Queen of Autumn

 Queen of Autumn first appeared in September of 2025 in A Season for Romance: Fall Flames, a free anthology. Pieces tagged "Behind the scenes" are just that: stories, scenes, and excerpts that never make it to the official manuscript but give us a glimpse into the world of my novels. Queen of Autumn can be read as a very early prologue to Mistress & Mage, which is now available in paperback, ebook, and on KU. It takes place 126 years before Delphine and Varrick's story.

“Camellia, there’s no need to be shy.” Baroness Margot Rozdath curled her arm around mine, turning me away from the dizzying spectacle of the ballroom.

“We don’t have gatherings like this on the frontier.” I took a deep breath. So many colors! So much glitter and jewels!

Margot patted my hand. “Of course not. Who is there to attend except trees and bears?”

“Ha.” But the teasing eased my nerves. “Trees are very well-behaved. The bears, not so much.” Like some of the guests, who had already gone rosy from the rum punch.

“You’re a baroness now. You must become comfortable with society. Calagrea indulges in emotions.” Margot surveyed her ballroom with an air of satisfaction, nodding at the occasional guest. “And appetites.”

I arched an eyebrow. Exactly what sort of indulgences was she expecting?

One side of her painted mouth curled up. “The trick is discretion.”

Discretion? Across the room, a married man openly flirted with an unmarried lady, and a black-veiled new widow leaned on the arm of a handsome boy easily half her age.

Half my age, too. My country upbringing on my grandfather’s estate had not prepared me for the pomp, grandeur, and decided lack of discretion among the city barons. They would make the lumberjacks back home blush.

We paused at the far end of the room as a lively dance ended and the fluttering young women flowed toward the open courtyard for cooler autumn air.

Like them, I’d once been a fresh spring flower, full of starry-eyed romance. What had I been doing at eighteen? At twenty? Not exchanging glances with men over cups of punch or blushing at nothings whispered in my ear.

Instead, I’d been managing ledgers and account books for grandfather, fiddling with applications of arcane geometry, happy with my tidy numbers and sigils. Everything neat, in its place, expected and planned. The season of carefree innocence had slipped past me; I would never recapture it.

Do I want to?

“Aren’t you lonely rattling around old Bollenbaucher Manor with no one but servants and foresters?” Margot tapped my hand with her fan. “You don’t have to live like a cloistered lady hermit for the rest of your life. Have some fun.”

A couple, flushed from dancing, brushed past us. He pulled her closer, planting a kiss on her cheek. She giggled.

“Margot, I appreciate your friendship beyond words.” I never would have adjusted without her. “But are you suggesting I—” I lowered my voice, “take a lover?”

“Darling, I am practically ordering it.”

Heat crept up my neck to my ears. She couldn’t mean it. “What would people think?”

She laughed. “If you make a proper choice, they’ll think you lucky.”

Another dance started, more sedate than the one before. At the buffet along one wall, those not dancing sampled dainties and ices. Margot swept her arm at the array of gentlemen gathered there. “Enjoy perusing the options.”

A mix of copper brown Calagreans, paler Torlish, and a smattering of other men sipped punch or tiny glasses of strong spirits. A Torlish lord with impressive gray mutton chop whiskers caught me looking and winked.

If my ears burned any hotter, they’d singe my hair, but I smiled back. It felt good to be noticed by a man.

“Not that one.” Margot curled her lip until the gentleman looked away. “He has a dreadful reputation for being rough.”

“Oh dear. No, that wouldn’t do.” Was I seriously considering this?

I scanned the room. Some eyes turned immediately away from me, and others were already occupied by their chosen companions. I’d traded sallies with barge captains and lumberjacks, even admired the strength such occupations gave them, but it was only in fun.

Why not consider it? I was four decades old and all I had done was shuffle numbers and keep my grandfather company.

Now, as a baroness, I attended balls and wore velvet gowns in deep, expensive colors. If I wished, I could take a lover. But how did a woman go about finding one?

Very few men met my eyes. None held them. “Are you sure anyone will want me? I’m, well, past my prime.” Not that I’d been considered a beauty even in the full blush of youth.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Margot stepped back, giving me a critical eye. “You’ve beautiful eyes, an elegant shape, and lovely skin.”

“I’ve more freckles than anything, but I thank you.” My shape felt more sturdy than elegant, but the deep russet dress I wore was flattering. Perhaps Lord Sideburns would be my only admirer.

“The problem is, you’re strolling with the hostess. No one is going to ask you to dance when they think you’re my chosen company.” She made a shooing motion with her fan. “Go on, mingle. I see someone I need to speak with.” Margot swept away.

Alone, I felt out of place in this glittering world of beautiful people. I was used to discussing payroll with workmen and plans with engineers, not chatting about nothing with landed nobles. Presenting my barony’s goods and propositions for trade had been easy, but timber prices were a far cry from flirting.

The dance ended and couples changed partners, strolled outside, or gathered at the table. I drifted to the side opposite the doors to the garden, where a walking gallery circled the room.

Gold, orange, and plum-colored glow lights, no larger than fireflies, spangled the columns and ceiling, giving it a soft, moody light, like late sunset. It was mostly empty now, and a good place to watch everyone else without being obvious.

