Stephanie Lake has a new MM historical Regency romance out: His Brother's Viscount. And there's a giveaway! As a baron’s youngest son, Hector Somerville has no real prospects. He will not inherit, and he’s overshadowed by two perfect brothers. While searching for ways to improve his situation, Hector finds respite in an invitation to a country estate—and has a second chance at rekindling his illicit affair with Viscount Wentworth, captain of HBMS Dragon. The upcoming fortnight could be everything Hector dreamed of since their disastrous parting. Wentworth has forsaken love, and yet, memories of guilt and heartache resurface. He loved a boyhood friend once, Hector’s older brother William, until the man left him, trampling his heart in the process. Years later, he wonders if he ever fell out of love. Is his heart bound by William, or can he create a life with Hector? Publisher - Paperback Sale | Universal Buy Link | Amazon | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | QueeRomance Ink | SmashwordsGiveaway Stephanie is giving away two Bold Strokes Books (publisher) gift certificates with this tour: Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47199/? Excerpt
Hector raised his face to the warm spring sun. The gods had worked together to make this a perfect day. Well, he had a small part in making all the components align correctly, of course. He smiled, looking forward to what lay ahead. Flourishing spring-green grass spread all the way to the surrounding forest, the manor house stood bright against a vibrant sky, and a light breeze cooled the air and carried the scent of woodbine. He admired the spread of food arrayed on large linen-covered tables. One dish containing meat in a dark gravy filled the air with a savory fragrance that started his stomach to rumbling. The crystal, which sparkled in the sunshine, was filled with the best wines from France, and delicate porcelain tableware was arrayed for the guests’ use. Youngsters chased one another about. The light giggles of two young women and the hearty laughter of young men added to the festive air. Yes, it was a glorious day, brimming with joy, but the party alone could not explain the gale-force euphoria surging through his body. In fact, he could not remember life ever being this enjoyable. Especially not in the past eighteen months. Certainly not in the past eighteen months. His favorite—well, his only, but he knew she would always be his favorite—niece’s christening had progressed along wonderfully. But his attention wandered to things other than the party. Even with the warm sun, he shivered thinking about the night to come. If he wasn’t careful, he might even sport wood. Now wouldn’t that be a shock to old Aunt Dorothea? “Well, don’t you look like the man who stole the raspberry tart?” Will slapped him on the back with a bit too much enthusiasm. Hector winced but would not let sibling rivalry ruin his day. He’d always been smaller than his two older brothers, and Will’s mere presence reminded him of his deficiency. “Careful, you might drop Pug in your attempt to collapse my left lung.” “I’d never drop my precious girl,” Will cooed to the babe in his arms. “And stop calling her Pug.” He looked up at Will—two inches up, to be exact. Two very important inches. Two inches and a scar that changed common, everyday looks into the dangerously dashing Dr. William Somerville. It wasn’t only size that distinguished the two of them. Will had his jaunty black hair, black eyes, and a swarthy complexion. Hector had washed-out mud brown, faded mud brown, and light mud brown. But today it didn’t matter that he was small and forgettable. Today, Hector felt like Apollo himself. “’Fraid I cannot stop calling her Pug, old man, not until she grows into those ears of hers.” He laughed at Will’s puckered expression. “By the way, the celebration is going well. All the work your wife forced us into this morning paid off outstandingly.” The early hours they spent tacking up decorative paper in the high-ceilinged grand hall and around the stone balustrades made the inside and outside of the manor rather festive. They’d rearranged furniture and pinned up paper decorations for his brother’s first child’s first party. Margaret Harriet Philadelphia Somerville. What a designation. Will had taken leave of his senses