Book series

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Changes on WIP Wednesday

Millie doesn’t know she she can change shape. Here’s the scene where she finds out in my current draft of Wild Magic, the 4th book in Many Kinds of Magic.

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They heard the crowd before they saw them, yelling insults and curses, some in incredibly explicit language that painted Millie as an enchantress who consumed men. Millie could hear the coachman shouting at the crowd.

“I should have accepted the guard I was offered,” said Mr. O’Brien. “Mrs. Hexworth, if the crowd manages to breach the carriage, I am going to change into my wolf form. Leap onto my back and hang onto my neck. You can take tight hold of the thick skin and a handful of skin. You won’t hurt me. I’ll take us clear of the crowd. The carriage driver knows our first stop and will meet us there.”

He had time for no more than that when what he feared happened—someone wrenched the door open. Millie could feel the change in O’Brien’s aura as his power moved and began to shape him into a different form. And even as she sensed the way he changed, she found her own power imitating him, shifting her bones, her flesh, everything about her. The man who was trying to reach into the carriage fell back, his mouth open in astonishment or fear, and she heard the low grumble of Mr. O’Brien’s growl.

Furthermore, the carriage seemed suddenly ten times the size, and the face of the intruder was enormous. When she opened her mouth to make her own sound, it came out as a loud caw, and when she tried to leap onto O’Brien’s back, holding out her arms to balance herself, her arms caught the air and lifted her off her seat. In a moment, instinct took over. She flapped her arms hard and soared out of the carriage over the heads of those who were trying to break into it.

Looking behind her, she could see a large red wolf leap out of the carriage over the heads of the attackers. But she had little time to think about it, for she had problems of her own.

Her legs were doing no good, though she was trying to run with them, for she was twenty yards or more above the street. Her arms had turned into wings, and they had lifted her way up here. She tucked her legs up underneath her and swept the wings down in another strong beat, and then another and another, for she was flying, not in a graceful manner, but lurching from wingsweep to wingsweep as she got the hang of it. She climbed higher and higher, soaring away from the street and flying over the roofs of the buildings.

Could she circle in the air? Yes, she could. Down below, she could see the wolf—O’Brien—looking up at her. He must have realized she was watching him because he began to pad along the road, and she, still a little ungainly but gaining confidence and grace as she learned how this body moved in the air, followed him.

Millie’s bird form was able to keep pace with the wolf, and she flew on and on, following O’Brien’s red shape, which more or less kept to the ribbon of the road, but avoided places with crowds of people, leaving the road when he saw he was approaching a village and skirting through fields until he came back out on the road on the other side.

She wondered if he would have any trouble with other travelers, but here in England, where wolves were no longer in the wild, they must have assumed he was as human as they were and left him alone. For his own part, he simply padded along, ignoring the other travelers.

Eventually, when Millie’s chest and shoulder muscles were beginning to ache, he stopped within sight of a village that must have been about an hour and a half’s drive from Chester. Millie hadn’t seen the carriage they’d left behind—or at least she hadn’t noticed that one of the carriages on the road was theirs. Perhaps she had overlooked it, or perhaps it had passed them during one of their diversions around a village, because it was waiting for them outside the inn in the village.

O’Brien did not enter the village, but leapt over a gate into a field and sat there, his muzzle pointed up toward her, and his tail tucked neatly around one side to lie across his front paws. Did he want her to join him?

It suddenly occurred to Millie that she’d never landed before. Well, there was a first time for everything. The first thing to do was to drop low enough to consider how to reach the ground. Birds she had watched circled in order to come into land. That seemed a good idea. She tried it, stalling a couple of times as she scooped too much air under her wings and stopped in the air instead of merely slowing down. But each time she recovered.

O’Brien was probably laughing at her. It was hard to tell from his wolf’s face, though he was sitting there with his tongue flopping out one side of his muzzle as he watched her.