I stopped next to a pillar, watching couples take their places for a country dance, men facing women in two lines. I almost clapped. It would be such fun to join. The music started, the lines dancing forward and back, shoes tramping a beat on the wooden floor.

I sensed someone behind me but didn’t turn. It would be a couple looking for privacy, or girls finding a quiet place to gossip.

“You look ready to join them, Baroness.” The voice was deep, with an accent I couldn’t place.

I turned, ready to reply, but it died on my lips.

An elf.

No wonder I hadn’t recognized the accent. I knew there were elves at the trade talks, but I’d never spoken to one.

My pulse matched the vigorous beat of the music. “I enjoy country dances.” What an inane thing to say.

He took my hand, bowing over it and kissing my knuckles like any perfect Rockhaven gentleman. “Then you should dance. There’s no reason to put off such an innocent delight.”

No wonder people told tall tales about elves. He looked like he’d stepped out of a fairy story. His long, lilac coat was cut to emphasize his broad shoulders and height. A whimsical pattern of white, blue, and pink morning glories graced his high collar and wide lapels. It nipped in at his waist before flaring out again, his white vest contrasting with the deep purple shirt and cravat underneath, which matched his long, loose hair.

“I have no partner, and the set has already started.” And perhaps I was too old to join the more exuberant dances.

“Only because you are hiding here,” he said, blue eyes twinkling under thick, dark lashes. “You are a vision, Baroness, and should be thronged with partners.”

I glanced down, pulse galloping, cheeks hot. “You are quite effusive, Lord . . . ?”

“Captain Caerue s’if Murhuran, here representing my fleet in the autumn trade talks.” He still held my hand, and he ran his thumb across my knuckles, exactly where he’d kissed them.

A delicious shiver danced up my arm. “Baroness Camillia Bollenbaucher.” I cringed as I stumbled over my own name.

“I didn’t see you last fall. How lovely that you are here now.”

I wasn’t prepared for the intensity of his gaze. I swallowed and nodded. “Yes. It is. I mean, it’s nice to be here. It’s my first time.”

“Your first ball?” He laid his hand on his chest, as if shocked.

“First ball and trade talks.” I’d been to barn raisings and conferences on how to control spring flooding but never anything like this.

“We should make it memorable.” He clasped my hands in both of his. “Might I beg the next dance?”

“I—” Hadn’t I just been wishing I could join in? I’d never danced at a formal gathering like this. “Wouldn’t you prefer a younger partner?”

“Humans don’t become interesting until they’re at least thirty-five.” He cast an amused glance at the energetic dancers.

“How old are you?” He looked young. But not a boy, like the widow’s choice. There were no lines on his face, no silver hair. Ageless.

“Old enough that all those ingenues look like infants.”

“Ah, forty then.” Or four hundred. How did one tell, with elves?

The country dance ended, the breathless dancers crowding the tables for ices.

He laughed. “Children enjoy juice; I prefer the complexity and body of a fine vintage.” He kissed the back of my hand again. “I beg you, Baroness. You look like the Queen of Autumn. Grant me a dance?”

The first notes of a waltz sparkled in the air. The Queen of Autumn.

Well.

I nodded. “I am yours, Captain.”

He led me to the dance floor. “I certainly hope so.”

I blinked, the double meaning sinking in. Oh, my.

We fell into the rhythm of the dance, his hand clasping the small of my back, pulling me close. My chest touched his, my eyes level with the folds of his cravat. I didn’t dare look up into his face, but his lips hovered intimately close.

I hadn’t been prepared for the proximity of a waltz. He smelled sweet and spicy, like a blackberry tart eaten in the pine woods. Bargemen and lumberjacks never smelled like that.

I concentrated on the dance, moving with him, following his lead, enjoying the swirl and swish of my gown. I relaxed. It felt good to move like this, to feel graceful, almost beautiful, even if it was only for the space of one dance.

“Are you enjoying your first season of trade arguments?” He led with precision and confidence, every step perfectly executed. “I saw your presentation. You have timber. All the timber, in fact.”

“My land stretches along the border mountains, so yes, all the timber.” We spun, but I felt more grounded now. I was out of my element here, but I knew my business. Was this just a fishing expedition, trying to gain an advantage in the treaties? “Are you in the market for some? I don’t recall you presenting.” I would have remembered him.

The captain’s hand slid up, fingers brushing the bare skin of my back. A tender touch, nothing demanding. A pleasant frisson spread over my shoulders, and I nearly missed my footing.

“My fleet is classed as a foreign power, so we will present our interests later. But tonight isn’t for business.” He met my gaze. “It’s for pleasure. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I looked down, but he was right. “Yes. And dancing is a pleasure.”

“One among many. Are you married, Baroness?”

“No.” I dared a glance up. “I’ve never been married.”

Mischief twinkled in his eyes. “So, no jealous husband will challenge me to swords at dawn?”

“Certainly not.” Men did. Women too. Margot had fought a duel once. Or twice.

“That’s a pity.” The captain grinned. “Someone really ought to be wildly possessive over you.”

“No, there’s no one. Why should there be?” Fiery tempers and clashing swords were for people like Margot, who were comfortable with their passions, the consequences be damned. I was too cautious and sensible for such things.

