Birdsong echoed through the forest, while the canopy filtered light into long emerald shafts that turned the undergrowth luminous. Kore stepped over a fallen branch and adjusted the cloth bundle at her hip. She tried to keep her mind on the path and task ahead, but her mother’s scrutiny last night kept pace with her.

When she returned home yesterday, Kore rehearsed her explanation, certain that Demeter would be waiting. She eased through the door on quiet feet, and her expression neutral. The choreography practiced over years of learning to cross a room without raising questions.

Demeter sat in the main room, hands folded in her lap, oil lamps still burning. She did not need to ask a question. It was already there, written in the set of her mouth and the steady, searching quality of her bottle green eyes. The lamplight caught the strong lines of Demeter’s cheekbones and the warm, golden glow of her skin that looked like Kore’s.

“There you are, daughter.”

Demeter’s gaze traveled over her. Kore held still for the inspection with familiar patience.

“I’m sorry, Mother. A minotaur attacked the village. I stayed to help someone who was injured.”

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with such trivialities, Kore. I know you like to play around with your little plants. But that is work for a proper healer.”

It was the one mercy of her mother’s indifference. Kore could bury the truth inside details Demeter would never care enough to question.

“Were the gardens damaged? The restoration along the road?”

“Your flowers are fine, Mother.”

“But why were you alone in the forest?”

“The nymphs had already gone back.”

Demeter’s expression shifted, a tightening around her eyes that she reserved for those who failed her. “They left you?”

“I told them to go.” The words came out fast. Kore heard the urgency in her own voice and steadied it. “The restoration was nearly finished, and I wanted to stay and check the root systems one more time. I sent them ahead.”

“I give them one responsibility. Keep my daughter safe while she does her work. And they can’t manage even that.”

Guilt pooled in the soft hollow at the base of Kore’s throat. She and the nymphs weren’t close, but she didn’t want them to face their mother’s anger. “Mother, it wasn’t their fault. I insisted. They didn’t want to leave, but I told them I’d be right behind them. I just wanted to get the planting right. I wanted it to be perfect. For you.”

“Well,” Demeter’s voice changed. The blade tucked back into its sheath. “Your dedication isn’t what I’m questioning. It’s their judgment.”

Demeter rose from her chair, crossing the room with measured grace. Her hands found Kore’s shoulders, thumbs pressed against the curves of muscle there, a gesture that looked tender but, to Kore, felt like being pinned.

“A goddess alone in the forest after dark. Look at what almost happened.” Her thumbs pressed slightly harder. “Or worse, you could have been taken, Kore. Carried off to who knows where.”

A flicker crossed Demeter’s face, quick and involuntary, eyes narrowing. Fingers tightening a fraction, she tilted her head. “Something is different about you.”

For a moment, the air locked in Kore’s lungs. But no, her mother could not know what happened in the woods. “I’m just tired, Mother.”

“You are my greatest achievement. You are promised for great things. There are those who would wish to sully your virtue. I will not see that diminished by carelessness.”

The words settled into Kore’s stomach, uneasy and churning.

“I have worked too hard, and we are so close. Do I need to keep you in your room to ensure you act properly?”

Flashes of panic rolled through her. Compliance was the fastest way to keep the walls from closing in again. Kore shook her head.

“Good, go wash up. And tomorrow, you stay with the nymphs. No more wandering alone.”

The memory dissolved as her sandal caught on a root. This morning, Kore stood in the corridor until Kalligeneia’s attention narrowed to the garland and Hercyna turned her back to the garden wall. Slipping through the gates with the bundle at her hip, quiet as a held breath. Walking through the forest with cool air against her arms, Kore kept waiting for the hurt to arrive from the memory, and it didn’t. Kore was familiar with the conditional architecture of her mother’s love. Kore could manage that; she spent her whole life doing it.

What happened in the forest yesterday, that she could not comprehend. The earth answered not with familiar communion; rather, she had wanted, and the ground obeyed. Now the forest pressed against her with a new kind of attention. Beneath her feet, root systems registered with a startling clarity, sharper than the old muffled hum, as if they were turning toward her and holding still. Kore stopped walking, closed her eyes, and willed herself still. Smaller, quieter, the way she always did when something inside her threatened to take up too much space. Her mother’s voice slithered in her head, steady and clipped: What have you done? She didn’t dare reach down because if the ground answered the way it did yesterday, then what Demeter sensed last night wasn’t suspicion. And, in her mother’s world, different is something you never wanted to be.

Kore forced her feet forward. As she stepped further into the woods, unease loosened its grip; her mind traded one ache for another.

Would he be there?

Hades had resisted her help; his muscles rigid under her fingers, hard and unyielding, as if his body could refuse what his mouth already agreed to. Everything in him clenched against the simple fact of being touched, as though no one had put their hands on him gently in so long that his body forgot how to receive it. Maybe overnight, he decided the poultices weren’t worth the cost of sitting still while a stranger touched him.

As she stepped through the tree line, relief and nervousness tangled together, a sensation she couldn’t have described if Zeus himself demanded it. Hades sat where she’d left him yesterday, his back against the same oak. His hands were braced on his thighs as he leaned forward. When he saw her, his shoulders drew back, a careful neutral expression sliding into place. He’d been watching for her, unsure if she would come.

“You came back.” His voice came out low, stripped of inflection.

“I told you I would.” She held his gaze and let him see that she meant it.

He looked away first, and he nodded once, as if a single word might have betrayed him.

Kore sat beside him, unwrapped the bundle, and peeled back the dressing. The wound was healing faster than she had ever seen.

“Did you make more of your healing concoction? That doesn’t look the same?”

“It’s something new I’m working on. It contains some additional binders to help heal the wound tissue from deep inside, instead of just working on the surface.”

She applied the new formula, spreading it across the wound. The muscles tensed when she made first contact, but it faded within a breath. Her fingers traced the perimeter of the wound, checking the edges where the new tissue knitted together.

“Is that how you spend your days? Growing flowers in meadows and making herbal concoctions?”

She looked up, expecting mockery. But his face held only open curiosity. “Yes. I tend to the herbs and flowers in my garden.”

“What do you grow?”

“Lavender, calendula, chamomile, healing herbs,” she paused, “and other things.”

“What other things?”

Every instinct she possessed focused on protecting anything that mattered behind walls no one would think to look past. But sitting beside him, she felt a pull stronger than the habit of hiding. She wanted him to know.

It all spilled out of her. The hidden corner of her garden, tucked behind a wall of jasmine that her mother never looked past. Yarrow and feverfew she’d planted in thick rows because the village healers couldn’t grow enough, herbs Demeter called common weeds and the nymphs wrinkled their noses at. Woundwort, with its square stems and hairy leaves that smelled like mud, stopped bleeding; strangleweed she trained along a trellis, its tendrils beautiful and deadly, capable of choking a mature oak in a single season. The cobra lily with its hooded pitcher. Doll’s eyes, with white berries clustered on red stems that looked like something watching you from the undergrowth. Kore could hear the breathless rushing quality of her voice. She reigned in her enthusiasm, the way she would a vine growing past its trellis.

“Forgive me, I’m talking too much.”

“And I was told the goddess of spring only grew pretty flowers.” His face held that same careful neutrality. But Kore noticed a lightness in his eyes that took her several heartbeats to understand. He was teasing her.

She bit back a smile of her own, the kind that would have given away far too much, and busied her hands with retying the dressing instead of answering him at all. She smoothed the linen flat, then smoothed it again, aware of him watching her hands. She looked to the tangle of ferns beyond the boulder, anywhere but his face, as the shadows stretched long and lazy across the mossy ground. Kore did not know how long they sat together. Standing, she brushed leaf litter from her chiton, mind already composing excuses for her mother.

“I have to go.”

The space between them crackled and hummed. He nodded once, the same economical motion he’d given her when she arrived. His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a breath before he caught it, dragged it back up to her eyes. She wondered how those lips would move against hers, what flavor he’d leave on her tongue, whether that darkness in him would taste bitter or like something she’d crave again and again.

####

“One more day,” Kore told him. She ran her fingers along the last fading edge of his wound, and she caught herself lingering since there remained little else for her to do. She pulled back and wiped her hands. Neither of them said anything else about it; instead, they sat in the comfortable silence that had built itself between them over the past few days.

“What will you do with your time once you’re done here?” Hades asked.

Think of you. “Read or garden most likely.”

“What are you reading now?”

“The Assemblywomen.”

“You’re a fan of Aristophanes?”

“You are familiar with his work?”

“I live in the Underworld, Kore. I’m not illiterate.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth. The lightness in his eyes. “Does your mother know you read that? The Assemblywomen could corrupt innocent minds.”

“Who says I’m innocent?” The bold and reckless words escaped before she could stop them. Fire swept up her throat and across her cheeks, but she did not look away.

His plum eyes sharpened. “Careful, Kore. Questions like that could get you into trouble.”

The words came out, stripped and careful, almost hoarse. Hades meant it as a warning. But Kore leaned in closer, not farther away, and she did not care what that said about her.

“Maybe I want trouble.”

His fingers pressed hard into his own thigh, knuckles blanching against grey skin. “Trouble has a way of finding those who go looking for it.”

“Then I suppose it’s fortunate you’re here to rescue me again.”

“I’m not sure I’m the rescuer in this scenario.”

As his words hung between them, her pulse thrummed in her throat. She cataloged every angle and plane of his features. Heat kindled low in her belly, spreading outward until it stretched her skin taut. She needed to break this spell wrapped around them, or she’d do something foolish like close the remaining distance between them and press her mouth to his. She grasped for the first safe thought she could find. “Everyone loves a good epic, especially when they’re in one. But comedies are considered vulgar.”

“And you read them anyway.”

“My mother thinks they’re a waste of time.” She pulled a blade of grass and wound it around her finger. “I think they’re the only texts that tell the truth. Aristophanes says things about the gods that nobody else would dare say out loud. He just wraps it in enough jokes that everyone laughs instead of getting angry.”

“The knife hidden in the comedy.”

She looked at him. He’d just named the thing she loved most about them. “Yes. Exactly that.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, slow and lopsided. It lasted longer than before. He didn’t catch it as fast.

“What do you read when you’re not being the Lord of the Underworld?”

“I’m always the Lord of the Underworld.”

“Fine,” she laughed lightly, “What do you read while being the Lord of the Underworld?”

“Different things.” His silence stretched long enough that she thought that he would say no more. “There are libraries in my realm. Texts that were buried with the dead, writings that were lost to fire, flood, time, or stories that were never written down in life.”

“You have libraries of lost texts?”

“Whole wings cataloged by era, region, and subject.”

“It must take so many to manage all of that.”

“I organize them myself.”

She pictured silent halls lined with books and a god sorting it all alone, century after century.

“What is the rest of it like? Your realm.”

“Most people don’t want to know.”

“I’m not most people.”

Hades studied her face. The scrutiny lasted long enough for her to notice the silver flecks in his storm-dark eyes.

“It’s not the dark, torturous place mortals imagine. There are gardens there, though nothing like these.” He gestured to the wildflowers blooming around them in careless abundance. “Rivers that sing with voices of the dead.”

“Are they solemn songs?”

“No, they are peaceful.”

“That sounds beautiful.”

“But beauty requires life, growth, change. My realm is eternal and unchanging.” A rueful smile curved his mouth, transforming his features and stealing every bit of oxygen from her lungs.

