Elizabeth Bennett was a walker. (Watch the movie; read the book. Jane Austen will be proud of you). She ambled across the parks and fields of rural England, aiming her steps toward Netherfield or Meryton, all the while rubbing her toes against crisp and soothing grass. While wind tossed her auburn hair, she freely let mud gather along the rim of her skirts. That’s why Mr. Darcy – the romantic lead of the story, if you’re not aware – fell for young Lizzie Bennett. He loved her independent spirit, and the bloom in her cheeks caused by her brisk exercise.

Emma Woodhouse was a walker too, though she strolled through different lanes. In fact, all of Austen’s illustrious heroines loved the exertion of a solitary stride. That’s how you could pick out the protagonists in these novels. That’s how you knew which characters would succeed in the end, no matter how far their plot strayed in the middle. That’s how you knew which lady would win eventually win her gentleman prize.

(My sister, Gwen, is taking an English course in university. I adore plucking details from her).

I know what you’re thinking. “Why am I telling you this?” Well, if Jane Austen is correct – and why wouldn’t she be? – then people that decided not to sit home and mull over lost days, people who stride forward with their own two feet, end up finding success.

Why? Shrug. I didn’t make up these rules. I just intend to follow them. Now I’ve found my plaid jacket … where are my boots? I feel like going for a walk.

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Seven Doors of Fate by Jenna Greene – Excerpt from Consumed

She stretched, reaching for a rag. As she did, Chany lurched and attempted to roll. Unable to
grasp the piece of cloth without easing off his body, she readjusted her weight, shrugged, and
then tugged her shirt over her head. Jolyn gaped at her full, pert breasts held in place by lacy
cloth until she slapped his arm. “Do it.”

Swallowing, he grasped the shard of metal and tugged. It took a few attempts to rip it free.
With a grunt, he managed to release it, the ragged end cutting his palm, though not too badly.
His loss of blood was nothing compared to Chany’s.

Once the metal was free, Gretti leaned forward and pressed her shirt against the wound,
placing all her weight on it. Within seconds, the shirt was soaked. Grabbing the rag Gretti
hadn’t been able to reach, Jolyn pressed his hands atop hers, adding as much pressure as he
could muster. Still, blood seeped through. Lifting his head, he frantically shouted, “Can anyone
help?”

Garth and Mael stumbled into view.

“Here, here,” Jolyn urged, using his chin to indicate. “We need—”

Chewing on his lower lip, Mael flicked his gaze over his shoulder. “Can’t you manage? I’ve
not done my quota for the day yet.”

Gretti’s head snapped to the left. “What!”

Garth glanced sidelong at Mael, gnawing his lower lip. Then he pushed the other man aside
and knelt beside them. As Mael backed away, gaze averted and cheeks flushed, Garth took hold
of Chany’s writhing shoulders. “Hold still or you’ll tear it further, mate.”

“It hurts,” Chany whimpered. His forehead was creased, cheeks damp with sweat. The
quivering of his lower lip imitated the shaking of the rest of his body. His features were tight,
face whiter than flour.

“You’ve torn half the flesh from your bones, what do you expect?” Garth grunted.

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