She learned from those two stalls and managed to circle down until she was not far above the ground. The last part was the bit she wasn’t looking forward to. It was, she supposed, a matter of a controlled stall as her feet hit the ground. She spread her wings ready, cupped the air, and held her breath. It wasn’t too bad an effort for a first time. She had to walk forward quickly, but she didn’t plant her face in the dirt as she had been very much afraid she might.

She should have said plant her beak, she supposed. She had a rather splendid one. And from what she could see, she was black all over. She rather thought she might be a raven or a crow. Furthermore, a raven or a crow she was likely to stay, because she had no idea at all how to change back.

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My October sales books

My October sale books are A Baron for Becky (an Aldridge-adjacent novel), the novel An Unpitied Sacrifice (book 6 in The Golden Redepennings series), and Paradise Regained (a prequel novella in The Return of the Mountain King).

A Baron for Becky https://books2read.com/ABaronforBecky

An Unpitied Sacrifice https://books2read.com/u/479JAA

Paradise Regained https://books2read.com/u/mBNEkA

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Spotlight on Twisted Magic

Published September 29th:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HHC299M5

Book 2 in Many Kinds of Magic

In a Regency world where magical gifts mean power and status, they struggle to find a place…

Persephone Thornton is in her cousin’s house to spy on him, for he is England’s dragon lord and her father died while on a mission for Wales. Sephie does not expect to actually like her Cousin Jasper and his wife Delia. Nor does she expect her Welsh contact, one of Jasper’s gardeners, to give her the secret to using her mage gift without it twisting into something undesirable.

Taliesin Ddraennen was raised by the Welsh resistance, and has been spying for them since he was sixteen. He has never before been partnered with a lady from the English aristocracy. Seeing past her thorny nature, Taz quickly comes to admire her resilience and intelligence.

When a spell to eavesdrop on the dragon lord’s meetings is discovered and blamed on Sephie, he refuses to leave her behind. Their escape leads them into England’s ancient forests and the arms of the fae, where they discover the true nature of their mage gifts, which have always twisted to give flawed results.

On their return to the outside world, their newfound connection will be immediately put to the test, when Taz is asked to choose between Sephie and Welsh freedom.

With war all around them and peace seemingly impossible, they must find the path that allows them to choose one another.

Meet Taz and Sephie

Sephie

What a prickly woman! Not that prickles bothered Taz. Some of the prettiest plants had them. Take roses, for example. Miss Thornton reminded him of a rose. A lovely face, petal-soft skin—or so he imagined—and a graceful form. She was a little shorter than him, with a slender but shapely figure, hair of a sort of flaxen gold tied carelessly in a bun, and bright blue eyes.

Taz

It was a nice face, too, now that she came to really look at it. Handsome, if thin. In fact, he was an attractive man. Dark hair with a slight curl, grey eyes with a hint of green, the broad shoulders of a man who did physical labor, but not so broad as to be out of place on a slender man of medium height.

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Magic for children in WIP Wednesday

Today, I have an excerpt from Small Magic, which I expect back from the editor late this week or early next. It is book 3 in Many Kinds of Magic, and sends my hero and heroine to join Napoleon’s army as it advances into Russia. But in this excerpt, my heroine is using her very small gift of magic to coax compliance out of two reluctant pupils.

Clara gave in first. The temptation of the paper parrots proved too much for her, and she wrote three misspelled paragraphs about kittens. The writing showed promise. The sentence that described kittens as “tiny tigers that prowl the stables and are death to mice” was remarkably mature for her age. And Hannah was rather taken by the phrase “warm, sweet, and fierce,” which was perfectly true, even if “fierce” lacked an “i”, an “r” and a “c”, and had an extra “e” and an “s” in their place.

As her reward, Clara chose to learn how to make paper parrots rather than go out for a walk. Hannah assured her she could have both, but Clara cast a glance at her brooding sister and politely said, “Just the parrots please, Miss Prendergast.”

That being the case, the pair of them sat folding paper, Clara copying Hannah as closely as she could, and Hannah helping her to correct any mistakes. Before long, they had a little row of parrots waiting on the table.

