Tuesday, May 5, 2026

Witchy Tips with Katrina Kimball #WitchyTips



1. Black (and white) candles are a witch’s best friend. Anytime energy feels off—be it collective or within my energetic space, I light a black candle and say some words to the effect of the burning candle cleansing my energetic space. This works like a charm every time. Why black? That black candle is attracting anything negative *in my space* to it and burning it away with the light (the flame) of the divine. Don’t overthink the words you say as you light the candle, a simple “I light this candle to cleanse my space” is good enough. It’s the intention that matters. Note: you can use white candles in a pinch when doing any ritual that calls for a different color correspondence. 

2. Don’t overthink your craft. If a spell calls for calendula but you want to use lavender? DO IT. If another ritual says to use a yellow candle but you feel drawn to purple, use the purple one. The magic of witchcraft lies within you, your needs and desires, and your intention. Everything else is just a tool to focus that intention. What feels right to and for you may be individual, and that’s okay because it’s your magic, working for you. 

3. Ground, witch! I cannot stress enough the importance of grounding. I highly recommend practicing grounding through visualizing energetic roots that spread from the bottom of your feet, down through the ground, and into the core of Mother Earth – on the DAILY. The more you practice this, the easier it is. It’s a simple tool that can take as little as 15 seconds, or you can sit with it for longer on particularly challenging days. 


Transcendence
Katrina Kimball

Genre: Paranormal Thriller, Dark Fantasy
Publisher: Rowan Prose Publishing
Date of Publication: April 28, 2026
ISBN: 978-1-961967-80-9
ASIN: B0F711QN1B
Number of pages: 348 pages
Word Count: 85,482
Cover Artist: Rowan Prose Publishing

Book Description: 

When a demonic entity seeking revenge starts tormenting her family, a young woman must rediscover their shared past and embrace her own divine power in order to save not only those she loves, but the creature bent on her destruction.

If you asked Alexis Ferelli what her biggest challenges are in life, she’d say it’s parenting her daughter, Luna, running her masseuse practice, and deftly avoiding conversations about marriage with her partner, Jack. At least, that was the case before she attended a séance. Now, the spirits are trying to contact her and there’s a demonic entity in her daughter’s closet.

Determined to find answers, she turns to the psychic from the séance and the spirit world for help. As she dabbles in the hereafter, she not only discovers another dimension filled with angelic guides, magic, and wonder, but also learns the shocking truth of her connection to the creature tormenting her daughter.

As the dark entity grows bolder and sets its sights on Jack as well as Luna, Alexis realizes that to save them all, she has to face the creature she once betrayed to bring it out of the darkness and back into the light.

Fans of Alix Harrow’s Starling House or Neil Gaiman’s Coraline will enjoy Transcendencs by Katrina Kimball.

Amazon     Books2Read

Excerpt:

Luna woke to a tapping sound coming from her closet. She knew closets weren’t supposed to make tapping sounds. She also knew that’s where monsters hid, in the back of dark closets or under your bed. Maybe that’s where aliens hid, too—waiting to catch you in your sleep.

The silvery light spilling through her parted curtains and pooling on the floor did little to soften the shadows. Through the gloom, she could see the outline of her closet. The door was shut. She cast a wary glance at the windowsill and the visible line of salt that gleamed in the faint moonlight. The salt was undisturbed, her window still closed against the night.

Tap, tap, tap.

She ducked under the covers and scooted to the far side of the bed. Tucked into the corner with her back pressed against the wall, she peeked out from under the blanket, her eyes glued to the closet.

Tap, tap, tap. The sound came again, swiftly followed by the soft click of the closet door as it started to inch open.

As she lay there, huddled in the darkness, too scared to breathe, a tall shadow, darker than the shades of night in which it had hidden, slowly stepped forward. Its red eyes reminded her of Aunt Dani’s cawing raven, the one with eyes like fire that scared you when you walked in the door. But these eyes were worse. Bright red flames surrounded a pupil an even deeper shade of red. And they were looking straight at her.

Frozen in fear, she watched as it glided closer, its footfalls silent, its eyes terrible and bright.

“Hello, little doll,” it whispered. 

Luna couldn’t tell if the thing had a mouth, for its entire face was black except for its terrifying eyes, but she heard the words just the same. A little voice in the back of her head was screaming at her to move, but it was too late, the thing was now between her and the door.