when he labeled the poor girl with that name. But even with that taint, Pug was a sunny child with her mother’s fawn-colored hair and her father’s rambunctiousness. At just three months, she managed to grab everyone’s attention, a little sun at the center of whatever room she occupied. It’d taken Hector two months to decide he really quite liked the girl even though she was an unsightly pink, wrinkly thing that smelled of curdled milk. “My little girl’s ears are in perfect proportion. She is beautiful.” Will glowed, simply oozing fatherly pride. He acted like a simpleton around his squirming bundle, making funny squeaking noises and wiggling his fingers—as he did now—to make his daughter laugh. And she did laugh, with a toothless, infectious mirth. Hector laughed with her and ruffled the baby’s tuft of downy hair. Will’s attention, as usual, was divided between his daughter and his wife, Mary. She chatted with guests, lovely in a sunny yellow muslin afternoon dress. Mary was one of those natural beauties who were always attractive. In fact, she probably woke up pretty, even with rumpled hair, pillow marks on her cheek, and sleep in her eyes. Anyone who glanced at them could tell that Will and Mary were besotted. That was what he wanted. He wanted someone to stay by his side, to wake up with every morning. Someone to grow old with. Someone he found beautiful even with rumpled hair, pillow-creased cheeks, and a sparkling drop of drool on silk sheets. A stupid romantic, he, ever since boyhood; but on a day like today it was hard not to be. Because even if he didn’t quite match up to his older brothers, it didn’t matter. Somebody had noticed him again, and today that somebody would collect him for an extended stay in the country. He had magnificent plans for this fortnight. He rubbed his hands together, the friction warming his fingers, getting them ready for anything. Everything. Yes, joy filled his body today, and nothing would ruin his optimism for the future. Not even his brother’s perfection. Even so, he stiffened when Will said, “You enjoy little Margaret so much, you should marry, have your own children.” “That won’t happen, Will. You know why, so leave off.” Tight-lipped, Will looked about to say something. Fortunately, Mary joined them at that moment. “How are my three favorite Somervilles?” she said in her soft, smoky alto. She leaned over and kissed her daughter’s forehead, then brushed the fuzzy locks back into place. She glowed with pride, just like her husband. “Hector, I believe you are as fond as we are of our little girl.” “Actually, I spent the day planning my revenge. I will take her on outings, spoil her rotten, and then give you back an overexcited and insufferable child.” Will groaned with an age-old weariness. “Save your strength. I will simply hand her off to Nanny Pennington if you do so. Besides, you’ve given me enough trouble throughout my lifetime. I don’t need her following in your footsteps.” “Me? You were the one who tormented me to distraction and tears. And got me into predicaments where I required doctors to sew me up.” Will laughed. “I will not deny Stephen and I were terrors, but in my defense, he usually instigated the worst of the pranks.” Hector snorted but knew he’d been partly to blame, always following his older brothers, wanting to be as big, bold, and brave. They’d picked on him because he’d been the youngest, the weakest. It didn’t matter. Hector no longer held animosity over his brothers’ dealings. To be honest, they hadn’t been that bad. They shared brotherly affection. They held together through their father’s drunken abuse. In fact, Hector could remember times when Will took the switch meant for him. He did appreciate his older siblings. It was just that sometimes, when the days were gloomy and he did not quite know what to do with his life, the comparisons to perfection rankled. Author Bio Stephanie Lake is the pen name for a husband/wife team who enjoy writing happy endings and steamy middles. We write historical and contemporary LGBTQ+ and M/F romance. Inspiration for our stories comes from living in seven countries and traveling around the world. Wherever we wander, our beloved four-legged family member is not far away. Author Website: https://sites.google.com/site/stephanielakeauthorcom/home Author Page at Bold Strokes Books: https://www.boldstrokesbooks.com/authors/stephanie-lake-330 Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/StephanieLakeRomance Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15343210.Stephanie_Lake Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/stephanie-lake/ Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Stephanie-Lake/e/B01LWCS90U/ 