That light touch brushed my back again. “Because you’re beautiful and a little sad, which makes you even more beautiful, and the spectre of a jealous husband is an easy dragon to slay. Now I have to find some other way to prove that I’m serious.”

I looked away. I ought to be blushing, but a different, more pleasant warmth blossomed in my chest. “Serious about what?”

“Waltzing you away and finding every freckle on your lovely self.” He tilted his head, voice dropping to a whisper. “I happen to adore freckles. I’d kiss every single one.”

“Captain!”

"I happen to adore freckles."

 
Freckles dotted my cheeks and shoulders, yes, but many spattered my thighs and chest. His fingers touching those softly, like he was touching my back . . . I looked up. Terrible idea, because I started picturing his lips finding those same freckles. I thrust the image away, but the deeper fire, already sparked by the dance, smoldered.

A liaison would cause no upset, no complications. No faith would be betrayed if I allowed him more than a dance. But doubts still haunted me.

“Why choose me?” Other couples twirled past, dowagers and debutantes dancing with barons or boys. “There are dozens of people here.”

“It is not enough to find you stunning? To find the dark fire of your hair irresistible? That I saw such wistfulness in your face that my heart was caught?” He ducked his head to whisper in my ear. “I see a glimmer of happiness in you, but I want to make it shine like a beacon. Would you deny me that chance?”

No more than a few words and a dance, and he’d made me feel beautiful. How much more could he make me feel? In a month, I’d be back at the estate, managing river barge schedules and the late harvest. Winter would blow in, cold and wet, cutting us off. I wouldn’t be back to Calagrea for a year.

I want to look back on more than a single dance.

We spun to a stop at the edge of the ballroom, steps from a hall that would lead to Margot’s library, studies, family rooms. Private rooms with locks on the doors.

The golden glow lights reflected off his skin, sculpted cheeks, generous curving lips, and clean jawline. Long, pointed ears. Ageless. Inhumanly irresistible.

I gazed back at the ballroom. No one there cared what I did with my night except Margot, who would be cheering me on.

I caught my breath. “You know nothing about me.” And I knew nothing about him, except that he was offering me something I never thought I’d have.

“You are intelligent and well-spoken. You presented the needs of your barony and people with fire and eloquence, which I admire.” He brushed my cheek. “You are lonely and fear you will be lonely forever.”

Lonely forever. I flinched from the sudden truth. “You divined that from my impassioned plea for new locks above the falls?” I tried to keep my voice light, but he’d touched a nerve. Grandfather had been my only family for years, and now he was gone.

“Yes.” The captain followed my gaze to the dance floor. “I’ve watched ships disappear on the horizon and never return. People gone forever and I don’t even know why. I’ve lost . . . I recognize loneliness when I see it.”

Ageless. Centuries of life stretched ahead of him. How many losses and griefs might accumulate into a solitary burden over such time?

I touched the back of his hand, as if that could lighten the melancholy of the moment.

He turned brilliant blue eyes on me. “Of all the jewels in the treasury, I have the crown tonight.” He traced my collarbone, and the smolder inside me crackled to a blaze.

I held my breath.

“Perhaps for several nights, if I please the Queen of Autumn with the red and gold glint in her tresses.” He coiled a stray curl around his finger. “And neither of us shall be lonely.”

He was here for the trade talks, just as I was. A month. Where could this lead? Where would it end? “Until you leave.”

“Forever after, when you are lonely, you will know that someone out there on the vast seas of the world remembers you with love.”

Forever after. Long after my death, he would remember me. No matter how many isolated winters I spent at the foot of the mountains, I would have this one sweet month to treasure.

If I chose to.

I chose.

“I have quite a lot of freckles.” I swept ahead of him down the hall, afraid to look back, although I could imagine Margot’s delighted laugh.

I had not even reached the library door when he caught me from behind, lips hot on the nape of my neck. I froze as they trailed down to the bare curve of my shoulder, brushing past my gold and garnet necklace, fingers hooking the side laces of my gown. I leaned back into him, exhaling, breathing out all my qualms.

The warm caress of his hands over my curves, cupping here, brushing there, until my breath caught in my throat and my pulse thundered in my ears. Even through the layers of my gown, stays, and petticoats, his passion was clear, pressing against me.

“Pick a room, Baroness,” he murmured against my skin. “As a mercy. Or do you enjoy tormenting me with this delay?”

I fumbled with a doorknob, not caring which room it led to, gasping as it flung open and we half-tumbled, half-reclined onto a settee. The captain pulled away, and for a terrible moment, I thought it was some trick or regret, but he clicked the door shut and turned the lock.

With one finger, he tapped the glow lamp, waking it and sending a rosy-golden light across the room, across him as he shed his cravat, jacket, and shirt—a slow unveiling. His eyes never left my face while mine planned a path from his lips to his throat and down the geography of his chest to the top edge of his trews.

“I led the waltz.” He stepped to where I sat and clasped my hand. “Do you wish to lead this dance, Camillia?” He brought my hand to touch the smooth skin of his chest, his heart beating under my fingertips.

“Yes.” I could barely hear myself above the rushing of my pulse. The pleasure of warm skin, of his patience as I explored him, his hands resting gentle as candlelight on the full curve of my hips.

