Thursday, February 26, 2026
Book Spotlight: Welcome to My Table by Jeannie Jacobs
Tuesday, February 3, 2026
Artsy Rambler: Mindful Journeys to Paris and Beyond by Evy Journey with Rich Journey
Experience the transformative power of art when you see the rich and vibrant city of Paris through the eyes of a mindful artsy traveler. From the light-inspired grandeur of Gothic cathedrals and the fresh beauty of Impressionism, sinuous forms that speak to our innate sense of beauty, and the rare library that helps one define oneself; to the role of French cuisine and cultural events in shaping the city's uniqueness, this collection of essays will take you on a journey of discovery and self-reflection.
Prologue—How It All Began
I ran after my brothers and their friends—empty cans in their hands—as they rushed to a pond to catch tadpoles. They filled their cans with water from the pond and dropped the tadpoles into the cans. What they did with those tadpoles, I would never know. Later in the afternoon, they flew kites when the wind was good. Or they rode astride a water buffalo that took them across an open field behind the few houses in the neighborhood.
They refused to take me on those little adventures—I was a girl, wore dresses, and could never keep up with them. That was what they said as they ran faster so I couldn’t catch up. I was unhappy at being excluded. Who wouldn’t be? But I had, by then, started to learn to live with being alone.
I spent my first six years with adults—my Lola (grandmother) and her two young unmarried daughters—in a town eight hours by slow train from the big city where my parents lived. Having no one my age to play with, I conjured up an imaginary playmate who stayed with me until we no longer needed one another. I had a big brother who kept my mother’s hands full as she took care of him and worked to secure a permanent position as a teacher.
In my Lola’s little town, no family owned a television to entertain them. But on occasional nights, sweet and sentimental tunes accompanied by a guitar pierced the dark silence just below the closed window in my aunts’ room. The serenaders were young swains courting one or the other of my pretty aunts who, if they liked these suitors or how they sang, invited them into the living room. There, singing went on for another hour or two. My youngest aunt who had a nice voice and knew some English songs was always invited to sing.
Evy studied psychology (M.A., University of Hawaii; Ph.D., University of Illinois) initially to help her understand herself and Dostoevsky. Now, she spins tales about nuanced multicultural characters negotiating separate realities. She believes in love and its many faces.
Just as she has crossed genres in writing fiction, she has also crossed cultures, having lived and traveled in various cities in different countries. Find her thoughts on travel, art, and food at Artsy Rambler.
She has one ungranted wish: to live in Paris, where art is everywhere, and people have honed aimless roaming to an art form. She visits and stays for a few months when she can.
Evy’s latest book is Artsy Rambler: Mindful Journeys to Paris and Beyond.
Visit her website at https://evyjourney.net.
Connect with her on social media at:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/evictoriajourney
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/eveonalimb2
BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/evy-journey
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14845365.Evy_Journey
Wednesday, December 3, 2025
Book Spotlight: Cinder Bella by Kathleen Shoop
Author: Kathleen Shoop
Publisher: Independent
Pages: 228
Genre: Historical Fiction
Format: Hardcover, Paperback, Audiobook, Kindle / FREE on Kindle Unlimited
She never had anything.
He lost everything.
Together they create a Christmas to remember.
December, 1893–Shadyside, Pennsylvania
Bella Darling lives in a cozy barn at Maple Grove, an estate owned by industrialist Archibald Westminster. The Westminster family is stranded overseas and have sent word to relieve all employees of their duties except Margaret, the pregnant maid, James the butler, and Bella. Content with borrowed books and a toasty home festooned with pine boughs and cinnamon sticks, she coaxes the old hens to lay eggs–extraordinary eggs. Bella yearns for just one thing—someone to share her life with. Always inventive, she has a plan for that. She just needs the right egg into the hands of the right man.
Bartholomew Baines, a Harvard-educated banker, is reeling in the aftermath of his bank’s collapse. With his friends and fiancĂ© ostracizing him for what he thought was an act of generosity, he is penniless and alone. A kind woman welcomes him into her boarding house under conditions that he reluctantly accepts. Completely undone by his current, lowly position, and by the motley crew of fellow boarders who view him as one of them, Bartholomew wrestles with how to rebuild.
With the special eggs as the impetus, the first meeting between Bella and Bartholomew gives each the wrong idea about the other. And when the boarding house burns down a week before Christmas it’s Bella who is there to lend a hand. She, Margaret, and James invite the homeless group to stay at the estate through the holidays. But as Christmas draws closer, eviction papers arrive. Maple Grove is being foreclosed upon. Can Bella work her magic and save their Christmas? Is the growing attraction between Bella and Bartholomew enough for them to see past their differences?
Read a sample.
Cinder Bella is available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble & Kobo.
Book Excerpt
Chapter 4
Bartholomew
He didn’t know how long he’d been daydreaming before excited murmurs drew him back to the line he was standing in and his assigned errand. So distracted by his childhood memories, he hadn’t even noticed the egg girl arriving and fitting her bin into the table space the bread lady had cleared. But he did watch as the bread lady hugged the egg lady and though he could see her only from behind, he could tell the egg girl was much younger. A scuffle in the line drew his attention to two women in front of him, one shouldering ahead of another for the “best selection of the special eggs.”