She remembered the bowl of salt on the nightstand next to her bed and finding her voice, tried to be brave.

“I am not a doll.”

“Oh, sweet child,” it sighed as it stepped into the puddle of moonlight, impossibly tall and darker than the nighttime shadows, “I shall make you my little doll. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

Its long arms ended in hooked fingers that looked as sharp as claws. Beneath eyes of flame ran a jagged slit where its mouth should be, as if someone had tried to draw a mouth, but had gotten it all wrong.

The scream that had been building for some time in the back of Luna’s throat finally worked its way free as the creature reached for her, talons grasping, eyes of flame leaping in the night.

She lunged for the salt next to her bed. Flinging the bowl itself at the creature, her eyes widened as it sailed right through it as if were truly just a shadow. Grains of salt flew through the air as the bowl shattered violently against the hardwood floor.

The creature jerked its head in the direction of her mother’s room and stared, its slash of a mouth widening into a gaping smile that made her stomach hurt. She could hear her mother’s footsteps racing down the hall.

Its head swiveled back in her direction, eyes alight with fire as its hideous smile somehow grew. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I’ll be seeing you little doll,” it whispered as it glided soundlessly back into her closet and snapped the door shut.

 

About the Author:

A horror enthusiast and lover of all things mysterious and unknowable, it was only a matter of time before author Katrina Kimball picked up her pen and mashed the paranormal, fantasy, and horror genres into one with her debut novel “Transcendence.” When she isn’t working on a novel or binge-watching shows about Bigfoot, ghosts, or aliens, she’s probably thinking about any one of those three things. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her two children and her adorable Boston Terrier, Beaux.








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Friday, May 1, 2026

Gossiping About Grimoires by Mildred Abbott #ParanormalMystery


Spells and Rituals: A Beginner’s Guide to Magic (According to Maeve… and Mischief)

If you’d told me a few months ago that I’d be writing a guide to magic, I would have laughed. Not because I don’t believe in magic. Because I didn’t know I was writing about real magic at the time.

Now… I know better.

So if you’re looking for a perfectly structured, deeply responsible guide to spells and rituals, you may want to consult someone with more training, more experience, and significantly less chaos in her life.

If you’re willing to settle for what I’ve learned so far—often the hard way—then here are a few things worth knowing.

1. Intention matters. More than anything.

Magic isn’t just words.

It isn’t just candles or timing or whether you’re standing in exactly the right place.

It’s intention.

You can say every word perfectly and still fail if you don’t mean it. And sometimes—more concerningly—you can mean it too strongly and get something you didn’t intend at all.

That’s… been a learning experience.


2. Start small. No, smaller than that.

Lighting a candle without a match? Reasonable.

Encouraging a plant to bloom? Manageable.

Attempting anything involving blood magic, lost spirits, or creatures significantly more powerful than you?

Don’t.

(That advice would have saved me a great deal of trouble.)


3. Some spells are not meant to be used lightly

There are spells that feel simple when you read them. Clean. Direct.

They aren’t.

For example:

“Come to us witches, betrayed and lost. 
Lift your voice, tell the cost. 
Through the veil draw nigh and near. 
Bring your witness here.”

Calling to lost spirits sounds straightforward.

It isn’t.

Magic listens. And sometimes, things answer that you weren’t expecting.


4. Magic always takes something

Energy doesn’t come from nowhere.

It pulls from you. From the world around you. From things you may not even realize you’re offering up in the moment.

Even something as controlled as a working meant to trace the past—

“Prophecies called, sacrifices gathered. 
Questions asked, queries answered. 
Trace back through blood and life. 
Reveal the soul who paid such price.”

—can leave you more drained than you expected.

And that’s when everything goes right.


5. Familiar assistance is… unpredictable

Mischief would like it noted that familiars are essential to magic.

She would also like it noted that she is the most essential.

Which, to be fair, might actually be true.

But if you’re expecting calm, steady assistance, you should know that familiars have their own opinions. Their own instincts.

And sometimes, their own timing.

Which means your carefully planned spell may take a sudden turn if your familiar decides to get involved.

Or sit on your materials.

Or wander off halfway through.

(Not that I’m speaking from experience.)