The music of the ball lent a rhythm to my exploration, my lips following my fingers. He deftly relieved me of my gown, then petticoats, stays, and chemise. He touched the freckle on the tip of my nose, then kissed it, making me smile.

“There is a particular dye only used on Nebanese silk, it turns the cloth the most perfect tawny gold,” he whispered, caressing my cheek. “They must have been inspired by your skin, but the silk is not quite as soft or lovely as you.”

I should return the compliment, but thought had fled.

He kissed my cheek. “They decorate it with speckles and call it lynx moon silk.” Down my collarbones to my breasts, his fingers brushing each spot. “After the first full moon of autumn.”

Kisses followed fingers. He purred over my softness, my fullness, until my blushes and insecurities burned away.

I’d no idea how many sets of music passed or how long he held me afterwards, playing with my hair while I traced old scars on his rib cage.

“We’ll both be here till the trade talks are completed,” I said. “Will I see you again, like this, or only over the negotiation table?”

“Every night till I sail, if you’ll have me.” He gave me a long, soft kiss. “And every time I return, if you wish.” His fingers flitted down my body. “I make sure to tend my ephemeral blossoms.”

Ephemeral. Elves must feel like oak trees surrounded by flowers, carrying on while we faded. The idea of being a flower to someone—something pretty and precious and worth cultivating—appealed to me. Someone worth coming back for.

I pulled him down to kiss me again. “Fifty years from now, you will remember me?”

“How could I not? You stood there, with the glow lights on your skin, like you’d stepped out of another realm.” He laced his fingers through mine. “If that was all we’d shared, that moment, I would never forget.”

“I choose to believe that, even if it’s flattery.” Let it be more than flattery.

“I mean all my flattery. Shall I help you dress, so we can have one last dance before the carriages start rolling away?” He plucked my chemise from the floor.

Before long, he led me out for the final dance of the night, my hair mussed, my perfume and his cologne mingled on our skin. A moment, a memory, promises for more. I spared one glance for Margot’s wink, and savored the last steps of the ball.

We Are the Sum of Our Books

The Mouse in the Manger (Gennaro L. Gentile)

Blue Trees, Red Sky (Norma Klein)

Child of the Silent Night (Edith Fisher Hunter)

King of the Wind (Marguerite Henry)

Black Beauty (Anna Sewell)

The Hobbit (Tolkien)

The Trilogy of the Rings (Tolkien)

The Silmarillion (Tolkien)

The Lonesome Gods (Louis L'Amour)

The Count of Monte Cristo (Dumas)

The Three Musketeers (Dumas)

My Friend Flicka (Mary O'Hare)

The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Hugo)

Les Misérables (Hugo)

The Man in the Iron Mask (Dumas)

Sassinak (Anne McCaffrey)

Brainship (Anne McCaffrey)

Robin of Sherwood (Robin McKinley)

The Blue Sword (Robin McKinley)

The Hero and the Crown (Robin McKinley)

 

I could go on. These are the books that formed my childhood and teen years, the ones I remember most vividly, which still hold strong places in my mind and heart.

Stories are powerful parts of our lives and society; we are steeped in stories. We watch stories on TV and at the theater. We hear them on YouTube and TikTok. Facebook records bits and pieces of our stories for us and provides a platform for liking or loving the stories of our friends.

Books hold a special place in the legacy of stories. A well-written book gives us an intimate view into the lives and thoughts of the characters. Good or bad, shallow or deep, preachy or thoughtful, what we consume with our minds shapes us in much the same way that wind and water shape cliffs and canyons. A single book might make a profound impact on our minds, like a sudden rockslide, but more often, the gullies and grooves of our thoughts are formed by the repetition of themes and values. A steady diet of worldviews carves the face of our consciousness even before we realize it.

At its best, reading teaches us compassion for those who experience hardship. Books show us the Other, leading us to empathize and see that the Other is not so different after all. We recognize the injustice of Jean Valjean's sentence. We sympathize with Edmond Dantes' desire for revenge, and his horror when he realizes he has gone too far. Anne McCaffrey's Brainship books show us the rich life of the severely physically disabled. Robin McKinley and Alexandre Dumas show us the daring and heroic, and kindle in us the desire for courage, if not courage itself.

We have the chance to shape and cultivate the landscape of our minds. There is always the choice to find something that might challenge our worldview, to look at authors and stories that do not fit into the neat slots of our preferences. We have infinite chances, through books, to consider the world through eyes not our own, and risk finding new slots in the canyons of our philosophy.

There is also the responsibility to recognize the acid that will eat away and form cracks and weaknesses. It is a feast of ideas and views, a million different characters ready to put thoughts and words into us.

Just as a book or story can soften our hearts, it can harden them too. It can turn ignorance into passion or twist it into hate, and we must have the sense and reason to see it for what it is. We have the responsibility to step away from the cliff and study its face for deadly cracks. It's become popular in the past year for some to argue that books and reading aren't political. We may not read them with politics in mind, but that doesn't mean we aren't consuming the ideas and worldviews within them. This isn't about holding each and every book to a certain standard of political or moral purity. That only produces stagnant, boring morality plays. It is about analyzing our reading habits and recognizing the themes and ideas we consume, because they affect us. The ideas we take in become our thoughts and ideas. We should be able to critique even our favorite books, to recognize their flaws, where they fell short, and what they've done well. 