The dustup died down when the bread lady huddled up to referee. The egg girl was prancing away looking like she had the world on a leash, like he used to feel every day. Imagine feeling like that in such dire times. He watched those ahead of him gently place eggs in their baskets, only permitted to select twelve at most. None of them picked up eggs and weighed them in their palm. Choosing in the hopes of winning a double yolk was apparently only the desire of Mrs. Tillman and as he inched closer to his turn he was growing more self-conscious about what he had been commissioned to do.
When it was his turn he followed his orders, picking up each egg, closing his eyes and feeling the weight or whatever in his palm before either placing the egg back in the box and selecting another or putting it into the basket.
When he’d gotten to egg number six the woman behind him pinched the back of his arm. Not that it hurt through layers of clothing, but it startled him. “What?”
“What is right, all right. Think I got all day and night to wait for you to court each egg like it’s the princess you’re taking to the Christmas ball?”
He flinched and stared at the woman. Sooty cheeks and raw hands gave her station in life away. And her treatment of him caused him to lose any chance of responding. How dare she?
“Cat got your tongue, fancy pants? Let’s go or I’ll butt right in front of you.”
“Yeah, get the lead out,” another voice came from farther down the line.
“Ain’t got all day, sailor,” a third heckler joined in.
He lifted his basket. “I’ve been issued specific instructions for—”
A snowball smacked into his back, shutting him up. He spun around and scanned the crowd for who’d thrown it.
“See, even people not in line with us are tired of your mouth. Move it.” The woman behind him held his gaze.
He’d never felt so… he didn’t even know how to describe how this treatment made him feel. He tried to stop himself from rattling off the specifics of his resume and instead went with the general query of, “Don’t you know who I am?”
Another snowball thwapped his back.
“A regular jackass,” someone said from down the line.
He turned again to see who’d hit him with the snowball and the woman behind him used the opening to slide in front. He turned back and stuck his hand into the box, blocking her out. “I’ll hurry. Just let me get the other six.”
She crossed her arms, the baskets resting in the crook of each bent elbow. “Six seconds for six eggs. Get on with it, moneybags.”
“Thank you,” he said. He reached for an egg and lifted it in his palm as he had the others.
The woman started counting one, two, three and the rest of the line joined in. They were serious about him moving quicker. Mrs. Tillman would just have to understand. He didn’t doubt they’d toss him out of line if he didn’t just pluck eggs from the box and move on. And so he did. The last thing he wanted was to break eggs and have to shovel coal or something to make up for it when he got back to Mrs. Tillman’s.
“I have things to do, too, you know,” Bartholomew said. “You folks aren’t the only ones with obligations and—”
“Yeah, whada you have to do today, change into other pairs of fancy pants another three times before burrowing into a bed laid with golden goose feathers?” the woman who’d pinched him asked.
His tongue tied, but he didn’t stop himself from responding. “Uh…”
“Uh? Smoke a pipe of the finest tobacco? Yeah, what else? Sit all day with the paper while someone shines your shoes?” another voice from down the line said.
He straightened, face burning hot, blindly plucking eggs from the pile and placing them into his sack. All of those things would have been fairly close to his daily life before. Before it all crashed around him. “No. Newspapers, yes, but for the market reports and…” Suddenly his studying the news of the day seemed like a luxury instead of the work it was when pronouncing the task to the particular crew waiting in line. Suddenly, he had no words at all. “Forget it.” It was as though none of them knew he was a nice guy. It was as though they assumed he’d done something awful—that it was written across his forehead. He hesitated before moving to pay, considering whether to give them an education in all his achievements and good works. But the woman muscling past him sapped the last bit of energy he had that morning.
He paid and stalked away having been saturated with enough degradation to last the day, to last a century.
– Excerpted from Cinder Bella by Kathleen Shoop, Independent, 2021. Reprinted with permission.
Bestselling author Kathleen Shoop, PhD writes historical fiction, women’s fiction, and romance. Shoop’s novels have garnered awards in the Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPY), Eric Hoffer Book Awards, Next Generation Indie Book Awards, and more. You can find Kathleen in person at various venues. She’s on the board of the Kerr Memorial Museum, teaches at writing/reader conferences, co-coordinates Mindful Writers Retreats and writing conferences, and gives talks at various book clubs, libraries, and historical societies.
Sign up for her newsletter at www.kshoop.com.
Visit her website at www.kshoop.com or connect with her on X, Facebook, Instagram, BookBub, TikTok and Goodreads.
Cinder Bella is available at Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble & Kobo.
Thursday, November 27, 2025
Book Spotlight & Giveaway: Crescent City Christmas Chaos by Ellen Byron (Review Coming Soon!)