Next came the spell. This time, Hannah said the animating rhyme out loud as Clara brushed the salt and ginger mix on one parrot after another, until a flock of them were fluttering around the room, with Clara dancing beneath them, laughing and trying to catch them.

Agnes stared at them with her mouth open, her eyes filled with longing, but when she saw Hannah watching her, she scowled, picked up a book, and began reading.

The parrots didn’t last long. They had a habit of crashing into walls or furniture, shedding some of the spelled mix and softening the paper. Hannah had already warned Clara that the effect of the spell would be temporary, and the little girl made no complaint when the last parrot crash landed on the carpet.

“Let us tidy up,” Hannah said, “and I shall ask for cheese and bread to toast for a treat.”

“For Agnes, too?” Clara asked. What a sweet child she was.

“I’m not hungry,” grumbled Agnes.

On the following day, Hannah once again talked about the benefits to both her and her pupils of cooperation, and the costs of a continued war. “For today’s treat after lessons, I propose the walk I suggested yesterday. I have another spell I should like to show you. Have you ever heard bluebells singing?”

Once again, Clara was excited to comply. She and Hannah went through her cat essay, discussing spelling and grammar. Once she had written a fair copy, they worked through a few sums. After seeing the essay, Hannah had formed a positive opinion of Nanny’s teaching abilities. Clara’s arithmetic put an end to it.

Still, the girl was bright and willing. She would learn.

Agnes, who had been watching from her seat by the nursery fireplace, said, “Nanny said we do not need to learn our numbers. Arithmetic is for men, not ladies.”

“Oh?” Hannah replied. “I think perhaps your mother would disagree with that. If you do not know your numbers, how will you manage your dress allowance. Will you just keep spending until your father growls? And when you are married, how will you know whether your cook and housekeeper are cheating you? Will you expect your husband to keep your household accounts?”

Agnes lapsed into silence, but she did not join in, so when Clara and Hannah left for their walk, Hannah asked the nursery maid to sit with Agnes.

Clara was bubbling over with excitement when they returned, eager to tell Agnes all about the wonderful singing of a forest full of bluebells. Agnes turned away and refused to listen. Clara told the nursery maid, instead.

It had been a single clearing, and the bluebells sang a simple nursery rhyme. Hannah, after all, only had small magic. But Clara had been delighted, and that was the main thing. Now Hannah had to think of something for tomorrow. Something that Agnes could not resist.

She would need to pull out her book of spells tonight, and go through it looking for ideas.

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Deathbed promises on WIP Wednesday


I wrote this preface to Within the Heart last week. I’ve moved on. It’s not going to be in the final book. But it is still part of the work in progress, so I thought I’d share it with you.

The rain drummed on the roof above the tiny attic room, making it hard for Ruth to hear her brother’s thready voice. She leant closer to the bed, which was just a thin mattress on the floor, not even the mean bed that she had in the maid’s quarters where she should be, except that the butler had permitted her into this part of the attic to nurse her sick brother.

“Promise me, Ruth,” Ricky said. “Promise me you’ll go to London in my place. The streets are paved with gold in London, so they say. You’ll be rich, just like I always promised.”

Ruth clung to Ricky’s hand. “You’ll get better,” she said. “You’ll get better, and we’ll go together. That’s what we planned, Ricky. I can’t do it on my own.”

“You can,” Ricky said. “You have to. I’ll be in heaven watching you, Ruth. I’ll watch you every step of the way.”

“No, Ricky.”

“Yes. You can do it, twin. Do it for me.”

That wee bit of conversation had exhausted him. He fell back on his pillow and lapsed back into sleep.

The doctor wouldn’t come for a scullion, said the butler, but he sent for Mrs. Brown, the wise woman. She examined Ricky and said it was the ague. She suggested a mustard plaster, and Ruth made it with her own hands and applied it. But it didn’t help, and nor did the ginger tea that Ruth had to pay for with a few coins from the twin’s meager store.