As authors, we are not just consuming but producing. What bit of formation are we sending into the world with our words and our themes? Far more than readers, writers need to be aware of what we are saying with each story, both implicitly and explicitly.  Are we sowing hope or despair? Are we upholding justice or looking away? Will we be pleased, when the final tale is told, to see the indelible marks of our thoughts upon others' minds? We are not just creating stories. We are shaping the thoughts of our world.

A Long Awaited Day

 In January of 2025, I set aside an ambitious, serious story to work on a fantasy romance in the same world. In mid-April, the manuscript for a book with the working title of Delphine (very creative, I know), went off to a beta reader, a lovely, fearsome Canadian who has also line-edited work of mine. 

In June, I pitched the book, now called Mistress & Mage, to an independent publisher at a writing conference. 

In August, I signed a contract with 5 Prince Publishing.

This week, the cover for my debut novel, Mistress & Mage, was revealed, the preorder link is up, and I have a publishing date! 

Coming February 10th!

Available for preorder as an ebook, with print to come.

Delphine Leighton is a widow with a serious problem: her late husband gambled away their wealth, leaving her with a mountain of debts and a bookie harassing her. When she overhears that a mysterious foreign gentleman needs a governess, she takes a chance on an interview.

But Varrick Allard isn’t a gentleman—he’s not even human, and he doesn’t need a governess. He’s a mage who’s been forced from his studies to track down a magical creature stalking the streets of Delphine’s city. What he needs is a fake mistress who can help him infiltrate the high-class gambling dens connected to the series of attacks.

Although it will ruin her reputation, Delphine is desperate enough to sign a contract with him. While they seek signs of their quarry in the glitter of high society, they can’t deny the growing attraction between them. Delphine is unsure she’s ready to trust a man again, and despite his extensive education, love wasn’t part of Varrick’s curriculum. As they follow the trail of victims, their precarious affection is threatened by the discovery that Delphine could be the creature's next prey.

Delphine and Varrick must hunt down the shadow creature before it finds Delphine.

Join me for the first full-length book set in the vast, magical world of Elffall. Can't wait for the novel to explore the world? Check out the nine short fantasy romance short stories already available in three separate, free anthologies: A Season for Romance: Spring Blossoms, A Season for Romance: Summer Simmer, and A Season for Romance: Fall Flames.

Fall Flames even includes the story of Delphine's scandalous great-grandparents.

Grief: Love's Dark Mirror

Within the fantasy genre, different races with vastly different lifespans are par for the course. Tolkien's elves are immortal. In the Faerun setting of Dungeons & Dragons, elves easily live 600 to 700 years, but are also reincarnated from one life to the next (except the Drow, sorry.) In the brutal setting of Dark Sun, they only live to 150 or so. Fae are immortal and ageless. In a genre where deities can fall in love with humans, the difference in lifespans is often magically equilized or swept under the rug and left to the imagination of fanfiction writers. 

As a reader and writer of Romance, I love and want a HEA. Disparate lifespans make that difficult. When an elf loves a human, the human gets a Happily Ever After, but the elf only gets a Happily For Now. From the start, one side of the relationship knows that, barring an accident, they will be burying the other.

While that doesn't need to be explicitly on the page, it does need to be kept in mind as a romance progresses. At some point, the elf, fae, god, or goddess must consider that falling for this mortal, or shorter-lived mortal, will mean mourning them. It's a bitter shadow to the sweetness of a romance. No one in the throes of love and passion wants to picture life without the other, but how the characters approach this tells us about them. Are they the sort to throw caution to the wind, love now, and accept the consequences of grief later? Are they careful, guarding their heart until it betrays their good sense, and the specter of a future alone haunts every moment of affection? Do they push it away every time the thought occurs, willing themselves to ignore it?

There are as many ways to circumvent this as there are fantasy novels. Tolkien's elves must choose mortality with their love or immortality alone. In ACOTAR, Feyre was raised to the same status as Tamlin and Rhysand, making the questions moot. RA Salvatore and Wizards of the Coast had Catti-Bree reborn and reunited with Drizzt, although he spends four books navigating the world without her.

The other choice is to let the characters face grief, either explicitly on-page or implicitly by not offering a workaround. I have a soft spot for sad books and tragic endings. I'd read the unabridged Hunchback of Notre Dame several times before Disney ever contemplated giving it an HEA. The Silmarillion is one of my comfort reads. Characters navigating loss and grief offer me a natural catharsis to the struggles in life. To love and care is to risk the pain of loss. 

It isn't something I've explored in a novel yet. My upcoming fantasy romance book, Mistress & Mage, pairs two people of similar ages and lifespans. My current work-in-progress does the same. Within my short stories, I've had a chance to, briefly, touch on it by bringing in an elf for multiple love stories. For Captain Caerue, the shorter lifespans of human, jaglin, and other races in the world, is all the more reason to take the risk. If someone will only live another thirty, forty, or fifty years, then it's time to love them fiercely and completely now, or the chance will pass. The brilliance of their time together is worth the darkness that will inevitably follow.