CRESCENT CITY CHRISTMAS CHAOS
by Ellen Byron
November 3 - 28, 2025 Virtual Book Tour
Synopsis:

A Vintage Cookbook Mystery
It's Christmas. It's cozy. It's culinary. It's chaos! It's the fourth book in this fabulous mystery series with a vintage flair from USA Today bestselling and Agatha Award–winning author Ellen Byron.
Have yourself a merry little . . . murder?
Ricki James-Diaz gets the best present ever when her parents arrive in New Orleans for the holidays. Not only is it a chance to catch up, it’s also an opportunity to jog her mom Josepha’s memory about Ricki’s adoption. The details have always been shrouded in mystery. And Ricki understands why when she learns her mother was blackmailed for years, simply for not wanting to lose her precious daughter.
But digging into the past soon lands the James-Diaz clan in water hotter than a big pot of gumbo! When the woman who extorted Ricki’s mom is found dead at her home, Josepha becomes the primary suspect. Now Ricki has another murder to solve, and tracking down a killer in Crescent City is going to take a miracle.
Luckily, ‘tis the season! And Ricki has all the staff at the Bon Vee Culinary House Museum on hand to help. Can she prove her mother’s innocence and have the case wrapped up in time for Christmas?
CRESCENT CITY CHRISTMAS CHAOS Trailer:
Book Details:
Genre: Culinary Cozy Mystery
Published by: Severn House
Publication Date: November 4, 2025
Number of Pages: 240 (HC)
ISBN: 9781448313181 (ISBN10: 144831318X) (HC)
Series: A Vintage Cookbook Mystery, #4 • Learn More at Amazon & Goodreads
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Kobo | Google Play | Apple Books | Severn House
Read an excerpt:
TWO
Crescent City Christmas Chaos
Since Eugenia was possibly the last purist on the planet who refused to put up a single strand of Christmas lights before Thanksgiving, the day after turned into an all-hands-on deck day of decorating for the holidays instead of Black Friday. Ricki was grateful to landlady Kitty Kat for hosting her parents, freeing her up to turn Miss Vee’s Vintage Cookbook and Kitchenware into a must-shop holiday destination.
Olivia Felice, Eugenia’s granddaughter—which made her another of Ricki’s newly discovered cousins—blew into the shop through its mullioned glass French doors. Miss Vee’s was located in a lovely room formerly known as the nineteenth century mansion’s “Ladies Parlor.” Pale green damask covered its walls and ornate molding painted white encircled the room. A glistening chandelier dangled from an intricately carved ceiling medallion. The instant Ricki had stepped foot in the parlor it felt like the perfect home for a gift shop dedicated to sharing the culinary past with fans of all things vintage.
“Ugh, I’m so glad to be here and out of the school library. Can I tell you how much I hate finals?” Olivia accompanied the statement with an eye roll and flip of her thick, dirty blonde ponytail. A junior at Tulane majoring in Communication, she’d added a minor in Psychology, motivated by a recent misjudgment of someone’s character that had almost led to her death. She’d transitioned from intern to Ricki’s sole part-time employee and lifetime young friend as well as relative.
“I’m glad you’re here. I could use help decorating this.” Ricki motioned to an artificial Christmas tree that exceeded her petite height by a foot. “I think I’ve bought up food-themed ornaments at every thrift shop in town. I thought we could fill in with smaller kitchenware items like these old measuring spoons.” She held up a set of nesting tin spoons. “Every item on the tree will be for sale, so I’m going with white lights. Colored lights would be too busy.”
“I’m on it.” Olivia reached into one of two big boxes loaded with holiday paraphernalia. She pulled out a long strand of tiny white lights. “And no, I haven’t heard anything from a krewe.”
“I was afraid to ask.”
While Ricki was born in the Big Easy, she’d moved to Los Angeles as a child when Josepha met and married Luis. She was still learning the ways of the quirky city she now called home. Olivia had educated her on the machinations of krewes, the organizations responsible for the city’s elaborate Mardi Gras parades and balls. The krewes chose local young women, mostly debutantes, for their courts. While carnival season didn’t officially kick off until January 6th—Twelfth Night—invitations to join the courts were delivered much earlier via a “court call” paid to the future queen and maids by representatives of the krewe. New Orleans may celebrate the winter holidays in a big way, but to Ricki, the local greeting of “Happy Almost Mardi Gras!” made the city’s priorities clear.
Olivia threaded the lights through the tree’s branches. “I honestly don’t care if I get a court call or not. I might even say no if they ask me to be on one.”
“Liar,” Ricki teased.
A fierce squawking disrupted the conversation. Ricki and Olivia dropped what they were doing to peer outside the shop’s bay window, where they saw Bon Vee’s resident peacocks Gumbo and Jambalaya chasing co-worker Theo Charbonnet—Eugenia’s nephew and yet another cousin to Ricki—across the mansion’s verdant green side yard.
“You OK?” Ricki called to Theo.
“I read somewhere that the Victorians put stuffed peacocks on top of their trees instead of stars or angels,” he called back. “Think about it.”
He disappeared around the corner.