“Do you ever wish you ruled something different? The seas, perhaps, or the forests?”

“Every god must play their role.” Resignation colored his words rather than acceptance. “I am death, endings, the inevitable conclusion to all stories. There’s no changing that.”

“You’re also rebirth. Without death, there can be no new life. Without endings, no new beginnings. I see it constantly in nature. Microbes and fungi break things down, returning nutrients to the forest and plants. The entire cycle depends on decomposition. Death feeds life. Nothing truly disappears. It just changes form. You don’t end things. You transform them.”

He stared at Kore as if she’d just performed a miracle. “And you’re not afraid of me?” The question came quietly, weighted with something that made her want to gather him close and soothe away millennia of rejection.

“No.” She held that penetrating stare she’d come to crave. “You saved my life. If death itself wanted to harm me, I’d already be gone.”

Something in his face rearranged, not the composure cracking but shifting, and Kore realized, with a jolt, that she had surprised him.

“How do you understand this? You’re the goddess of spring. New life.”

“Maybe I’m more than those things.” As she heard herself say it, the truth of it rang through her like a struck bell. Kore just described herself accurately for the first time in her life.

“Thank you for seeing me as more than just death.”

“Thank you. I mean. For letting me be honest these last few days.”

She left him there, a dark figure against all that color. But she carried him with her. The way he’d looked at her as if she were remarkable. The walk home felt longer than ever.

####

The afternoon sun fell golden across the courtyard as Minthe braided white anemones into a garland when Kore passed through it. The flowers were too formal for any occasion she knew of, their stems wrapped in gold thread, the kind of meticulous work Minthe did only when Demeter specifically requested it. Under any other circumstances, Kore might have asked about the garland. But today, she kept her stride long and her eyes forward, her focus on the woods and Hades.

Kore found the clearing empty.

She stood at its edge for longer than made sense, scanning the tree line as if he might materialize from the shadows, if she looked hard enough. She sat down on their boulder and smoothed her chiton. Her rational mind said he’d been delayed; his duties in the Underworld didn’t pause because a goddess sat waiting in a forest. But underneath that reasonable voice ran a quieter, more honest one, asking when exactly she started thinking of this as “their” boulder.

Kore took pains with her appearance this morning. She changed her chiton twice, green, then white, then the green again, smoothing the fabric over her hips and telling herself the choice meant nothing. She even planned what she would say when she arrived. So as not to reveal that she replayed their conversation so many times that the words were carved in her memory. Untying the poultice bundle, her fingers sorted through the contents, her ritual whenever the rest of her threatened to come apart.

A split ran along the lower trunk of a sapling near the boulder, the bark peeling back from some old injury that never sealed properly. Rot softened the exposed heartwood, dark and spongy beneath the peeling edges. A compress of pine resin and dried sphagnum, packed into the wound, would draw out moisture and give the cambium a chance to close over. Her mind focused on how much of each was needed. Because the alternative meant admitting that she pinned precious and unnamed feelings on a god who owed her nothing. Of course, he hadn’t come. His wounds were healed. She’d given him no other reason to return. That humiliated her more than the empty clearing did.

She stood brushing leaf litter from her chiton. As she did, the split sapling groaned. Kore turned and watched the crack widen, the bark curled back another inch as pale fungal threads bloomed along the raw wood. Spreading in a lace-fine web where bare grain stood exposed only moments before. A root near her foot twisted, cracking through the soil, reaching toward her ankle. Warmth threaded up through Kore, the root climbing to meet her like a hand offered in the dark. For one unguarded breath, she let herself lean into it, and the mycelium hummed steadily beneath her, almost maternal in its patience. Behind her, ivy on the oak trunk thickened, spreading six inches in the time she’d been sitting there, and a cluster of mushrooms erupted at the base of the root, pale caps pushing through the bark. The ground had never comforted her before, cradling something raw in her without being asked. It shouldn’t have been able to do that. The taste of her breakfast rose sour against the back of her throat. She stepped back, and the root stilled.

Her breath caught, quick and shallow, as though she could hold the fear in by force. Whatever this power was becoming, it answered too fast, and Kore didn’t wait to see what else the ground might offer. She made her way from the clearing. During the walk home, she carried a hollowness along with her. That old numbness, the one she’d worn so long but had shed since meeting Hades, slid back over her.

In the main room of the villa, a bolt of fabric lay draped across a chair. Cream-colored, embroidered at the edges with gold laurel leaves, the kind of material she’d seen at formal ceremonies on Olympus. She tucked her arms closer to her body and kept walking. Her thoughts circled too tightly around themselves to catch on to anything outside her own head. The question of what Demeter planned buzzed at the edges of her awareness. But Kore couldn’t bring herself to think about it more because Demeter never shared her reasons until the moment suited her. And Kore did not have the energy to dread one more thing.

The next morning, as Kore went down to breakfast, she found Demeter already seated.

“You’ve been going to Pylos often.”

The bread in Kore’s hand crumbled onto her plate. “The villagers need help with their gardens.”

“The nymphs can handle it. I need you here. We have guests arriving this week, and there are preparations to discuss.”

“But Mother—”

“No arguments. You’re spending too much time away.” Demeter lifted her tea. “These are important alliances. The realm’s prosperity depends on the relationships we cultivate with the other houses. Every goddess has a role to play in maintaining the peace, and you are no exception.”

Kore knew alliances weren’t maintained through diplomacy alone. They were sealed through marriages, daughters given and received. Demeter reached across the table and took Kore’s hand.

“Apollo is coming to visit. You’ll need to be presentable.”

The fruit at the center of the table blurred. A refusal formed in her throat, pressing outward, but when it reached her mouth, it came out barely louder than a whisper. “I’m not interested in Apollo.”

“This isn’t about interest, Kore. It’s about duty. The realm needs stability, and stability requires sacrifice. I thought I raised you to understand that.” Demeter squeezed Kore’s hands. The conversation was finished.

That evening, she paced the hidden garden. Beneath her feet, the soil hummed. She could feel it wanting to respond, to answer whatever churned through her, and she pressed it down the way she pressed everything down. A vine of honeysuckle curled toward her wrist. She pulled her hand away.

“Please,” she whispered, “Come tomorrow.”

####

Kore paced at the window in her room. Every sensible bone in her body told her to stay. Sit in the villa, let Kalligeneia braid her hair, and forget the ache of yesterday’s empty clearing. She should stop thinking about the lopsided pull of Hades’ mouth, or the way the world went quiet when he looked at her. But the uncertainty of it all burrowed under her skin. If he chose to stay away, the empty clearing would be the answer she would receive.

She cleared the courtyard gate before the thought finished forming. By the tree line, her walk became a run, Kore’s sandals sliding on damp leaves, her breath coming fast. The clearing opened before her.

Hades stood near their boulder, his fingers hovering above pale mushroom caps. He turned toward her, and his whole body locked, lilac eyes widening, a new unguarded expression moved across his face.

“You didn’t come yesterday,” her voice came out winded.

“I had duties in my realm. I couldn’t leave, and no way to send word. I didn’t want you to think I chose not to come.”

She moved toward him. Her hands found his forearm out of habit, fingers meeting healed skin. Faint silver scars, pale against grey. She traced one slowly, her fingertip reading the rigid tissue.

His breath caught. Beneath her touch, his forearm tensed.

She pulled back. “Sorry—”

“Don’t be. Why did you come?” Hades searched her face with an attention that felt different from before. Sharper. More urgent. “You didn’t know if I’d be here.”

The words were there at the tip of her tongue. I wanted to see you. I needed to know if what I felt was real. I missed you. “I wanted to make sure everything healed properly.”

“Thanks to you, I am perfectly healed. I cannot thank you enough for your care.”

She looked up, memorizing every detail. The way his dark hair fell in waves around sharp cheekbones. The strong line of his mouth that teased her and spoke to her of literature and philosophy.

“I just wanted to help. After you saved me, it was the least I could do.”

Hades stepped closer, and she could smell the dark, earthy scent that clung to him. His amethyst orbs bored into hers with an intensity that made her forget her own name.

“Kore.”

Her name sounded reverent on his lips, sacred, like a whispered prayer.

His hand rose to cup her cheek, fingers tracing the curly green strands of her hair. He touched her with such tenderness as if she might shatter beneath anything less. She leaned into his palm, craving his touch. Hades leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers. His breathing came as ragged as her own. For a long moment, he stayed close enough that she could feel each exhale against her lips.

Then he stepped away. The distance opened between them like a wound. Fingers sliding from her hair to her shoulder, and then away. She watched his expression close over, piece by piece. But she could see the effort it took, the way he swallowed once, hard, and the way his hands curled at his sides as if they were arguing with the rest of him.

“I have to go.” He turned from her, and the shadows began their slow gathering at his feet, dark tendrils curling upward around his ankles.

Kore didn’t say anything. Didn’t trust her voice. She watched the darkness climb his legs, wrap around his waist. This is the last time. He’s going to walk into the dark, and he’s going to forget all about me. The shadows reached his chest when it stopped.

She watched the tension in his shoulders give way, not all at once, but in a slow collapse, vertebra by vertebra, a visible fracture in his rigid posture, and he turned around. He crossed the distance between them in two strides. Hades hands cradled her face, his mouth met hers with a softness that undid her, tender and unhurried as if they had all the time in the world. Her eyes fluttered closed. The world narrowed to the places where their bodies connected. Then his hand tightened in her hair, angling her head just so, and the kiss deepened. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, a question she answered by opening for him. He tasted nothing like Kore expected. Warm, faintly sweet, like a honeycomb left out in the sun. The god of the dead had no business tasting like something so alive. Her fingers curled into his chest of their own accord, nails catching on fabric because she needed to anchor herself, or she’d float away.

His other hand found her waist, spanning the curve there, burning through the thin material of her chiton. She made a small, needy sound that should have embarrassed her, but instead made him pull her closer until no space existed between them. Until she could feel the hard planes of his body against her delicate curves.

Heat spiraled through her, pooling low and insistent. She’d never been kissed like this or wanted to climb inside someone’s skin and live there. The kiss turned desperate, hungry, all pretense of gentleness abandoned as they took from each other what they’d been denying themselves.

When he broke away, he didn’t go far. His thumbs traced her cheekbones. Kore resisted the urge to touch her lips, to chase that feeling of being claimed and cherished all at once.

“If you’re ever in trouble, say my name.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I will hear you. No matter where you are, Kore. I will come.”

The shadows surged, wrapping around him faster this time; the darkness swirled upward, black tendrils obscuring his form until only those violet eyes remained, burning through the smoke.

She whispered his name. He smiled, sad and hungry in equal measure. And then the shadows consumed him completely, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of earth after rain.

####

Light poured from every window of the villa when Kore arrived home. Hercyna waited in the courtyard, flushed, barely containing herself.

“Your mother wants to see you immediately.”

“Why?”

“She has news. Good news, she says.”

Kore entered the villa. Demeter stood in the center of the main room, surrounded by nymphs. The bolts of cream fabric no longer occupied the chair. The white anemone garland hung above the doorway. Her mother smiled with the radiance she reserved for occasions when the world arranged itself exactly to her desires.

“There you are. Sit down, Kore. We have much to discuss.”

Kore sat.

“I have wonderful news. Apollo has formally requested your hand in marriage.”

The room tilted.

“I’ve accepted on your behalf. He’ll visit tomorrow to finalize the betrothal.”