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 My teaser this Tuesday is from Run for the Roses! It's on sale for $2.99 for the eBook and $6.99 for the paperback until August 31.  “You catch on quick. We make a good team, and that makes me happy,” Wyatt said. Val opened his mouth to ask another question, but he was cut off when all three of his dogs jumped up and ran to the window, barking. “What’s that?” Wyatt’s voice rose just enough to set Val’s nerves on edge. “Something outside, I think.” Val stood up and started across the room. Val stopped short when Wyatt barked, “Stay away from the windows! Is everything locked?” “Ye-yeah.” Val slapped his hand against his thigh. “Hey, guys, shush. Come on, it’s okay. Go lie down.” Then he spoke to Wyatt. “The outside lights are on too. Just like you said to do.” “Hear anything?” “No. It’s probably just a raccoon or something.” Val sat back down on the couch. His dogs had quieted and were scattered around the floor, lying down again. “Val—” “I’ll be fine. If there was someone near the house, the boys would be barking up a storm.” “Call that number if you have any doubts. Promise me.” Wyatt sounded worried. “I promise. How much longer will you be gone?” “I have a few things to check out in the morning but I think I can catch a flight back tomorrow night. Or the morning after, if I can’t get a ticket so soon. Call me before you leave for work in the morning,” Wyatt told him. “And Val, use that number. Even if you’re just uncomfortable.” “I will.” Val disconnected the call and stretched on the couch with the phone on his chest. He wished Wyatt were there with him now. Run for the Roses can be purchased through Amazon
or read in Kindle Unlimited.  My snippet this week is from Whiskey and Moonshine!  “It took us weeks to arrange all this,” the unnamed man sputtered. He got up and began pacing around the room. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” “Yeah, I do. I saved you from mucking your plan up,” Colt said. Holding up the papers, he put on his most pleading expression and continued, “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking you to give me. Five minutes, and I’ll show you a much better plan. If you don’t like what I have to say, then I’ll personally go round up all those other guys and bring them back.” He paused and gave the group a visual once-over. “But I won’t have to.” “I should have you arrested!” the pacing man sputtered. “Jeffery, sit down,” Bodyguard said. His voice, like his stance, was stern. “But—” Jeffery started. Bodyguard walked to the middle of the room. “I want to hear what he has to say.” “So do I,” Audrey chimed in, and Mr. Krems nodded his agreement. Hurrying to the table, Colt motioned to it with the papers he held. He licked his lips. Couldn’t get cold feet now. “May I?” He was greeted with a collective nod. Spreading the papers out like giant playing cards, he talked as he worked. “I worked in Kensington’s Place Saturday night and had the chance to talk with a number of customers who were in town for an interview here. Except these guys usually go to auditions.” Colt stopped and looked around at their stunned faces. “You invited a bunch of guys in their twenties who live off their looks to a distillery. And gave them free drinks. They drink, they talk. What did you expect would happen?” “He’s got a point,” Mr. Krems said. “Why didn’t we think of that?” “Because you’re honest people,” Colt said softly. “And you’re not?” Jeffery snapped. “No, sir, I’m honest. But as Miss Hollan already knows, I’ve lived on the streets since I was fifteen. You learn a thing or two and have a different perspective on some things.” “Go on,” Bodyguard said. He was standing very close to Colt, and the heat he gave off was distracting. Whiskey and Moonshine is available in eBook, paperback and through Kindle Unlimited.  Hop on over to the Rainbow Snippets Facebook group to read more snippets.