The story of him meeting and wooing Camellia (pictured above) is in the free anthology, A Season for Romance: Fall Flames, and is a sort of prequel to Mistress & Mage. Caerue and Camellia are the great-grandparents of the FMC, Delphine. However, I had to write a final epilogue for Cae and Camellia, because the darkness of grief can cast the light of love into sharp relief. 

Writing is a Muscle

 "Sheila says the heart's just a muscle.

Sheila says the heart's just a muscle."

What do writers have in common with nursing parents? They're both very concerned with production and output. How many ounces of milk today? How many words did I write?

Despite nursing six children over thirteen years of my life, I don't have any advice on that. There's only so much you can do to increase milk supply. Word supply is infinite, though. The challenge is putting them onto the page. The good news is that you can increase your writing stamina and build up to the daily word count you want. 

When I pulled writing out of my hobby closet and brushed it off after a decade, I wrote sporadically. When I was excited about a scene or idea, I would write. When I wasn't inspired, I didn't. It took me a whole year just to settle on what idea I wanted to write. Then it took a round of the flu and walking pneumonia to really get serious about it. The rough draft of what became my high fantasy quartet took about a year and a half. It was a cluttered, overstuffed mess. As I outlined, made notes, and started rewriting it, I acknowledged that perhaps it was a duology. At the end of December 2020, I had to admit that it was a trilogy. I also knew that I wanted to get it done! The end was in sight. No more dawdling. 

I made the only New Year's resolution I've ever kept. I decided on Dec. 31st that I would write 1000 words on that manuscript every day until it was finished. I finished it on May 6th (I know, because I kept a document recording every single day's wordcounts). In that time, I missed two days: the day I took the Boy Scouts on a five-mile hike in freezing temperatures and Easter Sunday.

The first month, making my daily word count felt impossible. I had a toddler, a preschooler, and I was homeschooling my four older children, so I snatched writing time when I could. I would sit down for a ten-minute sprint and be appalled that I'd only managed a few hundred words. They felt like more. As the year went on, I grew faster. I could write for longer periods (when given the opportunity), and I learned to scribble down quick notes throughout the day, outlining what I would write later. 

Three books and sixteen short stories later, 1000 words isn't that much for me. It's often less than an hour out of my day. I've done more 3000-word days recently than I ever thought I could do without burning out. 

Because writing is a muscle. 

If I wanted to run a marathon (not something I ever foresee, but IF I DID), I wouldn't throw myself into running five miles right off the couch. I would fail. To run five miles or ten miles, or more, I would have to work on my stamina. I'd have to increase my strength. The writing I did before my New Year's Resolution had strengthened my writing muscles enough that 1000 words per day was possible. Doing it every day strengthened those enough that 1000 words per day is my baseline when I'm drafting. Authors who write thousands of words per day have worked up to it. They weren't doing that back at the beginning. Many of them will offer advice on how they built their writing muscles, whether it was a timer, doing structured sprints, journaling, or freewriting every day; they've been exercising their mind and its connection to their fingers, so they can do what they love more quickly and effectively. 

The only way to become a stronger, faster, better runner is to run. (I shall never be a better runner.) The only way to be a better, faster writer is to write, and sometimes, that means writing when I don't feel like it. 

Writing is a muscle. If you want to build it, you have to work it regularly. Not necessarily daily, as I did, but regularly. 

 A Fruitful Alliance originally appeared in the indie romance anthology, A Season for Romance: Spring Blossoms. The ebook is free on all digital platforms. If you want a collection of short, sweet, closed-door romance ranging from high fantasy to contemporary equestrian, download a copy and discover some new indie authors. 

AFA happens in the same world as my upcoming novel, Mistress & Mage. Although it happened almost 150 years earlier and in a different hemisphere, it is distantly connected to the novel's characters. 

A Fruitful Alliance

The evening around Eudala deepened to full night, and she breathed a sigh of contentment. My ship. She liked the sound of that.

She leaned on the railing of the forecastle, enjoying the gentle rock of the ship and the soft soughing of warm breezes. Early spring storms had finally yielded to gentler weather. In response, the vibrant flowers of the archipelago adorned every vine and branch, perfuming the air with three dozen sweet scents.

Her first mate, Feyska, joined her on the forecastle, wiping oil from her hands. “I’ll be going ashore now, if you don’t mind, Captain.”

Captain Eudala. She liked that even better.

“Go ahead, Feyska. Everything is quiet.”

It had taken over three decades, but she’d finally gotten her own ship and crew and the freedom that went with both. Like most independent ships, hers was a small two-master, and she took advantage of its compact size, anchoring in the sheltered channels between the islands.

Bigger ships floated in the open waters further out, but most of them belonged to the fleets—the Sea Dragon, the Tethered Tree, or the Red Ghosts. In any other port or on the open ocean, that proximity would be dangerous, but this part of the archipelago was neutral ground. Someday, she’d be prosperous enough to join an alliance. Until then, she needed to stay beneath their notice.

Music and laughter drifted through the trees. Her crew was ashore, enjoying the ramshackle bars, island hospitality, and the company of the other crews. Lanterns winked fore and aft on most vessels, sending ripples of gold across the water.