Demeter’s voice echoed her future plans. And Kore sat in her chair with this knowledge assembling itself inside her, piece by piece, clicking into place with the same sick precision as the garland, the fabric, and the formal preparations she’d walked past for days without seeing.

“Kore? I asked if you’re pleased.”

Every face turned toward her.

“I... yes. Of course.” Flat. The worst performance of her life.

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“I’m just surprised.”

“Pleasantly surprised, I hope.” Demeter’s warmth gone.

Kore forced a smile, “Of course, Mother.”

Demeter nodded, moving on to timelines, preparations, and the work of making her daughter perfect for Apollo’s arrival.

Kore sat in her chair with a strained smile and his voice in her head. Say my name. I’ll hear you, and I’ll come.

Thank you for reading Chapter Two!

Below the Garden will be released the second full week (Mon - Sun) of every month. See you in August for Chapter 3!

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Last week, someone on Threads said something that has been rattling around in my brain ever since. They pointed out that 40 likes on a post might not seem like much at first. Until you think about 40 people stopping you on the street to say they liked something you said. That would feel a bit overwhelming.

And if 40 is overwhelming, then the 1400 kudos on my fanfiction has me floored. 1400 people not only read what I wrote but also felt compelled to leave a digital thumbs-up. This shift has really made me appreciate all the people who have engaged with my work. Like you, beautiful subscribers here. Thank you so much for being here month after month. It really does mean a lot!

Below the Garden

Speaking of being perceived. Thank you to everyone who read, shared, or liked Chapter One of Below the Garden. It became my most-read post on this here humble Substack. And to everyone who left comments, thanks so much. I loved reading your thoughts and interacting with you. I kept going back and rereading them like a weirdo. It means more than I can properly express, so I’ll just say thank you and keep it moving before I get emotional.

Now, because you’ve been so good to me, I wanted to give you a little taste of what’s coming. Below is a sneak peek of Chapter Two. Consider it a thank you for sticking with me on this one. I can’t wait to hear what you think when the full chapter drops next month.

The forest was loud with birdsong, and the canopy filtered light into long emerald shafts that turned the undergrowth luminous. Kore stepped over a fallen branch and adjusted the cloth bundle at her hip. She tried to keep her mind on the path and task ahead, but her mother’s scrutiny last night kept pace with her.

When she returned home yesterday, Kore knew before she reached the doorway that Demeter would be waiting, rehearsing her explanation during the walk home. She eased through the door on quiet feet, expression neutral, and her breathing even. The choreography practiced over years of learning to cross a room without raising questions.

Demeter sat in the main room, hands folded in her lap, oil lamps still burning. She did not need to ask a question. It was already there, written in the set of her mouth and the steady, searching quality of her dark eyes. The lamplight caught the strong lines of her cheekbones and the warm, golden glow of her skin that looked like Kore’s.

“There you are, daughter.”

Demeter’s gaze traveled over her. Kore held still for the inspection with familiar patience.

“I’m sorry, Mother. A minotaur attacked the village. I stayed to help someone who was injured.”

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with such trivialities, Kore. I know you like to play around with your little plants. But that is work for a proper healer.

It was the one mercy of her mother’s indifference. Kore could bury the truth inside details Demeter would never care enough to question.

“Were the gardens damaged? The restoration along the road?”

“Your flowers are fine, Mother.” For now, until the winter frosts get them.

“But why were you alone in the forest?”

“The nymphs had already gone back.”

Demeter’s expression shifted, a tightening around her eyes that she reserved for those who had failed her. “They left you?”

“I told them to go.” The words came out fast. Kore heard the urgency in her own voice and steadied it. “The restoration was nearly finished, and I wanted to stay and check the root systems one more time. I sent them ahead.”

“I give them one responsibility. Keep my daughter safe while she does her work. And they can’t manage even that.”

Guilt pooled in the soft hollow at the base of Kore’s throat. She and the nymphs weren’t close, but she didn’t want them to face their mother’s anger. “Mother, it wasn’t their fault. I insisted. They didn’t want to leave, but I told them I’d be right behind them. I just wanted to get the planting right. I wanted it to be perfect. For you.”

Her mother’s expression rearranged itself, the hardness around her eyes softening, the tight line of her mouth easing into something closer to warmth.

“Well,” Demeter’s voice changed. The blade tucked back into its sheath. “Your dedication isn’t what I’m questioning. It’s their judgment.”

Demeter rose from her chair, crossing the room with measured grace. Her hands found Kore’s shoulders, thumbs pressed against the curves of muscle there, a gesture that looked tender but, to Kore, felt like being pinned.

“A goddess alone in the forest after dark. Look at what almost happened.” Her thumbs pressed slightly harder. “Or worse, you could have been taken, Kore. Carried off to who knows where.”

A flicker crossed Demeter’s face, quick and involuntary, her dark eyes narrowing. Her fingers tightened a fraction and tilted her head. “Something is different about you.”

For a moment, the air locked in Kore’s lungs. But no, her mother could not know what happened in the woods. “I’m just tired, Mother.”

“You are my greatest achievement. You are promised for great things. There are those who would wish to sully your virtue. I will not see that diminished by carelessness.”

The words settled into Kore’s stomach, uneasy and churning.

“I have worked too hard, and we are so close. Do I need to keep you in your room to ensure you act properly?”

Flashes of panic rolled through. Compliance was the fastest way to keep the walls from closing in again. Kore shook her head.

“Good, go wash up. And tomorrow, you stay with the nymphs. No more wandering alone.”

Hoyden and the Duke

I honestly can’t remember the last time I mentioned Hoyden and the Duke here in the newsletters. My main focus has been on Below the Garden. But it’s Hoyden and the Duke that started me on this path to rediscover my love of writing. And it would be bad form not to dance with the one who brought me. But I have recently joined a new writing group (Hello New England Romance Writers!) with the sole intention of having them hold me accountable for keeping up with David and Beatrice. And it’s worked. I have recently been deep into edits of Chapter 4. And by “deep in edits” I mean wrestling with pacing, trying to get my characters to sound like themselves, and doing all of that while keeping the humor intact. Making a chapter feel both properly paced and genuinely funny is the kind of challenge that will have you staring at the same paragraph for an embarrassing amount of time. The good news is my writing group responded really well to the latest update, which gave me the push I needed to keep going. Progress is progress, even when it’s slow and stubborn.

Heart Awards

Speaking of Hoyden and the Duke, I got some great news last month. I’ve been nominated for an OKRWG Heart Award in the Historical Romance category for the first three chapters of Hoyden and the Duke. For those unfamiliar, OKRWG is the Oklahoma Romance Writers Guild, and the Heart Award is their annual contest recognizing unpublished romance manuscripts. This was one of the few contests I entered this year before I shifted my focus to Below the Garden, so getting that nomination email was a genuine surprise.

I never quite know how to talk about these things. I feel this push and pull between wanting people to read my work and wanting to hide under a blanket at the thought of strangers evaluating it. But then I remember the teachings of my most sacred text, “Yes, it’s scary, but you are brave.”

I just submit work I’m proud of, and then I let it go. But I’m so glad to land a nomination alongside other talented writers. I’ll take that win.

The Drama

I need to talk about The Drama. It has been living rent-free in my head for months.

On the surface, this is a movie about secrets and whether the people we love owe us sordid details of their lives. But the thing that keeps pulling me back is a thornier question: what does it mean to love someone fully as a flawed human being? And I mean fully. Not the version of them you’ve built in your head, not the version that makes you comfortable, but the real, complicated, sometimes terrifying whole person.

Spoilers ahead!!!

From the very first scene, Charlie is constructing a version of Emma. Their meet-cute is built on a lie, him pretending to have read her book, and there’s something telling about the fact that the foundation of their relationship is Charlie performing a version of himself to match the woman he’s already decided Emma is. He does this several times throughout the entire film. Her deafness is a cute quirk. Her quiet intensity is mysterious. She’s the girl reading alone in a café, and he’s the guy who gets to be with her. That’s the story he tells himself.

So when Emma’s confession shatters that image, Charlie doesn’t just lose trust in her. He loses trust in his own judgment. He decided to marry her. And now he has to sit with the fact that the Emma he fell in love with and the Emma who planned a school shooting at fifteen are the same person. That dissonance is what drives him for the rest of the film, not the confession itself.

Charlie doesn’t sit with that discomfort privately. He goes looking for someone, anyone, to tell him it’s okay to stay with Emma. He repackages Emma’s story for Mike and Rachel, softening the edges so they’ll give him permission to forgive her. He fumbles through a conversation with Rachel’s cousin Sam. He lays out a hypothetical for his coworker Misha that’s so transparent it’s painful to watch. Every single time, he’s outsourcing the most intimate decision of his life to people who aren’t in the relationship.

Meanwhile, Emma keeps offering him the simplest possible path forward. Start over. Reintroduce ourselves. Try again. She says this at the beginning of the film, and she says it at the end, and both times Charlie almost misses it because he’s too busy looking for answers everywhere except the person sitting right in front of him.

What wrecks me about the diner scene is that Charlie finally gets it. Not because someone gave him permission, but because he ran out of places to look. He made his own mess with Misha. He got beaten up at his own wedding. The people whose opinions he chased either judged him or failed him. And in that booth, battered and soaked, he’s not asking the world to forgive Emma anymore. He’s asking Emma to forgive him. Because he finally understands that the only validation that matters in a relationship is the one that happens between the two people in it. Just: do you choose me, knowing everything? Do I choose you?

That realization—that love isn’t about deserving or earning approval from the outside, but about two people deciding to see each other completely and stay anyway— has been rattling around in my brain since April.

I’d love to hear from you. Have you seen The Drama? And if so, do you think Charlie and Emma earned that diner scene, or did the film let them off too easily? Tell me in the comments; I want to fight about this lovingly.

Under the Whispering Door by TJ Klune

If you’re familiar with the work of TJ Klune, you already know he has this almost unfair ability to take a character you want to throw out a window and, slowly and carefully, make you love them. Wallace Price is, to put it kindly, the worst. He’s selfish, dismissive, and so thoroughly unpleasant that when he dies in the opening pages, my first reaction was “good.” But Klune doesn’t let you stay comfortable in that judgment. Page by page, Wallace starts to soften. He listens when he used to talk over people. He stays when he used to leave. The romance between Wallace and Hugo is the warm center of the whole thing. It builds through presence, through showing up for each other in ways that feel earned. Wallace is sitting with Hugo through his panic attacks. Hugo gives Wallace the space to become someone worth loving. It’s tender without being saccharine, which is a line Klune walks better than almost anyone writing romantic fantasy right now. And the supporting cast deserves their own round of applause. The other spirits passing through the tea shop each bring their own grief and humor, and Klune gives every one of them enough dimension that you feel the weight of their stories even in brief appearances. This is a book about death that somehow manages to feel like a celebration of what it means to be alive, connected, and willing to change. A perfect read any time, but an especially lovely one to close out Pride Month.

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) by CorvidCordelia

CorvidCordelia is one of my all-time favorite writers of Heated Rivalry fanfic. And this is one of my favorite AU (alternative universe) fics. It’s a Pride and Prejudice retelling with Shane and Ilya as writers in NYC.(I’ll let you figure out who is Darcy and who is Elizabeth 😜) CorvidCordelia’s writing is evocative and moving. From Hampton getaways, NYC writing gliterati events, and a pivotal upstate NY writing getaway. You really feel immersed in this world. And Shane and Ilya in this work feel so lived in and true to the Hollonov that I fell in love with in the Heated Rivalry universe. Yes, it’s fanfiction, but it’s a love letter to NYC, writers, and the art of writing. Okay, brb just convinced myself I need to re-read this.