The women left the window and resumed decorating. “Have you noticed Cousin Theo’s been acting more weird than usual?” Olivia asked as she added a second strand of lights to the tree.
“I wouldn’t call it weird,” Ricki said. “More like he’s being squirrelly. Secretive. I think he’s up to something.”
“That’s a scary thought.”
Ricki nodded in agreement. While she and Theo had achieved a rapprochement, she still wasn’t sure she could completely trust him.
“So, your parents are really nice,” Olivia said, providing a change of subject.
“Oh, thanks. They’re the best. I’m so glad you got to meet them.”
“Are you going to do anything special while they’re here? Like, a swamp tour or something?”
Ricki, who was about to hang a ceramic beignet ornament, paused. “Actually . . . since Dad will be busy on the TV shoot, I thought Mom and I could work together and dig up clues about my bio mom.”
Ricki had been abandoned as an infant New Orleans’ infamous Charity Hospital, her teen mother disappearing after giving birth. She thanked the universe for Josepha, a NICU nurse who fell in love with the parentless baby and adopted her, parenting as a single mother until she met and fell in love with Luis, who happened to be in town working on a film.
Ricki adored her parents beyond belief, but questions about her past drove her to seek answers. So far, she’d learned that Genevieve Charbonnet had secretly given birth to a baby who would have been Ricki’s grandparent. Her friend Mordant, who’d added private investigator to a list of occupations that included haunted tour guide and Bon Vee handyman, had tracked down the father of Genevieve’s baby. Sadly, he’d died at the age of twenty-four of a rare heart condition.
Ricki resumed hanging ornaments. “Mordant hasn’t been able to come up with any leads since he discovered my great-grandfather’s grave. And I haven’t come across any new connections on my genealogy sites. I thought I’d drive Mom around to some of the places from when we lived here and see if anything jogs a memory that might be useful.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’m starving.”
Ricki grinned, amused by Olivia’s 180-degree turn to her own needs. “You keep decorating, I’ll get us a snack.”
She left the shop and headed down the mansion’s capacious center hallway. Cookie waved from the beautifully appointed living room, which she was showing off to a group of tourists. Bon Vee was currently low on both tour guides, who were paid part-timers, and docents who volunteered their time, so Cookie and other staff members had been drafted to lead tours.
Ricki gestured to her and Cookie detached from her group. “I’m making a run to the cafĂ©. You want anything?”
“An iced coffee would be great. It’s on me.” Cookie reached into the phone pocket of her leggings and extracted a twenty. She gave it to Ricki. “Plenty more where this came from,” she said in a low voice. “This group’s a mix of Houston and Dallas-ites, or whatever you call ’em. We just started the tour and they’re already trying to out-tip each other to prove their city is better.”
“Nice.”
“I want to buy Nat the best Christmas present I can, so I need these groups to make it rain.” Cookie rubbed her thumb to her index and middle finger, indicating money. She was dating the neighbor next door to Bon Vee and determined to make him the future Mr. Cookie Yanover. “Any idea what you’re getting Virgil?”
“Not a clue,” Ricki said. “I better get to the cafĂ© before it closes.”
Ricki continued down the hallway, embarrassed by her obvious change of subject and feeling guilty because she hadn’t even thought about getting Virgil a gift. It’s because our relationship is so new, she told herself, batting back the insecurity that led her to fear she and the handsome, successful chef weren’t destined to go the distance.
*
By the time Olivia reluctantly left a few hours later to continue studying for finals, Miss Vee’s was decorated to the point of kitschy. No shelf was left untouched by thrift shop Santas, nutcrackers, ornaments, and a variety of small artificial trees in materials ranging from silvery mylar to one made of oyster shells wired together as branches. Ricki’s favorites were the items that were Louisiana-themed, like the alligator nutcracker wearing a Santa hat, which claimed a space next to a ceramic ornament of Santa riding an alligator.
“You could put together a whole display of gator items.”
Ricki started, not realizing she had company. She turned to see Josepha. “Mom, hey.” The women hugged.
“I thought your dad might wanna have dinner, but he and Virgil still have a lot to go over. He’s taking a break, though.”
Josepha indicated the bay window. Ricki glanced out of it and saw Luis doing a series of choreographed movements in slow motion. “Dad’s still doing tai chi?”
“Yup. It relaxes him. And Lord knows that man could use some relaxing.” Josepha delivered this in a droll but affectionate tone. “Anyhoo, I thought me and my darlin’ daughter might go out for dinner.”
“A giant yes to that.” A thought occurred to Ricki. “I just want to make one stop on the way.”
Ricki locked up the shop and led her mother to the small staff lot where she parked her Prius. They followed Washington Avenue past lovely historic homes swathed in holiday lights and garlands, eventually reaching Claiborne Avenue, a much less scenic thoroughfare of dollar stores, gas stations, and fast-food restaurants. Ricki made a right on Tulane Avenue, followed by two more right turns that placed them in front of what was once Charity Hospital, rendered uninhabitable after Hurricane Katrina and now on the cusp of a new life as Tulane University’s new downtown medical school. Scaffolding covered the center of the massive twenty-story edifice, but even at the tail end of twilight much of the building’s 1930s structure was still evident and impressive despite years of decay.
