Monday, April 20, 2026

Knitting with Cynthia Sally Haggard #ArtsandCrafts #Knitting #AuthorGuest


Arts and Crafts with author of MAIDEN TOMB Cynthia Sally Haggard who adores knitting!


I first started to knit at age eleven, when my mother tried to show me what to do. I remember that we got the first line of loops onto one needle. (These were old-fashioned wooden knitting sticks that were pointy at one end, and not at the other.) Then I was supposed to put the point of the other needle through the loops but—I couldn’t! I tried and I tried but I couldn’t get the other stick through. So my eleven-year-old self gave up in a flounce, and learned to do crochet instead!

Several years later I was visiting my best friend in England. It was February—cold, damp and forbidding outside. But as we sat in front of her fireplace, she handed me a ball of wool and a couple of those old-fashioned needles.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I couldn’t possibly do that. I’m far too busy!”

My friend gave me one of her looks, telling me that she thought I would love it. And she was right. (This is a great example of how your friends know you better than you do yourself.)

Sooo, what do I knit?

Well, I hate to put anyone off, but the truth is I love to knit sweaters, especially if they have (simple) patterns!

So how do you knit a sweater without driving yourself crazy?

Step #1 ~ Never knit with cats in the room. Just because you really don’t want them to, they will gravitate towards your yarn, jumping and pouncing and generally making it impossible for you to knit.

Step #2 ~ Choose your pattern carefully. There are too many people out there who claim to be knitting pattern designers who frankly have no idea what they are doing. Make sure that your designer is someone reputable and experienced. If you are still not sure, buy a pattern book that has excellent reviews.


Step #3 ~ Find the perfect yarn. Like most, I really cannot wear wool as it itches too much. So what you want is something that is a wool blend. However, what you are also looking for is yarn that will not pill. By that, I mean yarn that creates its own version of dust-bunnies that will squat on your garment, waiting to be plucked off. So you will need to experiment and ask questions. It is only recently that I discovered that the Madeline Tosh Farm Twish doesn’t pill, unlike most of her other yarns.

Step #4 ~ Always knit gauge especially for anything fitted like a sweater. Knitting gauge means that you knit a swatch of material that is typically 4 inches or 10 centimeters square. You will need to measure with a ruler, and once you have done that you count the number of stitches and the number of rows to get the gauge for your garment. You may have to experiment with different sized needles to get the correct gauge. (The instructions always occur at the beginning of the pattern.) Once you have it, be sure to make a note of it. You can open an account on ravelry.com and leave your note to yourself there.

Step #5 ~ To avoid driving yourself to distraction with all the instructions (especially for patterns), use markers. They are those plastic thingies in bright colors that you place between stitches to mark a place. So if you have a pattern that has a 10-stitch repeat, you would place a marker between each of the 10 stitches. That way, you can (a) do a much better job of keeping track of the pattern and (b) easily see a mistake and correct it.

Step #6 ~ Don’t be shy about changing the pattern. As most sweater lengths are far too short for me (they always seem to end in the middle of my stomach, thus drawing attention to an area I would prefer to forget about,) I usually add 5 inches, turning it into a tunic. If you choose to be bold and do this, don’t forget to take notes. You will thank yourself later.

Step #7 ~ Blocking. This means taking your finished garment and dunking it into a bucket of cold or tepid (but never warm or hot) water. The reason why you do this is because the wet fabric is like putty and easy to alter for a better fit. However, if you are knitting with hand-dyed yarns, do not let it sit there. Take it out immediately, or the colors will bleed. I dry my garment using two towels, then pin it using T-pins to a foam board that is marked out in 1-inch squares. (If you are not sure about blocking, consult You-Tube.)

But be aware that yarns (and knitted garments) have a mind of their own. I thought I had knitted myself a thigh-length tunic until I made the mistake of dunking the entire garment into that pail of water.

It decided to lengthen.

So now I have a dress!

If you are not sure, just wet the part that needs attention, like the hem that won’t stop curling up. If you keep the rest dry, the garment should behave itself.


Step #6 ~ Don’t forget to enjoy yourself and take your time. Knitting should be soothing, relaxing even. A great way of passing the time by yourself or with loved ones, especially when the weather is bad outside.

Happy knitting!