Mrs. Brown came again and shook her head. “Prepare yourself for the worst, girl,” she advised Ruth, but how could Ruth prepare oneself for the loss of the only person that was hers in the whole world?

Ricky woke again a few more times, and in one of his lucid periods, he asked Ruth to read the letter. She was carrying it in her apron pocket, for it was too precious to leave with her possessions or his.

Ricky had made a posset for a London gentleman who was staying in the house, and the gentleman had been so impressed that he had offered Ricky a job. Ricky had asked for a letter to show the gentleman’s cook, and the gentleman had laughed and given it to him.

It had one sentence, the one Ricky had built his dream on. “Give this boy a job.” Then the man’s signature. That was all.

“See, Ricky,” said Ruth. “I cannot go. They’re expecting a boy.”

“Pretend to be me,” said Ricky. “Promise, Ruth.”

And in the end, Ruth promised.

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My September sales books

This month, I have my usual monthly sale, plus my quarterly sale of one series. You’re welcome!

Monthly sale

My September sale books are A Most Excellent Adventure (a novella in The Golden Redepennings series), the novel The Realm of Silence (book 3 in The Golden Redepennings series), and Paradise Triptych (a collection of two novellas and a memoir in The Return of the Mountain King).

A Most Excellent Adventure https://books2read.com/u/4DrxLO

The Realm of Silence https://books2read.com/TheRealmofSilence

Paradise Triptych https://books2read.com/Triptych

Quarterly sale

For two weeks in September, I have the series The Return of the Mountain King on sale, plus all the novellas for secondary characters who appear in the series.

The four novels are usually $4.49: the first novel is reduced to $0.99 and the other three to half price.

  1. To Wed a Proper Lady  https://books2read.com/CMK-ProperLady
  2. To Mend the Broken Hearted https://books2read.com/Broken-Hearted
  3. To Claim the Long-Lost Lover https://books2read.com/CMK-Claim
  4. To Tame a Wild Rake https://books2read.com/CMK-ToTame

The six other books are Paradise Triptych, which is two novellas and a memoir reduced from $2.49 to $1.49, and five other stand alone novellas, each reduced from $1.49 to $0.99.

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The Assassination of Spencer Perceval

The novel I’ve recently sent to the publisher is set against the background of civil unrest in 1812, and the assassination of Spencer Perceval, the only Prime Minister of England ever to have been killed while in public office. Here’s what I wrote in the Author’s Note about those circumstances.

The assassination of Spencer Perceval is an historical fact. He is the sole British prime minister ever to have been assassinated. He was killed at about 5.15pm on May 11th 1812 by a Liverpool merchant with a grievance against the government.

Perceval’s determination to continue the war against Napoleon had led to harsh measures that added to the poverty and unrest already besetting the country, but that wasn’t what upset Bellingham. He blamed the government for his financial losses over a business deal gone sour in Russia. The Russians took the side of merchants who had Bellingham arrested over a debt owed by a business associate. The British ambassador refused to intervene, as the point at issue was a civil debt. Bellingham refused any compromise, and made such a nuisance of himself that the Russians imprisoned him, and it was not until 1809 that he returned to England, determined to seek compensation for his imprisonment and financial losses.

After spending more than a year petitioning every level of government, Bellingham apparently decided that he had only one recourse. By killing Perceval, he believed he would have a chance to put his case to a judge, and be vindicated at last.

It is true, as I show in the novel, that there was widespread rejoicing on the part of hungry workers when Perceval was killed, and widespread grief amongst his friends and colleagues. The ruling classes initially feared that Perceval’s assassination was part of a revolution, or might cause one, and the government responded by calling out the Foot Guards, mounted troops, the City militia, and the local watches.

It is also true that his trial was held a few days after the shooting, on Friday 15th May. His execution followed on the following Monday. A week after Perceval died, Bellingham was hanged. While justice delayed is justice denied, justice rushed so fast that the accused has no time to prepare a case must also be flawed.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Andro Linklater, author of the book “Why Spencer Perceval Had to Die.” It was from this book that I learned many of the details that form the background of the story. I am particularly indebted to Linklater for pointing out that Bellingham suddenly found a source of income in the weeks immediately prior to the assassination. He paid his rent, purchased two guns and ammunition to go with them, bought new clothing, and took his landlady and her child out sightseeing.