Alex Washoe has a new LGBTQ sports romance out (trams ftm, mtf): Diamond Heat. And there's a giveaway! Daisy Flowers is a one-time college pitching phenom whose career was sidelined by misogyny and transphobia. For over a decade she's toiled away in the minor leagues, doing any job she can to stay in the game she loves. But her heart has grown bitter, and every fastball she throws is fueled by rage. When the Majors finally give her the call, she has only one dream left: to take on the entire baseball world and leave it scorched and ruined in her wake. Jonas Sutton, in his third season in the Majors, is a talented player who has never quite lived up to his potential. Struggling to break through, but thwarted by the secret he can never reveal. Daisy's arrival, in the midst of a pennant race, with everything on the line and the bright glare of the spotlight burning all the time, ignites tempers and passion. She's prepared to fight every inch of the way for the glory she deserves, and Jonas desperately wants to stand by her side. But no matter how powerfully he's attracted, Jonas knows Daisy is the fuse on the explosion that could blow his world apart. Warning: Contains interactions with transphobic characters (mild) and memories of childhood struggles About the Series: The thrill of high-level professional sports and the magic of LGBTQ+ romance collide -- with sparks and heat aplenty. Giveaway Alex is giving away an Amazon gift card with this tour: Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47197/? Excerpt Now pitching for the Seattle Navigators … Daisy Flowers! The crowd exploded. People were yelling. Most of the Chicago players came out of the dugout to watch her take the mound. Daisy sprinted across the field. Heff met her at the mound, and they hugged. I felt a twist of jealousy — I should’ve been the one to greet her out there. I wanted to be beside her at this moment. And at the same time the idea of all the eyes now focused on her made me want to dig a hole in the field and crawl into it. When Heff was back behind the mound, she started to throw her warmup pitches, but stopped when the crowd didn’t settle down. She took a deep breath, turned all the way around, surveying the stadium. Like she had the other day, she took off her hat and held it up, with the Pride pen showing. Daisy. Daisy. Daisy. She turned back toward home plate. I couldn’t see her face, but her shoulders squared up. She tucked her ponytail back under the cap and began to work. I’d seen her pitch before, of course. As a teenager, then on TV, and in dozens of magazine photos. As she faced the first Chicago batter, she went into her elaborate wind up. Starting with her hands behind her back, then lifting them over her head, the ball completely hidden in her mitt. Her left leg drew up, until the foot was even with her knee. That’s the picture I had of her on my wall in high school. Those long, powerful legs in tight fitting baseball pants. Poised there, for a long half-second, serene and frozen like a crane, she was still breathtaking. I felt like my chest was cracking open. Then she exploded outward, her hand shooting toward home. It would be almost impossible to pick up that release. I’ve been thrown at by some of the best pitchers in the game, and I could imagine how that looked to the batter. Like the ball suddenly appeared with a crack halfway there. The fastball seemed to leave shockwaves in the air. It punctured the center of the zone and all the batter could do was step back. The force of her pitch spun her around on the mound, and she followed through, ending with her back to the plate. She stood like that for half a second, as if nothing else mattered, as if the catcher and the batter and her teammates didn’t exist. I thought of two things. My Grandpa loved to watch old jazz films. His favorite was Miles Davis, who would come out on stage and turn his back to the audience when he played. “People got pissed,” Grandpa said. “They thought Miles was disrespecting them. Or it was some kind of political statement. But it wasn’t that at all. He just didn’t care about performing, or what they thought. All he cared about was the music.” Daisy turned back toward the plate. Her eyes brushed across me. She lowered her head just enough to acknowledge me. But that was all I got. Heff signaled for a change-up outside. She nodded, her hands slipping behind her back again. The second thought? I had a lit professor in college who loved Emily Dickinson. There was this thing he quoted almost every class. “If I feel physically as if the top of my head has been taken off, I know that is poetry.” I know a little bit about jazz. Nothing about poetry. But like I said I have been thrown at by some of the best. I didn’t understand any of that until now. Author Bio
Alex Washoe is a nonbinary writer and game designer living in Seattle, Washington. In previous incarnations, they have been a bookseller, an amateur stand-up comedian, a public speaker, a dog walker at a companion animal shelter, a wildlife rehab care assistant, and many other less interesting things. Alex lives with their best friend and one (and a half) cats. They enjoy reading and writing romance, cozy mysteries, westerns and speculative fiction, all with an LGBTQ+ twist. Author Website: https://www.alexwashoe.com Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/Alex-Washoe-Author-Page-351907692814938 Author Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Alex-Washoe/e/B06XC351MC/
Click on the banner to be taken to the bundle or sales page.  Get the eBook for 2.99 and the paperback for 9.99   Get the eBook for 2.99!   The eBook is only 2.99 and the paperback 6.99!   My Tuesday Teaser is from For the Long Run. It's on sale this month for $2.99 (ebook)! Eric ran his hand down Jay’s arm. He used his thumb to gently stroke Jay’s knuckles as he took the key ring from him. “You have a copy of the keys to my house.”