Heartstopper, Forever

Can you believe it? Heartstopper is ending (both the show and the comic, poor one out for the homies). The series-ending movie premieres July 17 on Netflix. Fun fact: when Heartstopper premiered in 2022, it became my special interest (à la Heated Rivalry) and consumed me. I devoured the comics and any piece of fan art I could get my hands on. I’m genuinely gonna miss Charlie and Nick. They have a beautiful love story that is a great example of young love to people of all ages.

Music

I have been listening to a steady rotation of you seem pretty sad for a girl in love by Olivia Rodrigo, Florescence by Maisie Peters, and Infinity Songs’ self-titled album. They all contain a mix of summer bops (stupid song, Hurricane, and My Regards), (Speaking of My Regards, I made a fan edit, my best one yet if you ask me!) melancholy love songs (You You You, Running Away, what’s wrong with me), and f**k you anthems (cigarette smoke, Old Fashioned, Stranger Danger). This is the soundtrack of my summer.

If you made it this far, you’re officially my favorite kind of person. If anything this month made you laugh or think, consider sharing it with a friend who also loves talking about all things romance. They’ll fit right in.

Happy June, and see you next month!

-Jackie T

The soil kept calling to Kore. The longing was familiar to her now, but she ignored the ground whispering against her feet. She sat cross-legged in the grass of the meadow, her chiton pooled around her knees, one hand trailing through a patch of crocuses she’d coaxed up an hour ago. Pollen dusted her forearms, golden against umber skin already streaked with soil. The delicate purple and yellow heads bobbed, releasing their perfume. She inhaled. Held it. Waiting for that rush of kinship with growing things, the tender ache of the world waking up. She’d heard Demeter talk about it her whole life. But the crocuses smelled like crocuses and nothing more.

The sun pressed against Kore’s skin as Kalligeneia laughed along with Hercyna, the sound bright as it floated in the wind. She focused on the crocuses again, but the soil persisted, low and certain. Finally relenting to the siren call, she placed her palm deep into the earth. Kore’s awareness sank past the flowers, past the topsoil, down into the tangle of fungal threads stitching through the dark. Mycorrhizal networks, pale and branching, swapped phosphorus for sugar. Microbes dismantled last autumn’s leaves into soft black loam six inches below her knee. Her eyes closed, comforted by all the life she found. Here is where she found the ancient power her mother often spoke of. If she were being honest, Kore knew this was not what her mother hoped she would find in the meadow outside Pylos. As she pulled her hands back, she ached as she lost connection to the world below. Automatically, Kore smiled. She knew the nymphs were watching. The pressure to radiate joy as the goddess of spring gripped her lungs like a fist.

“Kore, do you think the irises should go nearer to the road?” Hercyna crouched a few yards away, tucking a vine back behind her ear where it had slipped loose. The leaves woven through her golden hair were starting to wilt in the heat, though she didn’t seem to notice.

“Mm. Yes. The road would be lovely.” Kore heard her own voice as if from a great distance. Every iris bulb they created today would die by winter. They needed well-drained soil, and the ground along the road was dense clay that held water until it stagnated. But her mother wanted irises, along the road where the villagers would see them, and so irises it would be.

Mother, shouldn’t we plant crops here? Native grasses? Or feverfew, along the road, so villagers could pick it easily when their children were sick? The memory surfaced unbidden. Demeter’s villa, three days ago, morning light pouring through the open colonnade while her mother arranged peony blossoms in a kylix. Kore stood in the doorway with her hands clasped.

Darling, nobody wants to walk past a road full of weeds. Pylos needs beauty, not your dreary practicality. These flowers will show them the goddess’s favor. Her mother hadn’t even paused or looked up as she dismissed Kore.

Kore’s fists tightened around the grass. Acid crawled up her sternum before she could swallow it back down, hot and useless. She glanced at her hands; the grass in her fist was crushed, leaking green against her palm. As she placed her hands in the soil, it already reached toward the dying plant with eagerness. Dying things still had so much life to give.

“Oh, Kore, have you heard?” Minthe appeared at her side, dropping to the grass in a flurry of lavender hair and breathless energy. Minthe’s pale skin was flushed pink across the nose from the sun.

“Your mother is apparently considering marriage proposals for you.”

Kore caught fragments over the past few months, half-heard conversations that quieted when she entered a room. Minthe, who collected gossip the way other nymphs collected wildflowers, would never have uttered a word unless she considered it common knowledge. Which meant everyone knew. The attendants, the nymphs, and probably half of Olympus. Everyone except the woman being bartered. Heat rushed to Kore’s face.

“Is she?”

“Kalligeneia heard it from one of Demeter’s attendants. Multiple gods are lining up.”

Kalligeneia drifted over, the small white flowers in her dark hair catching the light as she settled onto the grass. Sweat glistened on her ebony skin.

“The perfect spring bride. You’re the embodiment of it, you know. The suitors won’t know what to do with themselves.”

Kore held her smile. If it slipped, and a hint of her displeasure got back to Demeter, there would be consequences. Better to scream in private than face one of her mother’s punishments.

“Kore?” Kalligeneia’s voice broke through. “You look tired. Should we leave? Would you like that?”

As if Kore had ever had a say in when they arrived or departed. Kore didn’t doubt Kalligenia’s kindness, but the offer rang hollow.

“Yes,” Kore said. “You go.”

Three lovely faces turned toward her at once, puzzled, and the old familiar work of assembling herself began. Shoulders back, chin up, and that little smile with her teeth tucked away. Her mother called it her bright face and had often praised her for it. Every so often, Kore wondered how her mother would react if she discovered she named a mask.

“Go ahead, tell Mother that I want to look at our work over the meadow. You know it must be perfect. I’ll be home before the second hour.”

Kalligeneia hesitated, and Hercyna opened her mouth.

“Go, I’m not a child. I can walk across a meadow by myself.” Kore laughed. Using the right sing-song lilt she had practiced. After some additional assurances that Kore would be fine and on her way soon, they relented. She watched them cross the field in a little chattering cluster, Kalligeneia’s hair catching the sun, Hercyna turning once to wave, Minthe already describing something with her hands. Kore raised her own hand in answer and held the smile until they crested the low rise and disappeared.

Then she let it drop. Her jaw ached along with the small muscles around her eyes. She put her hand on her cheek to stave off the tears that threatened to fall. She turned east, toward the tangled edge of the meadow, toward the wild wood she had been watching out of the corner of her eye.

At the tree line, she paused. She could still turn around, run after the nymphs, catch them at the lower field, and say, I changed my mind, wait for me. The afternoon would still unfold along its pretty, predictable course, and she would go to bed tonight in her clean room in the villa, and she would be, by every visible measure, the most fortunate young goddess.

Her sandals sank into the leaf litter of the wood, the soft, layered mulch of seasons’ worth of fallen things breaking down into soil. Kore walked without any real destination, letting the woods decide her path, which was, in itself, a novelty. Her days were so carefully cultivated, shepherded from task to task. Whenever an opportunity to be alone presented itself. She would claw at it with both hands. She knew a good daughter or friend would not desire to be away from those who loved her. But today her desperation burned stronger than her shame.

The wild woods welcomed her, no manicured gardens or carefully tended groves like at her mother’s villa, just raw nature following its own chaotic rules. Ancient trees stretched overhead, their canopy so thick it filtered the sunlight into green twilight. As Kore passed a tree, she ran her fingers along the rough bark.

Hello.

It hummed against her palm. Beneath her feet, the taproots were pulling water up from a spring far below the surface. In the loam, a field mouse began its transition into sustenance that would feed the new grass by the next new moon. None of the nymphs could feel any of this. She was certain of that. As a child, Kore had asked Kalligeneia whether she had ever heard the dead things in the soil singing, and Kalligeneia had gone pale and made a sign against ill luck and kissed Kore’s forehead. She had not asked the question since.

As she leaned against the tree, the forest quieted around her. The hair lifted on the back of her neck. She was being watched. She scanned the tree line, the dense tangle of scrub oak and wild laurel, the shadows pooling between the trunks where the canopy blocked the last of the afternoon light. Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. Kore turned just as a massive shape crashed through a stand of young trees, snapping saplings like winter kindling. Bull-shouldered, a head taller than any mortal, shaggy with a coarse black pelt, and horns the length of her forearm curving up from a heavy skull. Its eyes, a yolk yellow and fixed on hers with a predatory hunger.

Her powerful legs propelled her forward, thighs burning as her sandals slipped on fallen leaves, branches whipping at her face and arms as she escaped through the forest. Behind her, the creature’s hooves thundered against the earth. She could hear its ragged panting, getting closer. The sound filled her skull. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it pulsed in her teeth. Sweat stung her eyes. Her foot snagged on a root, and she pitched forward, palms slamming against rough bark that scraped her skin. Underneath her panic, the part of her that had always lived in the soil simply reached out and pulled. Vines came up out of the ground like they had been waiting. Bramble, first, whole ropes of it, whip-fast, flinging themselves across the space between her and the creature in a snarled green web of inch-long thorns. The ease of it shocked her. She hadn’t concentrated the way Demeter taught, palms flat, breathing measured, an intention offered. She had just wanted, and the earth had answered as if it had been listening all along. Ivy followed, thick old ropes of it coming out of the oaks, and, bizarrely, a length of wild grape, and the whole mass of it boiled up behind her and laid itself across the bull’s path in a hedge as tall as her chin. The bull tore through it. Thorns raked red lines across its flank, and it did not slow down at all. She flung out both hands, and roots heaved up out of the soil like black serpents. They snarled around the bull’s ankles. She saw the creature go down, hard, onto its knees.

Good.

She turned and ran again. Because she had never done this before, Kore did not think about whether she could; she reached deeper. The dead wood answered her. Half-rotted husks of oaks heaved up out of the ground. Gray, spongy and shot through with pale fungus, soft as wet bread in places and hard as bone in others, rose and twisted and caught the bull at the shoulder just as it lunged again. The creature staggered, and the power that Kore had been told her whole life to keep hidden went singing up her spine like a struck string.

I can do that?

She would think about that later if she had a later. She shoved down the unfairness of discovering these new powers while running for her life.

The bull tore free. The dead roots shattered in soft black pieces, dust and mushroom spores fogging the air where they had been, and it was coming again, faster now, enraged, horns lowered. A head of her was a beech, smooth-barked, with one low branch at just the right height. As Kore launched herself, her muscles unknotted all at once, her next breath came out ragged, like a sob. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the bark. She hauled herself up, powerful shoulders and thick legs working together to drive her higher. She climbed two more branches before her strength gave out, and then she wrapped herself around the trunk and held on.

The bull crashed into the trunk below her, and the whole tree shuddered. A shower of green leaves came down around her head, and a finch shrieked out of its nest. The bull reared and slammed its shoulder into the trunk again. The tree cracked. Her eyes searched in a last desperate calculation, scanning the canopy for another branch, some other tree. There was nothing close enough. The trunk trembled under her palms, and she laid her cheek against the bark and squeezed her eyes shut. Please, if anyone can hear, please help me. The prayer drifted into the air, and she did not know who would hear her out here.