Josepha stared out the car window, her expression unreadable. “Why are we here?”
“You haven’t been to New Orleans in so long. I thought maybe seeing Charity again might bring back memories.”
“About your bio mom.”
Ricki nodded. Josepha clasped her hand and held it tight as she continued to stare out the window. She and Luis had been nothing but supportive in Ricki’s quest for answers about her past but Ricki sensed her mother’s pain as she took in the abandoned monolith where she’d once pursued a career she loved.
The two were silent for several minutes. “I wish I could remember something that would help,” Josepha finally said in a husky voice. “All I keep seeing is your tiny body in the NICU and how my heart broke for you and how that turned into burning, all-consuming passion to be your mama.”
“Oooh . . .” Ricki fought back tears. “I’m sorry, Mom. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, baby girl.” Josepha gave Ricki’s hand another squeeze then released it. “I’m glad to see the old place and know it’s gonna be brought back to do good things in this city. Hey, we’re not too far from Mother’s restaurant here. I could go for one of their oyster po’boys.”
“Let’s do it,” Ricki said, knowing a change of subject when she heard one.
Ricki circled back to Tulane Avenue. As they drove, Josepha cheerfully recalled memories inspired by locations they passed. Ricki noted that none involved Charity or her experiences as a nurse. Ricki mused that perhaps it was too painful for Josepha to recall that time in her life. But another thought loomed larger: Josepha was hiding something.
And what she was hiding was tied to Ricki’s birth.
***
Excerpt from Crescent City Christmas Chaos by Ellen Byron. Copyright 2025 by Ellen Byron. Reproduced with permission from Ellen Byron. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:

Ellen Byron is a USA Today bestselling author and recipient of multiple Agatha (Best Contemporary Novel) and Lefty (Best Humorous Mystery) awards for her Cajun Country Mysteries (published by Crooked Lane), Vintage Cookbook Mysteries (Berkley and Severn House), Catering Hall Mysteries (Kensington, as Maria DiRico) and Golden Motel Mysteries (Kensington). She is also an Anthony Award nominee and an award-winning playwright.
Byron spent twenty-five years writing TV hits like Wings, Just Shoot Me, and Fairly OddParents, plus pilots for all the major networks, before segueing into writing humorous mysteries. She blogs with Chicks on the Case, is a lifetime member of the Writers Guild of America, and serves on the national board of Mystery Writers of America. But she’ll always consider her most impressive achievement working as a cater-waiter for the iconic Martha Stewart.
A native New Yorker, Byron is a graduate of Tulane University and lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband, daughter, and a rotating crew of rescue pups.
Catch Up With Ellen Byron:
EllenByron.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @EllenByron
Instagram - @ellenbyronmariadirico
YouTube - @ellenbyron-mariadirico
Facebook - @ellenbyronauthor
Tour Participants:
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Thursday, October 30, 2025
Book Spotlight: One Foot in the Ether by Kayleigh Kavanagh
Author: Kayleigh Kavanagh
Publisher: Independent
Pages: 400
Genre: Historical/Paranormal/Fantasy
Format: Kindle
Demdike and Chattox, famed witches of Pendle Forest, might be dead, but they’re not gone. Bound to their bloodline, they’ve spent the past two and a half centuries watching over their descendants, waiting for when they’ll be needed.
When 14-year-old Yana comes into her psychic abilities and inherits the ‘eyes of the Chattox family’, she can see the long-dead witches, as well as an encroaching evil. But even with this foreknowledge, she’s trapped by marriage interviews and being unable to see her own future, and more importantly, whoever her future husband will be.
Demdike’s healing gifts are alive and working in Claire, a mid-30s midwife well renowned for her skills and holding her tongue. The Secrets of Pendle are safe with her and her midwives. However, when surgeons looking to make standardisation the norm encroach on her territory, she soon realises how even a respected woman is vulnerable in a patriarchal system.
The two descendants must come together to protect the ones they love from an ancient evil, all whilst balancing their lives and the cruelties of being a woman in a man’s world. Set in late 1800s NW England, this book has all the elements of the area: strong, hardy people, atmospheric horror, and days as unpredictable as the weather.
One Foot in the Ether: Whispers of the Pendle Witches is available at Amazon.
Book Excerpt
She hadn’t known what to expect from death. No one did. Still, none of her previous thoughts could have come close. This, and she was definitely having an atypical experience. For most souls, death was a release from the mortal coil. Complete separation from the life they’d once lived. She hadn't been so lucky.
Some parts of the system had been the same. Her soul had been scooped up. Taken somewhere. She vaguely recalled going over her life and having events explained. Gaining an understanding of the why; to the point she was no longer angry about things which had once made her furious. However, the entire encounter was now a blur.