The hair on the back of her neck rose and her aura prickled. A shiver of combined magic, both the personal, living power of anima and the elemental magic of glow, pulsed through the water, followed by a far stronger one.

 That was a massive surge of power, but where did it come from?

A low wave of thunder spread across the water, then another, rushing towards her and setting the boat rocking. An unearthly roar, like a hundred thunder dragons calling, erupted from the center of the open water.

Fire.

One of the distant ships burst into flames, turning into a three-masted torch as she watched in slack-jawed disbelief. It was every sailor’s nightmare, a blaze burning hot enough to eat up seasoned wood and send even the best ship to the depths.

A fire like that—an explosion like that—was no accident. 

Sabotage? Revenge?

And worse-–the carnage that invariably came with broken truces.

She grabbed the mate standing frozen beside her. “Feyska!”

“Whose ship is that, Captain?”

Whose ship indeed. Eudala shook her head. “Collect the crew.”

Feyska stared at the burning ship, immobile.

“Now! Move!”

Feyska jolted into action and made for the shore.

Eudala couldn’t make out details in the dark at this distance. She ran for her cabin and fumbled through the maps and records on her desk for her spyglass. Her feet hit something slippery, skidded out from under her, and she fell, head thumping hard against the boards.

Why is the damned floor wet? Swearing, she rolled onto her side, rubbing her skull and groping for her hat. She twitched her shoulders, blooming her anima, her personal magic, spun a ball of light from it, and scrambled back in shock—a man’s startled face was inches from her own, staring back at her.

His dark, handsome face rearranged into a nervous grin. Water dripped off a mass of loose, purple hair ornamented with wooden beads.  Golden light from her anima gleamed off muscles coiled to charge or flee. Despite wearing only a ragged pair of trousers, he was certainly no archipelagan wharf rat, not built like that. And no ally, hiding under her desk like a thief. Her anima arcs flared out like snakes prepared to strike.

He held up both hands, fingers splayed. “Please, Captain, I am not your enemy.”

She flicked an arc against his neck, pinning him in place. “So why are you dripping all over my cabin?”

He twisted against the arc, clawing at it with one hand. “I just need a ride.”

Eudala regained her feet and drew her saber; she retracted the arc pinning him, but kept the others poised and ready. His arcs were faded, spent; magically, he was no threat to her. Even his aura, the visible expression of emotions, was ragged.

That massive surge of power earlier. That would drain a person like that.

“Get up.” She motioned to the center of the room with her saber.

He crawled out from under the desk, but stayed on his knees, hands visible.

“Explain. Now.”

He wet his lips, eyes on the saber. “You’re unaffiliated, right? You weren’t flying a flag.”

What does that have to do with anything? “I’m independent, yes.”

He smiled, tilting his head in a way that was unexpectedly endearing, dark eyes going soft. “I can see that.”

She laid the flat of the saber against his cheek, and his smile congealed. “Why are you here?”

“I rejected the tender hospitality of Captain Sedair.” His gaze flickered to the open window and back to her face. “Somewhat violently.”

Sedair. Eudala’s jaw clenched. Sedair wasn’t just part of the Sea Dragon’s fleet; he was favored by his high captain and infamous for hunting fellow Exiles. He sailed a three-master.

Eudala choked on a horrible conclusion. “Please tell me you didn’t incinerate Sedair’s ship.”

His grin shifted from boyish to wicked. “He killed my crew, sank my ship, and intended to hold me for ransom. So yes, I did.”

If Sedair was alive, he would be tearing the archipelago apart looking for this fellow. If he wasn’t, it was just a matter of time before the Sea Dragon came searching. If he discovered she’d helped this fugitive in any way, her stint as captain would have a short, fatal ending. Icy talons of fear sank into her shoulders and stole her breath. Her arcs and saber wavered.

“If it helps, I made sure he went down with his ship,” the stowaway added and inched closer.

Thank the skies for small favors.

Word would take time to spread. Trails could go cold. If her crew rallied quickly enough, she’d be out of here before word reached the Sea Dragon. If.

“Swive a serpent, what am I supposed to do with you?”

His molten gaze traveled down her body, and he spread his arms wide. “Please, lovely captain, take full advantage of me.”

He was . . . dammit, he was too handsome to ignore, and she was fighting the urge to smile.

No. Nope. I do not want any piece of this mess. He needed to go and leave her out of it. But . . . One damn minute.

Sedair wasn’t known for leaving survivors. “He was holding you for ransom? Who are you?”

He stood with more energy and grace than she expected, and bowed with a flourish. “Captain Caerue of the Tethered Tree, very much at your service.”

He put a lot of meaning into that last phrase. Eudala didn’t know if she should laugh or weep. Here she was, captaining one ship with barely any connections and no reliable back up, suddenly caught in a clash between the titans of the open ocean. Both the Tethered Tree and the Sea Dragon could crush her in a heartbeat. This bilge-rat will get us all keel-hauled.

He gathered his long hair and rolled his shoulders. The action made her very aware of his lean muscles, the way he moved like a warrior or a dancer. The glance he sent her way was just as approving.

I need to shut this down. I’m nowhere near ready to play with the big ships.