As she held on, a shadow moved across the forest. The darkness parted like fabric, revealing a figure that materialized from the emptiness between trees, as if he’d stepped through a doorway. The figure moved with predatory silence toward the raging minotaur, darkness clinging to him like a living thing. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wielded a black blade that swallowed light whole. No metal she’d ever seen held such depth, such absolute absence of reflection. Staring at it, understanding sparked in her mind. The blade had been forged from pure void.

As he crossed the distance toward the minotaur, a tingling started in the centers of her palms and marched up her arms. A sudden, acute awareness of her own skin, as if every nerve ending had turned itself outward to face him, the way flowers turn toward light. She had no name for it. Only that her grip on the bark loosened a fraction without her permission, her body making some wordless decision.

The minotaur swung toward him then, all that bulk and fury finally registering the new presence. It bellowed, and the sound cracked through the trees like split timber. Kore’s stomach dropped, a sickening plunge. The minotaur lowered its horns and charged, and the god stepped to the left. He moved with practiced precision, each step calculated. Unfortunately, the minotaur’s talons found their mark, raking across his chest and arm, drawing golden blood that shimmered as it fell to the ground. But his blade came up, and the god drove his attack until his sword pierced the beast’s heart. The creature’s legs crumbled to the forest floor, the blade buried to the hilt, and a sound came out of it that was less a roar than a long, wet exhalation.

The body began to dissolve. The flesh darkened and thinned, turning to shadow, then smoke, pulling apart and sinking downward, drawn into the earth as if the ground itself were inhaling. In the space of a few breaths, the minotaur was gone. Only a patch of scorched earth remained, the leaf litter burned away in a rough circle, the soil beneath it blackened.

She became aware of several things in rapid, ungraceful succession. Her arms were shaking, the fine continuous tremor of muscles held past their limit. And her eyes had not moved from him since he’d stepped out of the dark.

He turned, looking up at her. She’d never seen eyes with such a velvety richness. Her scalp prickled all at once, heat moving from her hairline down the back of her neck in an unfamiliar wave. She blinked first, glancing away to climb down. Her legs were unsteady against the bark, dropping the last few inches in front of her rescuer.

She knew Hades by reputation, rumors, and countless warnings from her mother, with words like “dangerous” and “brute.” She had pictured something monstrous, but the god before her looked nothing like the nightmares that spoke of him. Instead, he quietly rearranged his features; she almost missed the subtle hardening around the mouth and the careful steadying of his gaze to somewhere off in the middle distance. She recognized the exhausting invisible work of arranging yourself to someone’s expectations. How many times had she done exactly that in front of Demeter, holding still while her mother searched her expression for the daughter she wanted to find?

Now she stood in front of him, discovering that what she’d been told might not be true. The wariness bled out of her so fast she felt lightheaded. Whatever fear her mother meant to instill, Kore could not stand here and watch him wear it. She didn’t have it in her. The cruelty of it sat too close to what she carried every single day, and she rejected it with a fierceness that surprised her.

“Thank you,” she said, looking him in the eyes.

The fight left his dark hair wild, sticking to his temples and curling at his neck, while his violet eyes pinned her in place with razor focus. Golden ichor seeped through the tears in his black chiton, the fabric clinging to wounds that stood out starkly against his grey skin.

“You’re hurt.” She approached him, already reaching for the gashes that painted his chest.

He stepped back. “I’m fine.” He winced when his injured arm moved, sending fresh ichor trickling down to his wrist.

“No, you’re bleeding.”

The whispers on Olympus painted him as unfeeling, but pain flickered across his features before he could mask it.

“It will heal.”

“Sit…please.”

For a moment, she thought he might say no. His jaw clenched shut, pride holding every muscle taut. Kore placed her palm gently against his uninjured shoulder, applying just enough pressure to guide him backward. His skin was warmer than she expected, and a strange, low hum traveled through her like the first breath of autumn cutting through the end of summer. With that slight pressure, his knees buckled slightly, allowing her to push him down onto a fallen log. He looked down at her hand on his shoulder as though he were not entirely sure what it was.

“This isn’t necessary,” he said quietly.

“Hush.” She did not know where the strong voice came from inside her, but Hades, God of the Underworld, Receiver of the Dead, feared up and down the length of Hellas hushed. Something flickered across his face. Not anger exactly, but something adjacent, a subtle contraction around his eyes, the micro-expression of a man unaccustomed to being told what to do by anyone, let alone a goddess half his size with dirt under her fingernails.

She knelt beside him, calling into the earth. Power answered, rising through her like a second heartbeat. Comfrey, willow bark, lavender, and a mushroom, its cap dark and furred and smelling of wet copper. She crushed everything together into a paste that was fragrant and strange, green-brown and flecked with threads of mycelium that caught the light. Her hands moved with a sureness she hadn’t felt in months. This, at least, she could do. As she worked, her gaze kept drifting sideways. Hades was difficult to ignore. Tall and angular, grey skin catching the filtered light through the canopy, and nothing about him matched the gods she’d grown up watching parade through Olympus. Kore could not figure out why that pulled at her harder than any of the beauty she’d been taught to admire.

“Thank you again for helping me.”

When he finally spoke, his voice rumbled deep in his chest. “Pylos is under my protection. I heard your prayer. What does all of that do?” he asked. The blunt directness caught her off guard.

She didn’t look up as she spoke. “Comfrey knits tissue, willow bark pulls the heat out of a wound so the body doesn’t fight itself trying to heal, lavender cleans, and this,” she picked up the mushroom and turned it between her fingers, “stops infection. The dark ones are always best.” She went on about the difference between mushrooms and fungi, how all mushrooms were fungi but not all fungi were mushrooms, how most people used the terms interchangeably, and it drove her half mad.

“It’s like calling every nymph a dryad. You’d have an ocean naiad trying to live in a tree.” She snorted, a graceless little sound that had no business coming out of a goddess, and clamped her mouth shut with her teeth sinking into her lower lip. Warmth spread in a slow flood that settled across her back. Her shoulders climbed toward her ears before she could stop them. His face would have that familiar topography, the slight narrowing of the eyes, and the pinch at the corners of the mouth that meant, why are you like this?

When she finally looked up, his eyes were already on her. But Kore didn’t see disgust or the careful blankness of the nymphs when she talked too long about root rot or the lifecycle of decomposing wood. Instead, one corner of his mouth turned up, small and lopsided, pulling at that full lower lip. He looked, and she could not believe she was thinking this, like he wanted her to keep going. She could see it in his shoulders, in the slight forward angle of his frame, dark hair falling across his forehead, all of it tilted toward her with a sharpness of attention she couldn’t categorize because she had nothing to compare it against.

Then she watched him catch himself. He leaned back, and his jaw tightened a fraction, his expression pulling back toward neutral the way a hand pulls back from a flame, but the recovery came a half-second too late. She was surprised that both of those things had happened on the face of a god who, she was increasingly certain, did not do this.

Kore dropped her gaze and remembered, with a start, that she was supposed to be doing something with the paste cooling in her hands. She cleared her throat. “I’m going to put this on the cuts on your arm. It will sting at first.”

He gave a single nod, and she touched her fingers to the edge of the wound on his upper arm. The hard swell of muscle gave way to the softer skin at the crease of his inner elbow, and her mouth went dry. He turned his head in the opposite direction. She slowly smoothed the paste along the full length of the cut on his forearm, thumbs brushing the uninjured skin as Kore tried very hard not to think about the fact that she needed two hands to wrap around his forearm.

“Your tunic, I need to see the wound,” she told him.

He turned around but didn’t answer. Again, the seconds passed, but Kore remained patient. Waiting had never been difficult for her. She rarely had the same courtesy extended to her, so she offered it to others at every chance.

“Yes.” He reached for the tattered fabric, elegant fingers closed around the torn edge, and pulled. But before he even made it halfway, his body betrayed him. The muscles across his shoulder seized, his breath locked mid-inhale. Pain, naked and unguarded, skittered across his face before it turned to frustration, his brow contracting.

Her hand closed around his wrist. She didn’t ask for permission, because asking would have given him a chance to refuse.

“Stop,” she said.

His hand stilled under hers. Hades’ wrist was thick, his pulse rapid and hammering against her palm in a way that contradicted everything his face was trying to tell her.

She uncurled his fingers from the fabric, one at a time, the way she untangled roots from soil when she didn’t want to damage them. Kore knew the moment he gave in to her ministrations. The sudden softening of tendons as his hand went slack, as if he had simply run out of the energy required to fight with her. He lowered his hands back to his thighs, palms up.

His skin held the luminescence of a pearl and granite. Broad shoulders gave way to a chest carved with lean muscle. Nothing exaggerated or overdone, just strength earned through use. Her eyes followed the golden ichor seeping from the wound across his chest, and beneath the blood she could see the lean, ridged plane of his stomach, the way his body narrowed at the waist.

In moments of stress, Kore recited formal plant names to calm her mind. As she focused on cleaning, chillea millefolium, artemisia absinthium, and calendula officinalis echoed in her mind. It half worked. The words kept her hands steady and her mind occupied, but his proximity kept interrupting the catalog, the warmth of him, the cool-earth smell of his skin, the way she could feel the slow rhythm of his breathing beneath her palms.

“What were you doing out here alone?”

“Growing flowers for the villagers. The nymphs and I were helping restore what the drought damaged.” The familiar lie formed on her lips, the same excuse she’d given countless times. “I wanted to stay behind and—”

But his expression held no judgment. She stopped mid-sentence, offering the truth instead of practiced deception.

“Actually,” she said quietly, “The nymphs were talking about suitors. My mother has been entertaining them for months now, and Kalligeneia wanted to discuss it. I couldn’t sit there and smile through it anymore. I just wanted a moment where nobody was planning my life for me.”

She waited for the gentle correction. The reminder that marriage was a blessing, that she should be grateful, that most goddesses would love to have her options. Demeter’s version came with a warm hand on her cheek. The nymphs’ version came with confused glances. Hades said nothing. He’d heard her and apparently found her answer sufficient. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Her attentions sharpened on him; he really wasn’t like anything she’d heard or encountered before.

“There.” She smoothed the last compress into place, with a small jolt beneath her sternum, “That should help with the healing.”

Kore settled back on her heels. She wiped her hands on her chiton slowly, buying time, and felt the absence of the task between them. He reminded her of the dark, fertile quiet that existed before seeds split open, and the recognition unsettled her because she had no reason to find comfort in a god of death. And yet her hands wanted to learn the geography of him the way her fingers learned root systems, pressing slow and deliberate into unfamiliar ground, following the path down.

“The poultices need changing every twenty-four hours for best results,” she said, in a steady instructional tone. “I can prepare more for you to take—”

“Anything I bring from this realm into the Underworld dies. The transition is not kind to living things.”

“Oh.” She never considered how his realm might affect the healing plants. “I don’t mind returning tomorrow at the same time. To change the poultices, I mean. If you’d like.”

Kore noticed a flicker behind his eyes, a quick calculation. She watched him search her face. She held still and let him look. Whatever confirmation he needed, he must have found it as he echoed, “Tomorrow.”

He moved to stand. She rose quickly, gripping his uninjured arm to brace him, and felt the dense swell of muscle beneath her fingers. As he stood, the full height of him poured over her like a shadow. He turned his face down toward hers. She became aware of how close they were, close enough to feel his warmth and see the individual striations in his amethyst irises. At that, her body did something involuntary and absurd. Her toes curled inside her sandals. Every single one of them, gripping the leather as if the ground had shifted beneath her and she needed to hold on.