The powers that be had done this on purpose, but the awareness lingered instinctively. Either way, she knew she'd died, gone to the other place, and then thrown back. Before they could send her along to wherever she should have gone next. There'd been an issue. A snag. One which stopped her from moving along to the happy, bliss-filled world of the nether realm. Said snag bore one name: Chattox. Even in death, her frenemy was still causing her bloody issues.
“Hey, Demdike, how’s non-life treating you?”
Demdike didn’t answer, suddenly filled with the desire to bludgeon the other woman. However, she knew from experience it would be pointless. They weren’t physical beings any longer—even if they were still tied to the physical world. Unless she was willing to destroy the other's soul, the spirit could reform. A tempting idea some days; this non-life was enough to make even the most patient saint a little homicidal. However, even in her worse moments, she wasn't willing to land the final blow.
“The same way it’s been treating me for the past two and a half hundred years,” she eventually returned. Still not looking at the other, less she finally indulged her violent impulses.
“They’re having a bake sale soon, at the local church. Gods, I miss cake.”
Demdike sighed. The sad part was she couldn’t even get rid of the other. Without Chattox, she would be entirely alone in this exhausting existence.
“Their cake isn’t anything like the one we used to have. They have more access to sugar, for starters.”
Demdike wasn’t even going to comment on the reasons why. King James I's and his ilk had done more than destroy her life. Stretching his greedy grip across the world. From the supposed lands of gold to the continent of darkness, James I's influence had impacted many. She couldn't help but feel for the poor souls stolen from these other countries. Their plights differed from the witch trials, but suffering was a universal language.
She would've liked to aid them, but she couldn't even help herself. There was no one to hear her, anyway. Well, other than Chattox, but as she was in the exact same situation. It was no different than voicing her words to the void. Except the void didn’t reply.
“Aye, I know, but it doesn’t mean I don’t miss the little pleasures. Few and far between, though they were.”
Demdike hummed. This was a conversation they’d had many times. When their new existence was mostly just the two of them, they often spoke of their past. Their past life, to be specific. A lot of it seemed funny now. Maybe it was their time in the decompression zone post life—or maybe it was simply the effect of being so removed from what they’d once been—but matters of life and death were suddenly much less dramatic and far funnier when you were already dead. Fighting over coin, linens, and food were memories they could now look back on and find humour in.
Though she also missed cake, death was a lot simpler. Mostly. There was no fighting for survival when you simply just were. No hunger to push you forward or pain to keep you still. As much as she’d once lived with one foot in the ether, having both on death's side was much simpler. If you ignored the limited company. Or how she feared her own mind and sense of self were slowly eroding over time. As though, without a physical body, she was slowly dispersing into nothingness; it was just taking a little longer.
– Excerpted from One Foot in the Ether: Whispers of the Pendle Witches by Kayleigh Kavanagh, Kayleigh Kavanagh, 2025. Reprinted with permission.
Kayleigh Kavanagh is a disabled writer from the North-West of England. Growing up in the area, she learnt a lot about the Pendle Witches and launched her debut novel around their life story. Her main writing genres are fantasy and romance, but she loves stories in all formats and genres. Kayleigh hopes to one day be able to share the many ideas dancing around in her head with the world.
Her latest book is the historical fantasy, One Foot in the Ether: Whispers of the Pendle Witches.
You can visit her on Facebook, Instagram, Goodreads and Tiktok.
Thursday, August 28, 2025
Coming August 30: The Side Road by Sarah Lahey
A tender romance about the paths we take to escape and the detours it takes to reroute us.
The Side Road
Chapter One: He did what?
In the front window of Hook
& Knot, a small independent store in the historic village of Eagle Nest,
stood a life-sized model of a sheep. Called Fiona, it was named after the
world’s loneliest sheep.
The real Fiona had spent
two years stranded at the base of a Highland cliff in Scotland. After getting
separated from her mother, she stumbled down the mountain and couldn’t find her
way back to the top. Animal activists eventually rescued Fiona from a cave,
where she had been sheltering from the harsh Highland weather. Her survival was
a testament to the sheep’s strength and resilience.
The species, not known for
its intelligence, was unlikely to star in a David Attenborough documentary
anytime soon, but people around town knew Fiona for her colourful clothes and
coordinated accessories. Several times, her picture had appeared in the town
newsletter, and she was a feature on the regional tourist map.
In the shop window, Fiona
wore a fluffy green jacket with matching socks and a long scarf. A lopsided
beanie rested on her head. Early autumn, she radiated warmth and cosy comfort.
Inside the store, Mia was
busy stacking small, knitted dolls – modelled on famous women from history. –
in a basket on the front counter. After fixing the flower in Frida Kahlo’s
hair, she added the doll to a pile of female icons.
A lover of hand-knits, Mia
wore a pink cardigan with covered buttons and wide sleeves that cinched at the
cuffs. Embroidery adorned the pockets of her frayed jeans. Her long,
honey-coloured hair was pulled back in a high ponytail. She had a fine-boned but
durable face and almost perfect skin, which made her look younger than her
thirty-seven years. In her stylish but comfortable clothes, she radiated a
girl-next-door glamour.