6. Not all magic is meant to be understood

Some spells feel… heavier.

More final.

Like this one:

“Coursing blood crystallize, 
Draw power from night skies, 
Vanquished soul put to bed, 
Offer endless sleep to the dead.”

There are debates about what it actually does.

Some say it’s mercy.

Some say it’s something else entirely.

I haven’t decided which is worse.


7. The most important rule

Magic is not separate from the world.

It’s part of it.

Which means every choice you make—every spell you cast—has consequences beyond the moment you’re standing in.

I learned that the hard way.

Because sometimes magic doesn’t just change a situation.

Sometimes it exposes things that were meant to stay hidden.

And once that happens… there’s no taking it back.




I didn’t grow up in this world. I didn’t train for it. I didn’t even know it existed.

But now that I’m part of it, I’m learning—one spell, one mistake, one very opinionated corgi at a time.

Because magic isn’t just wonder.

It’s risk.

It’s responsibility.

And sometimes… it’s the reason people are hunting you in the first place.

If you’d like to step into a world where magic hides just beneath the surface, where spells don’t always behave, and where a corgi familiar may be more powerful than she lets on, you can begin the Whispering Witch series with Gossiping About Grimoires.


Gossiping About Grimoires
Whispering Witch 
Book One
Mildred Abbott

Genre: Paranormal Mystery
Publisher: Wings of Ink Publications, LLC
Date of Publication: March 10, 2026
ISBN: 979-8243417433
ASIN: B0GJTS4272
Number of pages: 400
Word Count: 103,600

Cover Artist: Christian Bentulan 

Book Description:

Maeve Hawthorn writes about witches for a living. They want her to stop.

When a book signing ends in her abduction, Maeve’s only priority is escaping with her corgi, Mischief, alive. That urgency deepens when she learns her captors are real witches, furious that Maeve has been exposing their secrets to the world.

Before Maeve can make sense of how her fiction has become reality, she’s caught in the middle of a murder that leaves her marked by magic she doesn’t understand. When a dying witch’s power floods into her, Maeve becomes the prime suspect in a crime she didn’t commit—and a target for every supernatural being certain she knows too much.

Turns out, magic isn’t a gift. It’s a liability. And clearing her name may cost Maeve far more than her safety.

With danger closing in and no clear allies other than Mischief, Maeve must navigate a hidden supernatural world that wants her silenced… or dead.

Excerpt:

Turning from dawn breaking over the Quarter, I crossed over to the canopy bed where Mischief was having a completely different experience.

After my thousandth time pacing the room, Mischief had crawled on top of the mountain of decorative pillows placed against the headboard and fallen asleep. As normal, she’d started off in a dignified little ball, resting her head on top of her fluffy tail. Barely ten minutes had passed before she flipped onto her back, front legs curved at her chest and hind legs spread in a most un-ladylike manner.

Without thinking, I mimicked her—flopping to the mattress on my back with a cry of terrified frustration.

Mischief snorted in surprise and tried to twist around onto her feet. Instead, she sank between the pillows. She only disappeared for a heartbeat before she thrust her head through a gap at the bottom and shook off a little trail of drool left over from her nap.

“Sorry, sweet girl.”

Mischief only groaned, yawned.

Despite everything, she could still make me laugh. I curled onto my side, snagged under her front legs, heaved her free from the pillow avalanche, and pulled her to my chest.

“Oh, Mischief, what have I gotten us into?”

She snuggled against me and in answer issued a long, relaxed sigh.

“You know, I’m always amazed how much you understand what I’m saying and what’s going on around us. However, you seem completely clueless at the moment, which is surprising.” I buried my face in the large white patch of fur at the back of her neck, tears stinging my eyes. “Although I have to admit, I wish I were clueless right now too.”

Mischief exhaled, sounding annoyed, then squeezed her way out of my embrace, trotted about a foot across the mattress, and plopped down, staring at me.

I laughed again. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to insult you or anything. I only…”

The expression in her eyes brought me up short and ushered back the memory beside Eudora’s body. How in the world had I forgotten?

“I could have sworn you talked to me earlier.”

Her annoyed expression deepened.

I leaned closer. “Are you irritated because that’s ridiculous or because I’ve been too busy being a stress-mess to remember until now?”