Warmly, Cynthia


Maiden Tomb
Twelve Cursed Maidens Series
Book One
Cynthia Sally Haggard

Genre: Fairytale Retelling, Fantasy
ASIN: ‎ B0DNWVFZ81
Publisher: ‎Cynthia Sally Haggard Press
Publication Date: ‎ February 4, 2025

Tagline: Would you marry a stranger to free your sisters from imprisonment?

Book Description: 

In this retelling of The Twelve Dancing Princesses, sixteen-year-old Justice wants to release her sisters from the maw of Father's imprisonment. But what can she do? The easiest way would be to find suitors for them.

However, that is not so easy, for Justice's elder sisters are strange. What with All-Gifted's madness, Protectress's hair writhing with snakes, Death-Bringer's grief (not to mention her strange name), Shining's too-overt sexuality, Maiden's tart tongue, Shadow's crippling shyness, no sensible man would want her sisters as wives. Which leaves Justice, the seventh daughter, the one who possesses a quiet authority.

Justice has already acquired an admirer in the shape of Lord Nobody, who proclaims his undying love for her. But what does he really want? And doesn't he have a wife already?

Amazon     BN     Author Website     Google     Books2Read

 

P r o l o g u e ~ The Twelve Mysterious Daughters

Playful speaks

 

In the past week or so since we’ve arrived, life has taken on a predictable rhythm. I spend the mornings entertaining the ladies of the castle, with the lyre, my singing, playing knucklebones, and listening to their gossip. Truth to tell, nothing they say is particularly interesting as high-born ladies spend their time inside. When they are not diverting themselves with such pastimes as I provide, they are spinning, weaving, running the household, and caring for their children. They talk incessantly about their children. They know little of the outside world.

I escape after the midday meal, taking advantage of the ladies’ habit of resting as the sun’s chariot crests at the highest point of the day. While they sleep, I head out into the scorching countryside looking for Father.

We sit together in the shade, while Father does some task, usually repairing something, while I tell him everything I’ve learned the evening before. It is not that hard. Because I am small, and people are now familiar with my face, no one pays me any mind as I take my seat at the bench that runs along the side of the huge table where all the working folk of the castle eat their meals.

Father has told me never to be inquisitive, but I am dying to know more about the twelve mysterious ladies locked up in the castle tower, the ones people whisper about behind their hands when they think no-one is noticing.

As the light of the sun drains from the sky, as the king’s men sink lower onto wooden benches eating dish after dish, quail, pheasant, peacock, duck, eggs, bread, olive oil, wine, and olives, the noise of seven hundred men sharing jokes, laughing, and swilling wine reverberates around the hall.

Finally, I can take it no more."Is it true what they say about the King’s daughters?"

The grizzled stranger on the bench next to me wipes the grease off his mouth with the back of a hand and spits out an olive pit.

"Where’ve you popped up from? You shouldn’t be here. You’re only a young lad."

I am used to these remarks. After I left home I took a ship that was blown off course, taking me west to the land of the Italoi. I had to beg for money in the streets and in the taverns and it was not long before I heard news of Father, who was sailing to the west of this land.

And so I made my way across steep mountains before coming down to a lush plain. Playing my lyre to entertain strangers I followed their directions to the sea, to a wide bay within sight of a simmering, high, conical-shaped mountain.

And there, in a tavern, I met Father.

Now we are traveling home together. But Father is not here on the bench beside me, as he should be, but outside at a nearby farm pretending to be a stable hand.

This is one of Father’s clever strategies. He is a master at extracting information. He calls his strategy "divide and conquer" and it means that I have to use my lyre to find a berth for the night in some local chieftain’s house. This is not usually difficult, especially if there are ladies around because for some reason they always want to pet me.

Meanwhile, Father finds work on the outside as a shepherd, farmhand, or stable boy. By concealing his origins and pretending to be dumb, drunk, or both, Father is able to overhear a great many things. We have a plan to meet every day at noon, I escaping the blandishments of the ladies to visit the local farm for milk, cheese, eggs where I could happen upon the new stable boy, farmhand, or shepherd.

The only fly in the ointment is my age. I am only twelve years old and to my great annoyance, I look it. So Father made me memorize some phrases to offer when this issue arises.

"Father is here with me, but is suffering with an ache to his belly."

One sentence is usually enough for most people. Father has instructed me never to offer explanations that are not asked for as it only makes people more curious.

But the fellow is staring at me, waiting for more.