Linklater’s theory is that powerful merchants on both sides of the Atlantic resented Perceval’s continued fight against the slave trade. He makes a good case for his choice as Bellingham’s paymaster, and perhaps he is correct. Read the book and see what you think.

For my purposes, I chose another historical character, General Isaac Gascoyne, who apparently knew the identity of the victim without being told, claimed not to recognize Bellingham though he had met him several times, and changed his testimony several times.

All the other members of my conspiracy and their opposition are fictional.

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Books on sale August 1st to August 31st

Jude’s August sale books are Lost in the Tale (a collection of Regency novellas), the novel One Hour in Freedom (book 3 in the Lion’s Zoo series), and Melting Matilda (a novella aligned with The Return of the Mountain King).

Lost in the Tale https://books2read.com/LostintheTale

One Hour in Freedom https://books2read.com/LionZooOHiF

Melting Matilda https://books2read.com/MeltingMatilda

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A different approach to parenting on WIP Wednesday

I’m expecting Twisted Magic back from the editor within the month, so it is on my mind. In the following excerpt, my heroine is hiding from pursuers in a forest that is home to the fae. And she is comparing their way of living with that of people outside of the forests.

Sephie felt as if she was free for the first time in her life. Free from the expectations—and disappointment—of others. Free from responsibilities. Free from all the restrictions that built prickly hedges of “thou shalt nots” around well-born ladies.

The fae did not live like that. Like other humans, they all had different gifts, both magical and mundane, but they did not rank them, making one more important than another. A person with a gift for magical weaving was not less nor more important than a person with a gift for weaving without magic, and a person who could cause a tree to grow a branch broad enough for a house floor was not less nor more important than a person who could teach mathematics to the children and any adult with an interest, or throw a perfectly proportioned pot.

The only expectations, as far as Sephie could discover, were to find what one was good at and do it well, to treat one another kindly, and to cherish and protect the children.

She spoke to Taz about it one morning. The fae had not yet arrived and they had the rooms to themselves. “I did not know families could be like this. Is it only the fae? But Lord and Lady Baradine love their adopted children just as fiercely and completely. Did you know love like this when you were a child?”

Taz shook his head. “From my mother, perhaps. Before she died. I was only eight, and I cannot be certain what I remember and what I merely wish to have been the case. Especially since, for years, I couldn’t bear to think about her at all.”

He fell silence, staring into nothing, and she took his hand as a gesture of sympathy. He turned hers over and placed a kiss in it. “What about you, Sephie? Did your mother love you the way these fae folk love their children?”

No. Not in Sephie’s memory. But perhaps, as Taz said, she was too young to know. “I am like you. I would like to think so. But I have few memories of her. Just a person in clothes that rustled, jewelry that glittered in the candlelight and a cloud of perfume. I think my nursemaid used to take me to see her when she was dressing for dinner. She would kiss my cheek when she saw me. If she was in a very good mood, she would hug me and rain kisses all over my face. And then she would tell the nursemaid to take me away.”

She sighed, the memory so distant that it seemed a dream. “Fae mothers see their children more than once a day, I think. Like you, I was eight when she left. She was running away with a lover, and died when her carriage went over a cliff.”

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Books on sale July 1st to July 31st

Jude’s July sale books are If Mistletoe Could Tell Tales (a collection of Regency novellas), Revealed in Mist, and Lord Calne’s Christmas Ruby (a novella in The Golden Redepennings).

If Mistletoe Could Tell Tales https://books2read.com/IfMistletoeCouldTellTales

Revealed in Mist https://books2read.com/RevealedinMist

Lord Calne’s Christmas Ruby https://books2read.com/LordCalnesChristmasRuby