When the string of bells on
the front door tinkled, she paused and looked up. Her clear blue eyes
considered Saige; the sixteen-year-old part-time shop assistant was twenty
minutes late.
Lost in her phone, Saige
drifted toward the counter. ‘Mia, aliens just landed,’ she said.
‘I doubt that’s true.’ Mia
flattened the edges of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s lace collar before adding the doll
to the basket.
‘There’s a picture.’ Saige
showed Mia her screen.
‘Unfortunately, that
doesn’t make it true. Why are you always late?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’
Saige continued scrolling.
‘Please, no more late
afternoons or unscheduled days off unless you really are sick. Then I’ll need a
doctor’s certificate.’
‘Can my dad write a note?’
‘No. Come to work on time.’
Saige paused. ‘Did you just
cancel me?’
‘I don’t think so…’ Mia
held up Joan of Arc - the doll was missing her banner. ‘Have you seen Joan’s
flag?’
Saige took this news
seriously. ‘The woman on fire!’ Lifting her head, she glanced around the shop.
Somewhere amongst the floor-to-ceiling shelves of yarn, the throw rugs that
tumbled out of hampers, and the knitted gloves and scarves that filled the wicker
baskets was a tiny white flag.
Overwhelmed by the enormity
of the task, Saige promptly returned to her phone.
‘I need you to create a new
seasonal display,’ Mia said.
‘Mild,’ Saige replied.
Saige had an eye for colour
and a talent for visual merchandising, but her dreamy nature made her
unreliable. Wearing a hoodie, a short skirt, and chunky boots, she had the air
of a ballet dancer – despite the footwear – she glided past Mia and tucked her
bag into the shelf behind the front counter.
When the shop phone rang,
Mia picked up the receiver. ‘Good afternoon, Hook and Knot. How can—’ It was
Blanche, her aunt. ‘Slow down,’ Mia said. ‘I can’t understand a word… Wait, he
did what?’ Mia paused. ‘He put a chicken where?… Oh my god, I’ll be there as
soon as I can.’
Mia turned to Saige. ‘I
have to leave. There’s a family emergency. I won’t be long, but now is your
time to shine.’
Saige frowned, chewing her
lip. ‘All I ever do is clean.’
‘I’m leaving you in
charge.’
The girl’s face lit up.
‘Can I dress Fiona?’
‘We changed her clothes
yesterday, but you can set up the Spectacle of Socks.’ From behind the counter,
Mia handed Saige a dozen cardboard display feet and a bag of knitted socks.
‘The socks go on the feet,’ Mia explained. ‘You place them around the store.’
Saige peered into the bag
of socks. ‘I get to choose?’
‘Yes. But customers come
first.’ Mia opened her phone and called Carlos, the local taxi driver. The town
was too small to support an Uber business.
Forty minutes later, Mia
entered the emergency ward of the regional medical centre. An attendant showed
her to a cubicle where her Uncle Leo waited, perched on the edge of the bed. A
dishevelled, good-looking man in his seventies, Leo had a wiry smile and the
same optimistic blue eyes as Mia.
Beside him was Blanche,
Mia’s aunt by marriage. Five years ago, in a modest registry ceremony, Blanche
had married Leo. The couple met at a regional dance competition. Leo’s waltz
had impressed her. Six months later, he proposed. After buying a small Federation
house, they settled in a neighbouring town.
Blanche held a blood-soaked
towel over Leo’s knee. She wore a black pantsuit under a yellow cardigan. Blond
hair was tucked behind her ears, and chunky sunglasses rested on her forehead.
When she saw Mia, her cautious expression softened into an amused, friendly
smile.
After Mia kissed her aunt
on the cheek, she removed the sunglasses and handed them to Blanche.
‘Thank you. I would have
forgotten.’
‘Tell me again, what
happened?’ Mia asked.
‘It’s nothing serious.’ Leo
waved Mia away. ‘You’re not needed. You can go back to work.’
‘He put a frozen chicken
under his hat,’ Blanche said. ‘The cold gave him brain freeze, and he passed
out.’
‘Why would you put a
chicken…’
‘He was trying to smuggle
it out of the supermarket.’
Mia considered her uncle.
‘Are you losing your mind?’
‘I don’t think so. By god,
I almost got away with it.’
‘We’re still waiting to see
the doctor. This room is giving me agoraphobia. There’s a kitchen across the
hall; I’ll make us a cup of tea.’ Blanche handed the blood-soaked towel to Mia
and walked toward the door.
‘She means claustrophobia,’
Leo said, his gaze on his wife as she left the room. ‘Now that we’re alone, I
should tell you I hit my head on the way down, but I haven’t told them, so it’s
our secret.’
Mia sat next to her uncle
and stared at the side of his head. ‘You might have a concussion.’
‘I feel fine.’ He patted
her knee.