She glared, though not necessarily angrily, but more like another flash of what I thought was annoyance. She leaned closer so her nose almost touched mine and held my gaze, staring so hard had it been anyone else, it would have felt invasive and too personal.

But it was Mischief, so I stared right back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

She blinked, then stared again.

“You are!” I gasped at the realization. “You are trying to tell me something. Actually, trying to say something… right?”

Though I couldn’t hear even the faintest reply, the expression in her dark eyes was a resounding Yes. Truthfully, it was probably more of a Duh!

“Okay.” In my excitement, I attempted to push aside being captured and my probable purging and scurried up into a sitting position on the bed.

That was instantly too high, so I repositioned to my knees, leaning forward and resting on my forearms, returning our faces to eye level.

Again, I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I got the impression she was laughing.

Strange. Although I suddenly realized how I must look spread over the bed with my rump up in the air. “Kind of like you when you want to play, huh?”

Her eyes twinkled.

Another thrill shot through me.

I had always felt a bond between us and frequently had the impression we could read each other’s thoughts and feel each other’s emotions. But I’d heard other people who loved their dogs say similar. I figured every doggy parent felt that. But this was different, even though I couldn’t hear any words like I thought I had at the cathedral. This was new, even for us.

“Okay… what’s different from earlier?” I thought back to the moment at the cathedral, trying to recall. She’d been on my lap, and I’d buried my face in her fur, as I so often did for comfort. But… I’d just held her a moment ago. Just had my face buried in her fur while I tried not to cry.

Before I could sit up, drag her into my lap, and try again, Mischief drew closer once more and pressed her forehead to mine.

I started to argue, to tell her of my plan of recreating the scene. However, she seemed to know what she was doing better than I did, so I held my position.

Mischief pushed a little harder against my forehead and took a long, slow breath, then released it. Her breath didn’t smell minty fresh or anything, but the warmth washed over my cheeks and felt as familiar and safe as home.

I attempted a slow breath of my own, but it shook.

Mischief did it again.

So did I—longer, deeper, and slower that time. The tightness in my throat lessened, and the claws gripping around my heart loosened ever so slightly.

Safe.

I scrambled back, startled, as I hadn’t really expected it to work. “You said that, right? Not just my imagination?”

Her scowl was all the answer I needed.

“Okay, you did say it. That’s… amazing. And I love you think we’re…” My turn to scowl. “Wait a minute. Do you really think that, or is safe the only word you can say?”

Her chuff upgraded from mild annoyance to exasperation.

“All right.” Despite our situation, I chuckled, because talking or not, Mischief was Mischief.

I wasn’t entirely convinced, but whether because of hope or delusion, I wanted to find meaning.

“All right, let’s say you really are talking and I can hear you. We’ll go a step further and believe you’re choosing to say safe because you truly think we are.”

She blinked. Maybe confirmation? That seemed like a good sign.

“Great, so… you believe we’re safe.”

Reality broke through. I was sitting here talking to my dog. Although I always talked to Mischief—all the time—I’d never expected her to answer back with actual words.

Was I losing my mind?

Mischief growled softly.

“Okay, good point. We’re surrounded by witches. Plus, black cats, otters, alligators, and opossums while we’re at it. Not a huge leap that you might start talking.”

Her growling stopped.

“I’ll take that as agreement.” I couldn’t help but grin at her, then reached out and stroked her beautiful face. “So you think we’re safe. I guess that’s good, but there’s not a single thing that’s happened that leads me to believe that. Why in the world do you think we’re safe?”

Mischief’s tail began to dance behind her head. Magic.

I gasped again. “You can say more than safe.”

Her wagging ceased instantly.

“Sorry.”

She sighed.

“You think we’re safe because of magic. I don’t see how.” I continued to pet her and try to parse through things out loud, attempting to make sense of it. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m over the moon it’s all real, but magic is what put us in danger—it’s definitely not protecting us.”

Mischief shook her head, pulling away from my touch. She seemed to consider for a second, then stretched out one of her white little paws and placed it on my hand resting against the bedspread.

Magic.

My heart thrilled again at hearing her voice—which mostly sounded like my own voice, my thinking voice or conscience… but… different.

“Yeah, I get it. There’s magic. But it’s being used against us, Mischief, not—”

Magic. She batted my hand with her paw. Maeve. Magic.