I turn my eyes down. "Father told me to eat supper and then berth with him in the stable yard."

"He’s the new stable hand, is he?"

I nod.

"Much good he’ll be with a bellyache."

I look up. "Do you have a remedy for that good sir?"

Father always stresses the importance of asking for advice when a conversation turns sour, as it flatters the vanity.

The fellow hawks and spits, rising from his seat. "You’ll have to go to the kitchens for that, son." He ambles off.

I return to my meal, hoping the others will forget about me and the conversation I’ve just had. Fortunately, it is that time of the meal when men turn tipsy. Pretty soon they are laughing, singing, and telling dirty jokes. One song goes like this:

 "There once was a king with twelve daughters—"

                        —"Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters," sing the others in an out-of-tune chorus.

"But he refused to marry them off—"

                        —"Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!"

"And why did he refuse to marry them off?"

                        —"Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!

"Because they would make unsuitable wives—"

                        —"Twelve bee-yoo-tiful daughters!"

"The eldest is mad.

The second is bad.

The third is sad.

The fourth too bold.

The fifth too shrill.

The sixth too shy.

The seventh too just.

While the eighth loves her father too much—Ha! Ha!

The eighth loves her father too much!

The ninth is a boy.

The tenth a mermaid.

The eleventh a goddess.

While the twelfth has only five years, five years,

The twelfth daughter has only five years."

"Do not touch!" yells someone to guffawing laughter.

The men pick up their song again:

"But the one you need to watch for is number four, number four,

The one you need to watch for is number four.

For the fourth daughter is a very naughty girl,

With large bold eyes and a nearly naked form—"

This goes on for some time. The fourth daughter seems to fascinate the men. I chew thoughtfully. Somehow, I must find a way of meeting her.

I turn to another man. "Is it true he locked all twelve of his daughters up in a high tower?"

The man nods.

"Why are they going on about the fourth daughter? I thought it was the eldest who dishonored the family name—"

"Keep your voice down," hisses the fellow. He looks around and then stares back at me from under bushy brows. "Your information is quite good, boy. Most of what you say is true."

"Which part is false?"

The fellow rises to his feet. "If you’ll take my advice, you’ll keep your mouth shut. Folk pay with their lives by asking too many questions." He glances around and draws his forefinger across his throat.

"But—" I gesture to the men singing lustily.

"They’re drunk."

"But—" I say again. But the man vanishes into the press of sweaty male bodies.

Outside, it is a lovely evening with a couple more hours to run before the sun dips below the trees. The castle tower stands up like a finger, a beckoning, a warning, that people can see for miles around. If their eyesight is good, they will see a window set high in the tower, just underneath the tiled roof. On a fine day, the window unlatched, the wind carries the sound of voices, the high sound of girls’ voices gossiping, chattering, giggling. Now, on this late summer evening, someone closes that high window shut. I catch a glimpse of a heart-shaped face with deep-set dark-grey eyes, and light-brown hair drawn back into a braid. Which daughter could she be? Not number four, for she is dressed modestly in a light woolen robe dyed a soft grey to match her eyes.

I lift my head to the moon, a thin fingernail of a crescent. A shiver runs up my spine. Something is going to happen within the month, I can feel it. This place hums with suppressed tensions.

Father will be so interested when I see him tomorrow.

 


About the Author:

Cynthia Sally Haggard was born and reared in Surrey, England.

About 40 years ago, she surfaced in the United States, inhabiting the Mid-Atlantic region as she wound her way through four careers: violinist, cognitive scientist, medical writer, and novelist.

Her first novel, Thwarted Queen, a saga set in 1400s England with a Game of Thrones vibe, won the 2021 Gold Medal IPPY Award for Audiobook. Her second novel, Farewell My Life, a dark historical about a hidden murderer, won the 2021 Independent Press Award for Women’s Fiction and was a 2019 Distinguished Favorite for the New York City Big Book Award. (Farewell is now a set of four novellas that make up the Grace Miller series.)

Maiden Tomb, the first of four projected novellas that will form the Twelve Cursed Maidens series, was a 2026 Distinguished Favorite for the Independent Press Award. Cynthia graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University, Cambridge MA, in June 2015.

When she’s not annoying everyone by insisting her fictional characters are more real than they are, Cynthia likes to go for long walks, knit something glamorous, cook in her wonderful kitchen, and play the piano.

You can visit her at: 













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