“Thank you.” His voice came out rough. His eyes were closed, and when he opened them again, whatever had been trying to surface was gone, folded back behind the composure.

Neither of them moved. She should leave. The distance between them felt both too much and not nearly enough.

“Tomorrow then,” she said softly and forced herself to step back. She turned before she could change her mind, before her mouth offered up something her pride wouldn’t survive. When she finally glanced over her shoulder at the clearing’s edge, he was still there, watching her, a dark silhouette against deepening shadows.

Her pulse throbbed at her throat. She lifted one hand in a small wave, then slipped into the light. The forest thinned around her, and the last of the canopy gave way to open sky, and Kore realized she was already counting the hours until she could walk back into the dark.

Thank you for reading Chapter One. Below the Garden will be released the second full week (Mon - Sun) of every month. See you in July for Chapter 2!

Words not capturing your feelings? Try one of these:

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”

- 📖 “Lurker”

- 👀 “Not my usual genre…..but you’ve made me curious”

- 🥹 “First of all, how dare you (affectionate)”

- 🫴 “You have more, give?”

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Montgomery and Taggert

Chester CT

This is a quaint romance-focused bookshop straight out of Stars Hollow. [Bonus points: they have a Stars Hollow corner in the shop.] Loved this bookshop! How can I not love a place with not one but TWO cutouts of Hudson Williams and Conner Storrie? And the book selection was top tier. They have sections dedicated to Historical Romance with the heavy hitter authors, think Julia Quinn, Beverly Jenkins, Courtney Milan, etc. Along with contemporary authors Lindz McLeod, Alexandra Vasti, and Adrianna Herra. They also have robust Romantasy sections, including Fourth Wing, Ice Planet Barbarians, and everything in between. The contemporary section was also well stocked; the entire back room was dedicated to contemporary romance. You can also get lots of bookish accessories here, like notebooks, pens, stickers, etc.

Enchanted Violet

Southington CT

This book shop is dedicated to carrying LGBTQ books. So you get plenty of representation alongside the romance of your choice here. There is a very robust Yuri/Yaoi/Dan Mei manga section. Since the bookshop’s focus is queer representation, it carries multiple genres beyond romance, such as horror, mystery, YA, and children’s books. They also have a cool light setup for when they host Sensory Hours. And another top-tier sticker selection. Along with really cool jewelry and scents.

Blush Book Lounge

Shelton CT

This is an adorable romance-themed bookstore with a great selection of books. The shop is broken up into 3 themed rooms: Western, Contemporary, and Romantasy/Sci-Fi. Each room is fully dedicated to books on the subject. They also host events in their space several times a month. I decided to do something different and bought a few blind dates with a book here. I’m quite excited to get through them.

Tell me about your favorite independent bookshop in the comments, and let’s show them some love!

I was ten when Disney’s Hercules sent me spiraling into a mythology obsession. (I have been hyperfixating/gaining special interests since I was young. Heated Rivalry is just the latest in a long line.) I watched the VHS enough times to wear it out. I wanted to learn more about the gods and goddesses I was introduced to. So I did what any nerdy kid does: went to the library and checked out every book on Greek mythology I could find. Color me surprised when the stories I read were nothing like the light and fun Disney movies. But I was still intrigued by what I found. It’s here that I first discover the tale of Persephone.

As I’ve grown older, the story has stuck with me because I didn’t have the language for it then, but the original myths aren’t told from Persephone’s perspective. This thought gnawed at me until I couldn’t contain it anymore. And Below the Garden was born.

I have been editing this story for the past year, since I first wrote it back in July 2025. I am both excited and anxious about sharing this story with you on June 9th, 2026. Below is a snippet of Below the Garden. (Also shout to my fellow writers, the file name I used for this version is Final V2 - Use This 😂)

The soil kept calling to Kore. The longing was familiar to her now, but she ignored the ground whispering against her feet. She sat cross-legged in the grass of the meadow, her chiton pooled around her knees, one hand trailing through a patch of crocuses she’d coaxed up an hour ago. Pollen dusted her forearms, golden against umber skin already streaked with soil. The delicate purple and yellow heads bobbed, releasing their perfume. She inhaled. Held it. Waiting for that rush of kinship with growing things, the tender ache of the world waking up. She’d heard Demeter talk about it her whole life. But the crocuses smelled like crocuses and nothing more.

The sun pressed against Kore’s skin as Kalligeneia laughed along with Hercyna, the sound bright as it floated in the wind. She focused on the crocuses again, but the soil persisted, low and certain. Finally relenting to the siren call, she placed her palm deep into the earth. Kore’s awareness sank past the flowers, past the topsoil, down into the tangle of fungal threads stitching through the dark. Mycorrhizal networks, pale and branching, swapped phosphorus for sugar. Microbes dismantled last autumn’s leaves into soft black loam six inches below her knee. Her eyes closed, comforted by all the life she found. Here is where she found the ancient power her mother often spoke of. If she were being honest, Kore knew this was not what her mother hoped she would find in the meadow outside Pylos. As she pulled her hands back, she ached as she lost connection to the world below. Automatically, Kore smiled. She knew the nymphs were watching. The pressure to radiate joy as the goddess of spring gripped her lungs like a fist.

“Kore, do you think the irises should go nearer to the road?” Hercyna crouched a few yards away, tucking a vine back behind her ear where it had slipped loose. The leaves woven through her golden hair were starting to wilt in the heat, though she didn’t seem to notice.

“Mm. Yes. The road would be lovely.” Kore heard her own voice as if from a great distance. Every iris bulb they created today would die by winter. They needed well-drained soil, and the ground along the road was dense clay that held water until it stagnated. But her mother wanted irises, along the road where the villagers would see them, and so irises it would be.

Mother, shouldn’t we plant crops here? Native grasses? Or feverfew, along the road, so villagers could pick it easily when their children were sick? The memory surfaced unbidden. Demeter’s villa, three days ago, morning light pouring through the open colonnade while her mother arranged peony blossoms in a kylix. Kore stood in the doorway with her hands clasped.

Darling, nobody wants to walk past a road full of weeds. Pylos needs beauty, not your dreary practicality. These flowers will show them the goddess’s favor. Her mother hadn’t even paused or looked up as she dismissed Kore.

Kore’s fists tightened around the grass. Acid crawled up her sternum before she could swallow it back down, hot and useless. She glanced at her hands; the grass in her fist was crushed, leaking green against her palm. As she placed her hands in the soil, it already reached toward the dying plant with eagerness. Dying things still had so much life to give.

“Oh, Kore, have you heard?” Minthe appeared at her side, dropping to the grass in a flurry of lavender hair and breathless energy. Minthe’s pale skin was flushed pink across the nose from the sun.

“Your mother is apparently considering marriage proposals for you.”

Kore caught fragments over the past few months, half-heard conversations that quieted when she entered a room. Minthe, who collected gossip the way other nymphs collected wildflowers, would never have uttered a word unless she considered it common knowledge. Which meant everyone knew. The attendants, the nymphs, and probably half of Olympus. Everyone except the woman being bartered. Heat rushed to Kore’s face.

“Is she?”

“Kalligeneia heard it from one of Demeter’s attendants. Multiple gods are lining up.”

Kalligeneia drifted over, the small white flowers in her dark hair catching the light as she settled onto the grass. Sweat glistened on her ebony skin.

“The perfect spring bride. You’re the embodiment of it, you know. The suitors won’t know what to do with themselves.”

Kore held her smile. If it slipped, and a hint of her displeasure got back to Demeter, there would be consequences. Better to scream in private than face one of her mother’s punishments.

“Kore?” Kalligeneia’s voice broke through. “You look tired. Should we leave? Would you like that?”

As if Kore had ever had a say in when they arrived or departed. Kore didn’t doubt Kalligenia’s kindness, but the offer rang hollow.

“Yes,” Kore said. “You go.”

Three lovely faces turned toward her at once, puzzled, and the old familiar work of assembling herself began. Shoulders back, chin up, and that little smile with her teeth tucked away. Her mother called it her bright face and had often praised her for it. Every so often, Kore wondered how her mother would react if she discovered she named a mask.

“Go ahead, tell Mother that I want to look at our work over the meadow. You know it must be perfect. I’ll be home before the second hour.”

Kalligeneia hesitated, and Hercyna opened her mouth.

“Go, I’m not a child. I can walk across a meadow by myself.” Kore laughed. Using the right sing-song lilt she had practiced. After some additional assurances that Kore would be fine and on her way soon, they relented. She watched them cross the field in a little chattering cluster, Kalligeneia’s hair catching the sun, Hercyna turning once to wave, Minthe already describing something with her hands. Kore raised her own hand in answer and held the smile until they crested the low rise and disappeared.

Then she let it drop. Her jaw ached along with the small muscles around her eyes. She put her hand on her cheek to stave off the tears that threatened to fall. She turned east, toward the tangled edge of the meadow, toward the wild wood she had been watching out of the corner of her eye.

At the tree line, she paused. She could still turn around, run after the nymphs, catch them at the lower field, and say, I changed my mind, wait for me. The afternoon would still unfold along its pretty, predictable course, and she would go to bed tonight in her clean room in the villa, and she would be, by every visible measure, the most fortunate young goddess.

Her sandals sank into the leaf litter of the wood, the soft, layered mulch of seasons’ worth of fallen things breaking down into soil. Kore walked without any real destination, letting the woods decide her path, which was, in itself, a novelty. Her days were so carefully cultivated, shepherded from task to task. Whenever an opportunity to be alone presented itself. She would claw at it with both hands. She knew a good daughter or friend would not desire to be away from those who loved her. But today her desperation burned stronger than her shame.

The wild woods welcomed her, no manicured gardens or carefully tended groves like at her mother’s villa, just raw nature following its own chaotic rules. Ancient trees stretched overhead, their canopy so thick it filtered the sunlight into green twilight. As Kore passed a tree, she ran her fingers along the rough bark.

Hello.

It hummed against her palm. Beneath her feet, the taproots were pulling water up from a spring far below the surface. In the loam, a field mouse began its transition into sustenance that would feed the new grass by the next new moon. None of the nymphs could feel any of this. She was certain of that. As a child, Kore had asked Kalligeneia whether she had ever heard the dead things in the soil singing, and Kalligeneia had gone pale and made a sign against ill luck and kissed Kore’s forehead. She had not asked the question since.

As she leaned against the tree, the forest quieted around her. The hair lifted on the back of her neck. She was being watched. She scanned the tree line, the dense tangle of scrub oak and wild laurel, the shadows pooling between the trunks where the canopy blocked the last of the afternoon light. Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. Kore turned just as a massive shape crashed through a stand of young trees, snapping saplings like winter kindling. Bull-shouldered, a head taller than any mortal, shaggy with a coarse black pelt, and horns the length of her forearm curving up from a heavy skull. Its eyes, a yolk yellow and fixed on hers with a predatory hunger.