“Yours, and mine, are both owned by the resort.” “Hmm. Doesn’t seem fair, you get keys to mine, but I don’t get keys to yours. We’ll have to fix that tomorrow.” Jay’s heart skipped a few beats, and his stomach flipped. “You really believe what you said about bad date-movie plots and second chances?” Even as he spoke, he reminded himself not to get his hopes up. “Sure do.” Eric’s other arm slid around Jay’s back, pulling him closer. Jay loved the feeling of Eric’s rock-hard, yet very comfortable, body against his. They fit together so well. When Eric dipped his head and ran his lips lightly over the shell of Jay’s ear, Jay shuddered and moaned softly. Eric leaned back and smiled. A gentle nudge and Jay was herded inside. “You… um… want a beer or….” Jay took the keys when Eric held them out to him, dropped them on the table, and led the way to the living room, stopping near the couch. His words trailed away when Eric moved behind him and slipped both hands over Jay’s shoulders. Warm air hit Jay’s neck when Eric breathed out, “I’m good. I have everything I want right here.” Jay swallowed and leaned back against Eric, delighting in that feeling of being surrounded again. Dragging one hand across Jay’s back, Eric paced away. He shed his leather jacket, draping it over a chair, and settled on the couch in front of Jay. He leaned back, let his legs drop open slightly with his hands folded between them. Jay stayed rooted where he was, standing there feeling on display and naked even though he still had his clothes on. “About that call,” Eric said quietly. “I’m sorry, that was wrong.” “Yeah, I got you’re sorry. I’m not angry, simply curious. Why, if you wanted to call me as much as you claim, didn’t you?” “I… it’s complicated and….” Eric’s tone hardened ever so slightly. “Explain it to me. I might understand.” 
Liz Faraim has a new ff contemporary book out, Vivian Chastain series book 3: Concussion and Contentment. And there's a giveaway! Vivian, an adrenaline junkie and U.S. Army veteran, goes about her life as a bartender, avid runner, and polyamorous lesbian. Life in Sacramento, California is going well until she is blindsided by unforeseen financial issues which lead her to consider a new career. In an attempt to recharge and take a break, she visits her best friend, Jared, only to be sidetracked by a motorcycle trip with her other best friend, Bear. The adventure does not turn out to be the carefree break Vivian had hoped for. A mess, she returns to Sacramento where her partner, Ang, tries to push her down, rather than help her pick up the pieces. Meanwhile, Vivian takes big steps with her other partner, Audre, which fills a void in Vivian’s life left behind by her dysfunctional and abusive childhood. While out on a day trip to her favorite hiking trails, Vivian has an epiphany about what line of work she wants to pursue, and chases after it head first while also beginning to mend fences with her brother, Joey. As things start to stabilize, one of Vivian’s partners commits an act of grave violence, resulting in life-changing consequences for all concerned. Surrounded by friends, Vivian turns over a new leaf and finally finds the contentment she has sought for a lifetime. Warnings: This book contains violence, attempted murder, homophobic slurs, alcohol/drug use, references to suicide, abuse of a child by a parent, abuse of a child by an adult, attempted suicide, racism Publisher | Amazon | Universal Buy LinkGiveaway Liz is giving away an Amazon gift card with this tour: Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47198/? Excerpt This excerpt is from Chapter One of Concussion and Contentment: Sweat dripped and bass pulsed as hundreds of women writhed and bumped to the music. Tick, the club DJ, was killing it. The vibe was so good that I was high on it. There was a line at my station ten people deep, customers jostling for position while dancing and shuffling forward each time I finished a drink order. One of my regulars stepped up and waved a twenty-dollar bill at me. She was in her forties, sporting a bowler hat and forearm tats. “Viv, show me them titties and tats!” she shouted over the thumping and chatter. I had already stripped down to my sports bra, with my beater hanging from the back pocket of my Dickies. It was hot for April, and the press of sweating, dancing bodies had made the nightclub a sauna. “Aw, Tig, you know I can’t do that,” I said with a smirk and turned my back to the crowd. Behind the bar was a wall-to-wall mirror. I gyrated my hips to Bubba Sparxxx’s “Ms. New Booty,” which had become a club favorite. I made eye