It's a messy morning of word death in this manuscript. First person present is still a pain in the behind (alas, Imogene will narrate in nothing else), but apparently I've learned a few things since I worked on this last year.

No paragraph is safe. I wield the delete key of death.

--

1a. I check the way before standing and creeping across. It's empty, which doesn't feel right, but I urge the look-away spell to course stronger over me, and slip to stand next to the door.

1b. The courtyard is empty when I creep across. That doesn't feel right, but I urge my look-away spell stronger and pause next to the door.

--

2a. There are five distinct voices and shades of anger leaking from the room. The smoky smell clots in my nose and makes breathing difficult, but I search the bushes for Aiden and signal the number to him. He nods and positions himself so his crossbow is balanced on his knee, poisoned bolt aimed.

2b. Five voices leak from the room. The smoky reek of their anger makes breathing difficult as I search the bushes for Aiden and signal the number. He nods, balances his crossbow on his knee, and aims the poison bolt.

--

3a. I try the knob, but it's locked. No time to run back and get Aiden's lockpicks: someone will have heard that. Instead, I lower myself to sit on my heels and press my shoulder against the wall, waiting as the voices inside stop. Someone inside is afraid; the sour stink of urine grows stronger when the lock clicks and someone takes hold of the knob.

3b. The knob sticks: locked. The voices inside quiet, leaving me no time to fetch Aiden's lockpicks. Instead I crouch, press my shoulder to the wall, and wait as the sour stink of fear grows stronger inside. The lock clicks and the door cracks open.

--

Not perfect, but better.