
Apologies if you think this means a new season of Obsidian and Flame is around the corner. Sadly, it’s not written yet and I need to finish at least the first draft of the Arthurian prequel. You can read season one of Obsidian and Flame here:
Start Here: "Obsidian and Flame"
A prequel to A Grail for Eidothea, I found this tome at the bottom of the trunk.
Oh, I need to explain the Nutbush thing, don’t I? Umm, here’s a video, you just need to watch the first two minutes (also note that the tall guy in the middle clearly didn’t go to school round these parts):
And finally, what the Nutbush is really like in the wild:
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예쁜g다 Korean for “pretty”
Good to see you join Wendy's prompt 🖤
Ahahaha I love this!!