contact with Tig in the mirror as she jumped to the beat, still waving the twenty-dollar bill at me. Shoving down the shyness that crept up, I slapped on the façade of the confident butch barkeep I wore to work. I pulled my sports bra up, just a bit. She hollered to her friends, “She’s doing it, she’s doing it!” Amidst the chaos, they leaned to the side to see my reflection in the mirror, their mouths agape, eyes laser focused on me. I kept the tease up for a minute, dancing to the song, pulling my bra up a bit and lowering it again. Each time I lowered it, there was a chorus of “Awwwww’s” behind me. I finally relented and pulled my sports bra completely off. Their hoots and hollers made me grin, and I continued dancing for myself in the mirror. Just as the song was ending, a bright light flashed in the mirror, reflecting straight into my eyes. I traced the light back along the mirror and saw it was coming from near the front door. Buck, our bouncer, stood on the rungs of her barstool by the door, flashing her Maglite at me. When we made eye contact, she tapped the top of her head three times, which was the sign that the cops were coming. I shimmied back into my sweaty sports bra, which was no easy feat, and turned back to my customers. Tig pulled me into a hug across the bar. She tucked the bill into my waistband, her rough fingers lingering far too long on my skin. “Thanks, Viv. Looking good. Those tits and tats, you are so fucking hot. If I weren’t married, things’d be different.” I patted her cheek and ended the hug, doing my best to keep my cool and stay in my role. “Good to see you, Tig. The usual?” She nodded and I poured her an Irish Car Bomb. She slapped some more cash on the bar, dropped the shot glass of whiskey and Bailey’s into her pint of Guinness, and chugged the whole frothing mess while her crew cheered her on. She slammed the pint glass down, wiped her mouth on her bare arm, belched, and disappeared into the fray. Jen, the barback, bounced up to me with her usual level of cheer, and began unloading glasses fresh from the washer. “Tig still trying to get into your pants?” Her voice dripped with disgust as she fingered the American Spirit cigarette tucked behind her ear. “Always.” I uncapped some beer bottles and rang up my next customer. “You know, I’ve been doing this job a few years now, and know that there’s a certain level of shit we have to put up with if we want those tips. And I need those tips. But it’s getting less amusing when people forget we are human and not a piece of meat.” Author Bio
Liz has a full plate between balancing a day job, parenting, writing, and finding some semblance of a social life. In past lives she has been a soldier, a bartender, a shoe salesperson, an assistant museum curator, and even a driving instructor. She focuses her writing on strong, queer, female leads who don’t back down. Liz transplanted to California from New York over thirty years ago, and now lives in the East Bay. She enjoys exploring nature with her wife and son. Pronouns: She/Her Author Website: https://www.lizfaraim.com Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.loud.16/ Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/liz.faraim.9/ Author Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/FaraimLiz Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20769735.Liz_Faraim Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/liz-faraim/
This week's Rainbow Snippet comes from Run for the Roses! It's on sale for $2.99 (ebook) and 6.99 (paperback). Val opened his mouth to ask another question, but he was cut off when all three of his dogs jumped up and ran to the window, barking. “What’s that?” Wyatt’s voice rose just enough to set Val’s nerves on edge. “Something outside, I think.” Val stood up and started across the room. Val stopped short when Wyatt barked, “Stay away from the windows! Is everything locked?” “Ye-yeah.” Val slapped his hand against his thigh. “Hey, guys, shush. Come on, it’s okay. Go lie down.” Then he spoke to Wyatt. “The outside lights are on too. Just like you said to do.” “Hear anything?” “No. It’s probably just a raccoon or something.” Val sat back down on the couch. His dogs had quieted and were scattered around the floor, lying down again. “Val—” “I’ll be fine. If there was someone near the house, the boys would be barking up a storm.” “Call that number if you have any doubts. Promise me.” Wyatt sounded worried. “I promise. How much longer will you be gone?” Read many more snippets in The Rainbow Snippet Facebook group.
Run for the Roses is available from Amazon and is in Kindle Unlimited. 