Besotted Books

As a lover and writer of historical romance, I find it saddening to see the unfortunate trend of publishers moving away from the genre. Indie author Andie James also sees this pattern. But rather than talk about the problem, she wants to try and solve it, with the creation of Besotted Books. Bestowed Books plans to publish 12 historical romances a year for 3 years. If you know anything about book publishing, it’s expensive and filled with risks. Andie will launch a Kickstarter campaign on June 9th to raise $450,000 to support Besotted Books. Andie is being transparent about the use of funds and logic for the funding. She also has several other posts discussing the donation levels and their associated perks. I personally plan to support at the Duchess tier.

This project is a labor of love, and if you, like me, believe that romance of all kinds deserves some time in the sun, please help support her Kickstarter and follow her and Besotted Books on Instagram to find out more.

Sentient Object Romance

Have you or someone you know fallen down the new romance rabbit hole of Sentient Object Romance? In my writing group (shoutout Queens!), my friend Christy introduced us to the topic of sentient romance. And I have to say, my flabbers are gasted. I have only read one so far, but I am intrigued. Cause the promise of sentient romance is still the same as any romance novel. The two protagonists end up together. So how do you 1) make a human fall in love with an object and 2) have them end up in a happily ever after? The first isn’t so hard; humans have been falling in love with objects for a very long time. But I know if monster romance can have Our Dear Couple (™) end up together, why can’t the protagonist and their stand mixer find lasting love?

But all jokes aside, like any other form of romance, Sentient object romance interrogates what it means to be known as you fully are and still deserving of love. The objects aren’t inanimate and non-consenting; through magic, fate, or some other means, they gain consciousness and a sense of self. And in being in the world, fall in love with another being. And in like many a romance before it, there are obstacles to overcome on the path to love.

Unhinged by Vera Valentine

Speaking of Sentient object romance. Y’all, I need to talk about Unhinged, a contemporary sentient object romance where a woman falls in love with her door. Yes, you read that correctly, a door. It’s a bewitched door, but a door that she doesn’t pay attention to. But the door is certainly paying attention to her. I wasn’t sure what to expect going in, but it’s certainly a wild ride in the 67 pages of this novella. I don’t want to give anything away, but if you find yourself interested in sentient-object romance. This is a great entry point.

Destiny’s Embrace by Beverly Jenkins

What a fun adventure from Philadelphia to Destiny Ranch, California. This is the first in the Destiny series, where we meet the Yates brothers. Logan Yates and Mariah Cooper are the main characters in this novel, and they are a fiery pair. If you’re familiar with the work of Beverly Jenkins, she’s a master of two strong-willed people getting under each other’s skin. That is shown time and again, but my favorite confrontation is when Mariah is learning how to drive a horse and wagon. And she lets Logan have it literally with some well-placed rocks. And Maria and Logan are no different. But I love how Mariah holds her ground with Logan. Logan has to stop and re-evaluate what he wants in life to be with Mariah. I also love the whole Yates family embracing Mariah and becoming her found family. Definitely kick up your feet, sit back, and enjoy this one.

Infinity Song NPR Tiny Desk

What can I say about Infinity Song? They are a band that I am obsessed with. As a millennial lover of all things alternative, discovering a black Yaht Rock/alternative band healed my alt teenage self. Listen to the Boyd siblings’ Tiny Desk concert, then go stream their new self-titled album.

Ted Lasso Season 4

A show that is close to my heart and the hearts of many others. So happy Ted Lasso is coming back for another season. The first two seasons of this show are a jewel. From the positive representation of masculinity, male relationships, and therapy. I am beyond excited for Season 4 and can’t wait to cheer on the AFC Richmond women!

Alright, my dearest readers, that’s a wrap on another month of us doing what we do best: taking all things romance books, media, and business. #NoRegrets.

Before you go, I need one thing from you, and I’m not above begging.

As I’ve stated, Beyond the Garden drops June 9th. If this opening has you even a little curious about where she’s headed, please share this newsletter. Send it to your book club, your group chat, your coworker who pretends they don’t read romance but absolutely does. Every new reader who shows up for Kore’s story means the world to me, and also means she gets to stop haunting my dreams quite so aggressively.

Until next time, with love and an unreasonable amount of feelings,

Jacque

Happy April, everyone! I hope that you’re not dying from the pollen out there. Let’s hop into this month’s newsletter!

As a lover of books and conventions, I was super excited to snag a Saturday ticket to BookCon 2026 in NYC! And it was everything I hoped for and more. The highlight of the convention for me was attending the highly anticipated Heated Rivalry panel with author Rachel Reid and showrunner Jacob Tierney. (You can watch the full talk here). They talked about the show, Tierney’s plans for Season 2, and Reid’s plan for the third Heated Rivalry/Seventh Game Changers book, Unrivaled. As a passionate Heated Rivalry fan, I loved hearing from the creators how much they love the source material as I do. And their own shock at how the show has been received.

Outside of that panel, I just loved being surrounded by so many books and book-loving people. I spent a small fortune on books (not sorry), and here is my haul:

Now I have choice paralysis on what to start cause they all sound so good! Let me know in the comments which of the titles stand out to you.

I also got a few of my copies signed by the indie authors, which I very much appreciate.

Here are some pics from BookCon

Under the Covers

Something I have been thinking about in the past few weeks is my writing priorities. As I mentioned in last month’s newsletter, I got a great opportunity to submit a story early this month. But it took me 2 months of dedicated writing to get that out, which seriously cut into my time for writing and editing.

When I finished that submission, there were at least 4 contests that had deadlines in April. If I wanted to submit my best work for those, that would mean spending another month away from my Hades and Persephone novella and my novel Hoyden and the Duke. Back in January, I talked about my goals for this year, and one of them is to have a query-ready draft of Hoyden and the Duke. And my personal goal was to have the first chapter of Hades and Persephone fully edited by the end of April. Already 2 months behind, adding another month to the schedule felt like pushing my main goals further into the future.

So I had to sit down and think about what I really wanted out of this year. I’ve decided I won’t enter any contests this year to focus on my two main projects instead. It wasn’t an easy decision, but the stress I was feeling from meeting so many deadlines is gone. Now I can give my all to these two works in progress!

Hades and Persephone

I am still deep in edits for my Hades and Persephone novella coming in June. I still don’t have a formal title - Passion seekers, I’m asking for your help!. Here is a bit of a sneak peek of the copy to provide some context:

Kore has never belonged to herself. Since birth, she’s meant to embody spring’s perfection, performing a version of herself designed by her mother, Demeter. She believes that maintaining control of her Earthly realm can only be done through perfection. Isolated within her mother’s court, Kore keeps her hunger for strange and beautiful dead things a secret. Tending to flowers she doesn’t love, waiting to be married to a god who will never bother to know her.

When a minotaur attacks her in the wild woods, it is Hades who answers Kore’s prayers for help. She discovers that he is not the grim sovereign her mother warned against, but a quiet man with violet eyes and careful hands, who understands her desire to embrace darkness. What begins as stolen afternoons becomes the most honest conversations of her life. When her mother’s house finally becomes unbearable, she runs from the life she’s always known and seeks refuge with the only person to accept her.

Life with Hades in the underworld should unsettle her. Instead, she finds the purpose she always longed for. With Demeter calling for her daughter’s rescue from the brute, Zeus himself delivers an ultimatum to Hades: return her, or go to war with all of Olympus. Kore understands exactly what staying will cost her. But the woman she’s become has no desire to be a pawn in Demeter’s pursuit of fake perfection. The only question left is what she will do to hold onto the new life and love she’s found.

What title do you think works best? (There’s a character limit, so select the number of the choice you like best.)

1. Below the Garden

2. Below the Earth, she bloomed

3. Dirt under her nails, crown on her head

4. Above a Maiden Below a Queen

5. Maiden below the garden

Romancelandia

Last month, I talked about the Pride and Prejudice remake. Well, apparently, there is also a Sense and Sensibility remake! Amaze! Amaze! Amaze! How come no one told me? Do you hate me 🥺?

This is joyous news. Two Austen adaptations in time for the holidays. What else could a girl ask for?

Project Hail Mary

Now I can guess you’re looking at me and going Project Hail Mary in this section?
Really, Jacque, but that’s not a romance. And to that I say, this is my Substack, and I write about what I want. I kid, I kid. But I do have an interesting take on Andy Weir’s novel-turned-movie. While not a romance, it is a love story about friendship, connection, and finding your place in the universe.

!!!!SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!

We have the romance structure, where we first meet our protagonist. Ryland Grace is, to put it kindly, a man who has given up. Academia chewed him up and spat him out, so he retreated to teaching middle schoolers. He can’t even be bothered to step in when humanity needs him most; instead, he’s forced into the role of hero. The man is the reluctant hero of reluctant heroes, coasting on the path of least resistance until the universe physically removes that option from him.

His current status quo is him trying to figure out why he’s on the ship and what his mission is. But then the unexpected happens. He encounters another life form in a fun meet-cute. Then shenanigans ensue.

But in connecting with Rocky, a sentient alien from another planet, a beautiful relationship is born. For the first time in Ryland’s life, he connects with and begins to love something outside himself. Here’s how it plays out:

• Rocky and Ryland are two lonely strangers, as the crews on their ship died, working toward the same goal, understanding why the Astrophage doesn’t negatively impact the star Tau Ceti.

• Adhesion - As they discuss their goal, they decide to help each other on this mission. Which will also benefit each of their civilizations

• Falling in Love/Rising Action - Ryland and Rocky spend time together, sharing their different cultures, exchanging language, and coming up with a plan to study the astrophage. Rocky and Ryland getting on each other’s nerves, sharing vulnerabilities

• Rocky Grand Gesture - sacrificing himself to save Ryland

• Ryland’s grand gesture - not going back to Earth but going to save Rocky

• HEA - Ryland is spending the remainder of his life on Rocky’s home planet

In the end, Rocky and Ryland’s relationship shows us how love of all kinds is universal.

The Kennedy Ryan Cinematic Universe

(Airhorns) Kennedy Ryan has inked a deal with Universal Studio Group, Variety states, “Under the terms of the agreement, Ryan will develop and produce series for a variety of platforms and create original IP for USG to adapt for television under her Scribe Chick Media banner.

First up is the series adaptation of her hit novel, “Before I Let Go,” which Ryan will co-write and executive produce. The project is currently in development at Peacock.” This is great news for Ryan, and I’m sure fans of the Skyland series are ecstatic to see their favorite novel come to life.

As a fellow creative, I can’t wait to see what original programming Ryan comes up with for Peacock. And now I want to take a moment to pitch to her and to Universal the idea of adapting the works of Beverly Jenkins. There’s a hungry fanbase (it’s me, I am the fanbase), and it’s a great IP that can bring in the Bridgerton audience (again, it’s me, I am the Bridgerton audience).

In all seriousness, congrats to Ryan on this new chapter!

Reads that Ruined my Sleep

This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone

What a beautiful Sci-Fi Romance, that had me immediately start it over once I finished it. Red and Blue are compelling characters who have satisfying arcs throughout the novel, from their first antagonistic interaction, which led to curiosity, to becoming confidants and then lovers. As a fan of time travel and wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff, this book really gets that aspect right. The twist of discovering who’s been tracking them the entire novel lands perfectly. The writing is phenomenal and poetic. The two authors properly capture each protagonist’s wit and humor, and you definitely feel like the characters are two different people. Highly recommend this one if you want to fall in love while time-traveling.