“You said my name!” I gasped again and yanked my hand away, covering my heart like a parent whose baby just said “Mama” for the first time.

She rolled her eyes, which… wasn’t new.

“Sorry.”

She scooted close enough to touch again.

Maeve. She glared again. Magic.

Mischief shook her head in what looked like frustration. I didn’t get the sense she was frustrated at me that time, however.

She gave a little hop, then looked back at me before covering my hand with her paw once more. Magic. Maeve. She tapped my hand, one of her claws accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally—scratching my skin. Magic Maeve. Magic Maeve.

“Uhm…”

Mischief shut her eyes, and her tiny little caterpillar brows furrowed like she was straining. Maeve. Is. Magic.

She opened her eyes, looking deep into mine again. Maeve. Magic.


About the Author:

Mildred Abbott writes cozy mysteries filled with humorous and complex characters. Whether brimming with magic or simply an above-average dose of curiosity, Mildred's amateur sleuths solve murders with the cutest sidekicks ever. Fifteen years as a special education teacher and a lifetime of loving rescue dogs result in creating adventures with a ton of heart and the need for lint rollers.









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Thursday, April 30, 2026

Author Advice with Cynthia Sally Haggard #AuthorAdvice #IndieAuthor


Everyone has a story. And so I thought I would share my thoughts on being an Indie Author for those of you who are considering writing something, but are unsure of how to begin.

Why do I want to write?

If the idea of writing fills you with excitement, then you should definitely do it. If it fills you with dread, then I would suggest you find something else to do. Too many people have to spend most of their waking things doing things they would prefer not to do. So if you are thinking of doing a hobby, it should be something you enjoy!

What should I do when Writer’s Block strikes?

Everyone has heard of writer’s block. So what do you do when you get stuck? The surprising answer is to do nothing! By that I mean that you should drop your manuscript like a hot coal and do something completely different. Come back to your manuscript tomorrow and you might be surprised to find that all your problems have disappeared. For the mind is an amazing thing that solves problems constantly. Especially when you relax and take the pressure off of yourself. If you still find yourself stuck, try to analyze what the problem is. Then go away and come back again the next day. What you should not do is keep working at the problem. Don’t tell yourself you are not a quitter as you metaphorically bang your head against the proverbial wall. It will only make you tense and frustrated—a place where you don’t want to be when you are trying to be creative.

Do I need an agent to sell my book?

The short answer is “no.”
The long answer is that getting an agent is very difficult unless 
• you happen to have a large following online, 
• you have published many books before, 
• you are famous, 
• or you have a best-seller on your hands. 

For the 99% of us who do not fall into that club, getting an agent is next to impossible. In fact it is so hard, and agents (who take 15% of your sales) so unreliable, that my advice is to forget about them and spend your time instead on learning how to market your book. There are many places online that can help you. The two I recommend are Reedsy and Mark Dawson’s Self-Publishing courses. 

Is it easy to publish a book yourself?

Yes. Amazon has made it incredibly easy for you to upload your book. So assuming that you are relatively tech-savvy it’s really not a problem to publish your book on Amazon. And if you become an Indie Author like me, which means that you’ve never signed on the dotted line of a publishing contract, you get to keep all of your rights forever!

Will publishing a book help my career?

That really depends on whether you are publishing fiction or non-fiction. I don’t publish non-fiction books, so I cannot speak from my own experience. What I can tell you is that you shouldn’t expect to become either famous or wealthy from publishing fiction.
You see, now (in 2026), we are all competing with a tsunami of books. More than 600,000 books are being published each year in the US alone. That means that it is incredibly easy to become lost in the noise. Especially if you are not famous and don’t have an enormous social media presence.

This is why I said in my opener that you shouldn’t consider writing unless you absolutely love to do it. 

It also means that you shouldn’t abandon your day job unless it is very clear to you that you can make a success in this endeavor. My impression is that only 1% of authors are successful. And they are the people you’ve heard of—the Dan Browns, Ken Folletts, John Grishams and the Stephen Kings of this world. 

This doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t write. Speaking for myself, writing is the center of my life. It is what gets me out of bed of a morning. It keeps me going. It gives me a structure. It provides me with a purpose. I have worked in this arena for the past twenty-two years, and loved it. 

But I don’t expect to make six or seven figures! 



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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