Cover Artist: Natasha Snow
Blurb:
Born the heir of a master woodcutter in a queendom defined by guilds and matrilineal inheritance, nonbinary Sorin can’t quite seem to find their place. At seventeen, an opportunity to attend an alchemical guild fair and secure an apprenticeship with the queen’s alchemist is just within reach. But on the day of the fair, Sorin’s mother goes missing, along with the Queen and hundreds of guild masters, forcing Sorin into a woodcutting inheritance they never wanted. With guild legacy at stake, Sorin puts apprentice dreams on hold to embark on a journey with the royal daughter to find their mothers and stop the hemorrhaging of guild masters. Princess Magda, an estranged childhood friend, tests Sorin’s patience—and boundaries. But it’s not just a princess that stands between Sorin and their goals. To save the country of Sorpsi, Sorin must define their place between magic and alchemy or risk losing Sorpsi to rising industrialization and a dark magic that will destroy Sorin’s chance to choose their own future.
Excerpt:
The short guard stepped to the doorframe, bit back a grimace, and tried to restart the conversation. “Apologies for the hour. We’re looking for—” “She’s not here.” I cut him off, hoping to forestall awkward questions I couldn’t answer. “She left under the last full moon, for professional obligations. It is unknown when she will return. I apologize.” “Are you her daughter then?” the short one asked. My stomach twisted. I was no one’s daughter, and that word would stick in my chest for days. It would squirm there, under bindings and layers of clothes, and make me second-guess myself at the fair with every introduction and every awkward stare at my body. In that moment, I hated them, these two men, so sure of their position despite the mud and the hour. Daughter. No. I had never been one and had no intention of starting now. “Sorin the…” “The alchemist,” I finished for him. “I am her heir,” I said through gritted teeth when neither responded. “I have the queen’s last commission. Will you be taking it tonight?” The men exchanged a glance, but neither answered. The second man sneezed, sending a spray of water across the threshold. I rubbed my palm on my forehead. If they were going to get the house dirty just by being outside, it made no sense for them to stay there. Bones were one thing; mud was just unprofessional. I stepped back and gestured to the small brown oak dining table—the one with the white streak down it where I’d first discovered what the refined, clear parts of bone oil could do to fungal pigments—and grabbed my cloak from the wall. “Sit,” I said as I fastened the oblong buttons at the neck of the cloak. The men moved in with heavy steps, which grew increasingly hesitant as the fish smell concentrated. They sat and stared at me with disgusted, pained expressions as mud dripped from their boots onto that stupid handmade floor. I’d have to refinish it now. I didn’t bother speaking again. Daughter. Let them sit in the bone oil stink, pooled in their own mud. I turned and left the house, heading to Mother’s woodshop. My feet crunched along the woodchip path, the ground cover damp but still springy. I tried to let the smells of the forest—especially the earthen smell of fungal decay—take my mind away from the word I so hated. The men had parked their cart, and their ox, near the door to the longhouse Mother used for her shop, but I could still maneuver around it. The sun had already set, but moonlight streaked through the needled canopy of conifers and across my path. Ten short steps brought me to the double doors made from cedar plank. I stripped the padlock from the right door, the one that had been fastened since Mother’s departure, and entered. I’d not been inside the shop for a month, and the smell of cedar and wood rot reminded me why. Here were my mother’s heart and legacy, as her father’s before her, and her grandmother’s before that. The whole place felt tattered and used and smelled worse than the bone oil. In the back, near an old leather chair, was where her mother had been born some eighty years ago. To my right, just in front of a treadle lathe, was where my grandfather had died. Mother had birthed her children here too—myself and the son she gave to another guild for an apprenticeship, and taken none of their children in return. The whole building was familiar, like an old wool blanket, but scratchy just the same. This was a legacy of guild woodcutting, and the queen’s mandate of matrilineal inheritance, and I didn’t belong here. A woodcutter was not who I was, a daughter was not who I was, and while the former hurt less than the latter, both made me want to pull at my skin and scream. 
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J.S. is giving away a signed paperback copy of “Ardulum First Don” OR “Ardulum Second Don (winner’s choice), open to anyone, anywhere in the world: a Rafflecopter giveaway
J.S. Fields is a scientist who has perhaps spent too much time around organic solvents. They enjoy roller derby, woodturning, making chainmail by hand, and cultivating fungi in the backs of minivans.
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