But if the Tethered Tree owed her a favor . . . yes, she could see a way out of this storm. All sorts of distant dreams seemed possible if she managed to play this right.

She sheathed her saber. “This is supposed to be neutral ground. You just, literally, blew that out of the water. Everyone will be looking for you.”

Would he offer a deal as pretty as his face?

“Sail me home, and you’ll have the protection of the Brothers of the Tethered Tree. My word on it.” He drew a sign in the air, pulling his weak anima into it so the sigil glowed briefly. He would be oath-bound.

“I should put you aground and sail away.” But her heart wasn’t in the threat. He’d invoked the Brothers of the Tethered Tree, and that meant he wasn’t just one of their captains. He was someone far more important. Caerue. The name didn’t tickle any memories.

The Tethered Tree was a powerful alliance to make. Without connections, it could take another three decades to be successful enough to be noticed by them. Alliance and protection came with strings, of course, but maybe they wouldn’t tug her sails too roughly, especially if this Caerue was special.

She appraised him again. Put him in decent clothes-–or just take him out of clothes altogether-–and he might be very good company indeed.

She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Exactly how grateful will they be to have you back?”

He stepped in close and his hands settled lightly on her hips. “Very.”

“You’re a bold one.” She liked it. No sniveling or begging; no trying to dissemble.

His hand caressed her side, catching the loose hem of her shirt enough to expose her skin. “Very.”

The brush of his fingertips under her shirt drew her arms open.

It was that mischievous spark in his eyes. Delivering him was going to be very fun or very dangerous, or both, but the rewards were surely worth the risk. She walked her fingers up his chest before sliding a hand behind his neck.

She lowered her voice. “You and the Tree better make it worth my while.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He ducked his head, breath tickling her neck, warmer than the tropical breezes.

“I want more than protection.” She ran the tip of her tongue along the edge of his ear and was satisfied with his sudden intake of breath.

Two can play this game, pretty fellow. She wasn’t going to be seduced into a free ride.

He chuckled. “You drive a hard bargain, Captain.”

“I haven’t even started . . .Captain. I want written into the alliance.” She gripped the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him back so they were eye to eye. “Or no delivery.”

“Mmm. Ambitious.”

He tried to lean in for a kiss, but she held his hair.

“Alliance. I want your oath-bound word.”

“I give it. My word as Caerue s’if Murhuran, seventh son of the Tethered Tree. Return me to my brothers, and you have your place in our alliance.” He drew the sigil again, looking serious for a brief moment.

Seventh son?  She covered her surprise by tightening her grip. He wasn’t just important to the Brothers. He was one of them. I’ve caught a very big fish. 

She traced the Exile scars across his upper arm. “On my terms.”

“On your terms.” His fingers flitted up her rib cage. “You have my word.”

“I look forward to our voyage.”  She eased the grip on his hair and let his mouth reach hers. Delicious. The perfect start to a fruitful alliance.

Should Audiobooks "Count"?

Reading has often been a solitary pastime or hobby, but the internet has made it easy to reach beyond local book clubs and connect with fellow fans and readers. We love our books! We love the characters! We swoon over the love interest and are aghast at the villain's evil. Having other readers to swoon with has just made reading that more appealing. 

But then we have the quibbles about what counts as reading. 

Literacy rates are a frequent topic of discussion in both education circles and on the national stage. I don't think we've ever been not worried about them. In this case, though, I'm not going to be talking about the process of teaching eye reading to primary school children. In the first four or five years of school, teaching the alphabet, word recognition, decoding, and (hopefully) the patterns of our language are a vital part of education. 

Today, I'm talking about adults who are reading for pleasure, recreation, or information. By the time people are adults, most of us have excellent decoding and word recognition skills. Once students are in upper middle school and high school, reading class is focused on understanding and analyzing stories. That's what we do as adults, even if the sum of our analysis is, "I like this," and "I don't like that."

In that discussion, whether we're asking if audiobooks should count toward yearly or monthly reading goals, whether it counts as reading for our book club, or just counts as reading at all, the answer is yes, and that's not just based on feelings and vibes. 

We have brain scans. 

This article in Medical News Today describes how scientists at the University of California, Berkley, studied active brain scans of people as they eye-read or ear-read, and found that the brain activity was nearly identical. The article links the study in the Journal of Neuroscience, for anyone who wants the original source. 

When we're talking about comprehension, analysis, and plain old enjoyment, the way we read the story doesn't matter to our brains. Ear-reading an audiobook stimulates the same activity as eye-reading a hard copy or ebook. It's also a common disability aid. For people who, like my father, are visually impaired, audiobooks keep reading accessible. For people like my mother and two of my children, who are dyslexic, audiobooks level the playing field, so reading material isn't a barrier between them and information or enjoyment. For younger students, who might still be learning the mechanics of reading that I mentioned earlier, listening to the audiobook while eye-reading along is one of the best ways to increase word recognition and general fluency. Audiobooks have become a valuable tool in literacy education and continuing adult literacy. 

If you prefer audiobooks, or you need them to access literature, there's no reason to feel like your choice is "less than" or that you "aren't a real reader". There's no excuse for people sneering at audiobook reading. Audiobooks are books, and ear-reading is reading.