Blanche returned with
takeaway cups filled with scalding-hot tea. ‘I could only carry two cups,’ she
explained. ‘Leo and I can share.’ After placing them on a high mobile table,
she wheeled it closer so Leo could reach the cup.
‘Actually, I’m glad you’re
here because we wanted to have a chat with you about freezing your eggs,’
Blanche said.
Mia choked on her tea.
‘Just give it some thought.
Meredith’s daughter is your age, and she’s done it. We think it’s something you
should consider.’
‘Along with my hair
colour.’
‘You’re making light of a
serious subject.’ Blanche blew into the cup of tea.
‘I’ve always loved a dark
comedy.’
‘Dark comedy aside, you
know what we mean? The success rate of pregnancy from frozen eggs is low – I
did some reading – but it’s still a good backup plan. Just in case…’
‘Are we really having this
conversation in the emergency ward?’
Leo smiled. ‘She’s lovely
when she’s angry, isn’t she?’ He turned to Blanche. ‘If we sold her, how much
do you think we’d get?’
Blanche slipped on a pair
of reading glasses and looked Mia over. ‘I’m not taking anything under a
million.’
‘We’ll need that much to
get through our retirement.’ Under the table, Leo tickled Blanche’s knee, and
she giggled.
‘If you could please
restrain yourselves,’ Mia said.
The door opened. A
middle-aged, dark-haired woman wearing a denim dress with comfortable-looking
trainers entered. In her hand, she held Leo’s chart. After pausing inside the
doorway, she read through the details, then she raised her gaze and considered Leo
sitting on the bed.
‘More people steal meat
than any other type of food. Did you know that?’ the doctor said.
‘It was a smoked Portuguese
chicken breast,’ Leo confirmed. He looked at Blanche. ‘I guess it’s cat food
for dinner tonight.’
Mia laughed.
The doctor frowned. ‘How
old are you?’ she asked.
‘Seventy-six. Thought I’d
be sitting in a wheelchair dribbling by now. No desire to be carried off in a
box just yet. Lost some of my teeth, but I’ve still got most of my marbles.’
‘Did you bump your head?’
the doctor asked.
‘A slight bump,’ Leo
confessed.
‘Okay, after the nurse
dresses your wound, I’d like to run a few tests.’ She removed the stethoscope
from around her neck and began her examination.
Leo was a surprisingly
cooperative patient. He remained calm while the medical staff checked his vital
signs and drew blood. The doctor scheduled a head scan for the following week.
An hour later, standing in
the hospital carpark, Blanche took a set of keys from her handbag and passed
them to Mia. ‘The bike is still at the supermarket,’ she said. ‘Would you mind
driving it home? Leo will be in the car for the next few weeks.’
Leo rode a classic BMW
R90/6. Built in 1974, it had a glossy black frame with a matching sidecar. Mia
hesitated; the bike was Leo’s pride and joy. Confiscating his keys would not go
down well.
‘Nonsense. I can ride it
home,’ Leo insisted.
‘No, you can’t,’ Blanche
snapped. ‘Not until your test results come back. And for the record, it wasn’t
my idea – you can blame the medical profession for caring too much.’
Leo complained that his
independence, symbolised by his motorbike licence, was integral to his
masculinity. Blanche rolled her eyes. Again, she repeated the advice of the
medical staff – the BMW was off-limits. Until further notice, Mia had the keys.
Mia jiggled the keys. ‘I’ll
pick you up. You can ride in the sidecar,’ she told him.
‘I ride on the bike, not
in the sidecar.’
A ringing phone interrupted
their disagreement. Unsure who the phone belonged to, Blanche and Leo looked at
Mia.
‘It’s not mine,’ Mia
assured them.
Blanche searched her
handbag. Finally locating the phone, she pulled it out and answered the call.
‘Oliver, darling, what a
lovely surprise. How are you…’ Blanche paused. She clutched the front of her
dress. ‘Oh dear, that is bad news. Darling, don’t worry about a thing. We’re on
our way. Tash can stay with us until you get here.’ She ended the call. ‘Elsie
Buchanan died this morning.’
‘Really? She was in fine
health last week,’ Leo said. ‘Completely ignored me when I passed her in the
street. When I said good morning, she looked the other way.’
‘Who’s Elsie Buchanan?’ Mia
asked.
‘You know Elsie, she’s my
second cousin,’ Blanche said. ‘You must know her. She lives in the old
parsonage. Remember, I told you about the incident with the orange pork
surprise?’
Mia shrugged. ‘Honestly, I
only listen to half the things you tell me.’
‘Natasha found her in bed
this morning…dead,’ Blanche continued. ‘Oliver is on his way, but it will be a
few days before he gets here.’
‘Where does he live? On the
moon?’ Mia asked.
‘Worse – in the Kimberley,’
Blanche said.
‘It’s a bloody big
country,’ Leo confirmed.
‘The poor girl. We need to
get to her as fast as we can.’
‘To the Batmobile,’ Mia
said.
‘Ha ha.’ Leo smiled.
‘Explain it to me again,’
Mia said. ‘Who lives in the parsonage?’
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