Party of Two by Jasmine Guillory

This is a sweet contemporary romance that I loved from start to finish. I was rooting for Max and Olivia from the moment they had their adorable meet-cute at a hotel bar. It’s easy to understand Olivia’s apprehension about dating an upcoming politician with aspirations for greater things. But Max’s persistence and dedication to getting to know her have Olivia lowering her walls. Now it wouldn’t be a romance if there weren’t any problems, and Max’s privilege does create a bump in their beautiful love story. But it doesn’t ruin it; with some clear communication, Olivia and Max are able to talk about how a black woman and a white man are perceived differently in society. What I love about Max is his willingness to listen to and believe Olivia when she shares her own experiences. And what can be more romantic than that?

Non Romance Thing

Hacks

Hacks is back for its 5th and final season. I love this show, it’s funny and heartwarming. Also, it’s another friendship love story! So glad that Deborah and Ava are working together and not against one another. I hate when these two fight. Hope they go out with a bang!

Robyn’s Sexisential Album

This album has been on repeat since it came out a few weeks ago. Every song on here is a gem, and who doesn’t love raw, honest lyrics over a hyperpop beat? Also, I’m so obsessed with the song Dopamine, I made a Heated Rivalry edit.

That’s all, Passion Seekers. See you next month. As always, if there’s something you want me to discuss, let me know in the comments below. And please share with your friends.

-Jacque

Meet Cute

I am currently in my learning era as a writer. Back in January, I participated in the Writers Deep Dive Virtual Retreat from The Sh*t No One Tells You About Writing team. Writing is such a lonely endeavor. Being in a room (even a virtual one) with other writers who understand the hopes and frustrations of publishing and the importance of proper word choice really fills my cup.

The presentations from industry professionals were super enlightening. Learning about what the market wants. Think lots of crossovers:

• Speculative romance

• Horror romance

• Thriller rom-com

You get the idea, and how best to position your book for agents: Be hyper specific, having a unique vision is better than a generic, shallow story.

This month, I took CeCe Lyra’s course on Interiority and Psychological Acuity , and I have learned so much from her and my fellow classmates. I’m still trying to take it all in and create worksheets and reference docs for myself while I edit. In the lead-up to the class, people spoke so highly of the day she critiques students’ work in progress, and I have to agree. Having her go through and show how what we’ve learned can be applied is invaluable. I’ve been re-reading my favorite romances looking for interiority and psychological acuity, and now I can spot it. I’m feeling really good about future edits and making my stories sparkle.

Under the Covers

I’ve been working on a short story that is a mix of The Thomas Crown Affair and The Lincoln Lawyer (maybe? - why are comps so hard?!) for a submission due April 1st. I’ve had the idea for this story for a while. It’s a cat-and-mouse game between a cybercriminal and the FBI agent tasked with tracking them down. Crimes are being committed, but who is morally right, the Cybercriminal or the FBI agent? What happens when you meet the one person who makes you question everything you ever believed to be true?

I’m thinking I might expand upon it and release it next year. My hope is to release a serialized novella or short story here every year; fingers crossed, I can do it.

Once the submission is completed, then it’s back to edits for my spicy Hades and Persephone retelling, which will be released here on this very special Substack in June 2026. I cannot wait to share it with y’all. I really love mythology, and Hades and Persephone have always been among my favorites. And I’m glad I finally decided to write the story idea that’s been sitting on my Story Ideas list. I have been working on social media artwork for it. Here is a sneak peek of one of my ideas:

Stay tuned to my Instagram and BlueSky to see the final product.

Romancelandia

Bridgerton

So I am slowly coming out of my Heated Rivalry-induced psychosis and finally watched Season 4 of Bridgerton. And I have to say I really enjoyed watching an anxious Asian and their chaotic bisexual lover fall in love at a cottage (ba dum tss). Seriously, though, the season was a slow burn, but it did suck me in. Something that I have realized lately, and I see it in my own writing, is that as a major Romance fan, I want the meet-cute and romance to happen fast. I don’t need a major buildup for each character at first; give me the backstory after they’ve met in some capacity. I would like to know what you like!

But back to Bridgerton. Season 4 was better than Season 3 (justice for Penelope!) for sure. I will be honest, back in Season 1, I wasn’t sure about Benedict as a love interest. But I can now see that casting had the vision. I love Benedict’s growth from an aimless, spoiled gentleman to someone who stands up for what he wants and protects the woman he loves. Sophie was a great female lead whom I rooted for and wanted to see triumph over her evil stepmother. And the issues keeping them apart made sense, and I loved how they overcame them. I’m even prouder that Benedict was willing to leave society to be with Sophie, because her love was stronger than what the ton thought. So I’m still a Bridgerton fan, count me in for Season 5.

Pride and Prejudice Netflix

If you aren’t aware, Netflix is currently making a new Pride and Prejudice miniseries.

Some of my favorite actors are in it (Emma Corrin, Jack Lowden, and Oliva Coleman). And I can’t be more excited. I am a Jane Austen evangelist, so I’m here for any remake (except that godawful Netflix Persuasion - justice for Anne!). I know there are constant fights about 1995 vs 2005, and I have to say I love my children equally. I hope that if this one is successful, we will get more adaptations. I just want someone to take Persuasion seriously and give Anne her due (Watch the 2007 version with Sally Hawkins and Rupert Penry Jones). Also, I wouldn’t be mad at a new Sense and Sensibility. I know the Emma Thompson, Kate Winslet, Ang Lee one is great. Again, I love all my children, but it’s been 30 years, don’t you want to see the Dashwoods?

Reads that Ruined My Sleep

A Chance at Love by Beverly Jenkins

My girl Loreli Winters is back in this one. I loved her in Always and Forever and was happy to see her get her own story. This one turns the historical romance maiden trope on its head. Loreli is an experienced woman with a man with little sexual experience. I love how that works between Loreli and Jake. The found-family aspect with Jake and his nieces, whom he’s caring for, warmed my heart. But the people of the Kansas town provide lots of comedic relief. And Loreli’s ex throwing a wrench into her romance plans is what kept me turning the page late into the night.

Purchase here (Affiliate Link)

If you haven’t noticed, I changed the title of this subsection from Books to Reads. That’s because I read fanfiction, some works that are so good I want to share them with you. So here’s my first rec (Yes, it’s from the Heated Rivalry fandom. This hyperfixation is NOT going away).

Change Your Win Conditions by Vee (Vera_DragonMuse)

It’s works like these that make me love fanfiction. Beautiful writing and emotions that break your heart and tape them back together. In this work, Shane and Ilya never reconcile after the Tuna Melt Meltdown because Ilya sustains a career-ending injury (not a spoiler, it’s in the description) before the 2017 All-Star Game. Ilya is a coach for the Centaurs, and Shane is drafted to the team. The emotional depth of these two knuckleheads kept me up late at night to find out if they will finally let their walls down and be together. Vee weaves the past and present together, moving the plot forward while staying true to the characters. I’m not a fanfic purist; I enjoy the occasional crack fic. But I do appreciate taking canon facts about characters and seeing them react in new situations or circumstances. And the work is spiritually connected to the Shane and Ilya that I love.

Read here

I have a little treat for you readers: You can shop the list of Books that Ruined My Sleep over on Bookshop.org. You can Take 15% OFF these select titles when you enter BSO15 at checkout. The code is valid until April 1, 2026. Discount is off list prices, and excludes Ebooks

Bookshop.org is a better way to buy books online. Every purchase on Bookshop.org supports local, independent bookstores. I love using Bookshop.org, and I support my favorite local bookstore, Possible Futures. Happy reading!

Non-Romance Things

Music

Harry Styles’ new album Kiss All the Time. Disco, Occasionally

This album has been on repeat for me since it came out on March 6th. Aperture, American Girls, Coming Up Roses, and Dance All the Time are my favorites. Harry’s music is pure joy; it’s been keeping me afloat emotionally during these times.

Kacey Musgraves new single Dry Spell

The country queen of innuendo is back! I have been listening to this song when I take breaks from Harry. So cheeky and fun!

Video Edits

So…I have been making Heated Rivalry video edits. You can find them on my Instagram, linked below. Hope you like them! (Instagram embeds are not working. If anyone has a fix, please let me know.)

Taylor Swift “Delicate”

Taylor Swift “Mastermind”

Benson Boone “Mystical Magical”

Roscoe Dash and Waka Flocka Flame “No Hands”

That’s all, Passion Seekers. Please share this post with your fellow readers. Let me know how the weather is in your part of the world and what you’re currently reading.

Welcome back to Pages of Passion! Let’s dive in!

I have been thinking about the nature of fandom lately, as I am deep into my own Heated Rivalry-induced psychosis (sorry, not sorry for the rest of the newsletter). One of my favorite writers, Taffy Brodesser-Akner, wrote an article in The Times about her fall into fandom for the Broadway play, Mincemeat. I am a Tumblr/AO3 fandom veteran (Jane Austen, SuperWhoLock, Marvel MCU, Heartstopper, etc), so this current infatuation (let’s be real, obsession) with Heated Rivalry isn’t new to me. But, looking online, for many people, it is. They always liked things, but never felt anything touch their souls enough to want to learn everything about it and consume it more than once.

And for anyone confused about their own newfound fandom, especially my elder millennials and Gen X’ers, who are going through it for the first time. I want to let you know that it’s okay! Embrace it! Trust me, the only way out is through. Maybe it’s something you look back fondly on a year from now. Or maybe it becomes an integral piece of media offering deeper insight into who you are. But one thing I ask of you. Is not to feel shame. During these times…if you find something that sparks a sense of wonder and joy. Please hold onto it with everything you have.

Under the Covers

Writing burnout is real, and the way my perfectionist/special interest brain is set up, I’m primed for it. I love writing; it feeds my spirit. I have a nine-to-five, so I write 5-9. But once I get on a roll, it’s hard to stop. So I would be up until midnight or 1 am, writing, and wake up at 6 am for work. This gentle reader is not sustainable. And I found out the hard way, by not wanting to engage with my novel anymore. I didn’t want to think about, edit, or anything.

But my passion for the written word did not go away. I wrote a novella and started a WIP that blends Persuasion, The Curse of Oak Island, and National Treasure. I also spent time reading craft books - Story Genius, Romancing the Beat, and reconnecting with the genre and reading Lisa Kleypas and Beverly Jenkins. Being reminded of what I love about writing and falling back in love with my work. So I have been able to come back to my developmental edits of the novel. And adding in the things that I love about romance, yearning, longing, and characters being awakened to the deepest desires of their heart.

To maintain this momentum, I am setting boundaries for my writing. No more writing in bed. Stopping to write by 930 pm on weeknights. Keeping to this schedule has been super helpful in keeping me on track with my many works in progress. And my body and my partner appreciate a more normal sleep schedule.

Let me know what you’ve been doing to avoid writing burnout.

Romancelandia

So, in case you missed it during this holiday season, a little show from Crave (a Canadian streamer) titled Heated Rivalry premiered in North America on HBO. It’s based on the novel of the same name written by Rachel Reid. As a romance fan and writer, I fell head over heels for Ilya and Shane’s story, played masterfully by Conner Storrie and Hudson Williams. The show and the book pressed all my buttons over and over again. I mean, how do you not fall in love with these two cuties?

If somehow you missed all the press and everyone online talking about it. I will give you a brief summary. Heated Rivalry tells the story of the decades-long affair between two top MLH (Major League Hockey in the show) players, Asian Canadian Shane Hollander (Hudson Williams) and Russian Ilya Rozanov (Conner Storrie). Shane and Ilya hook up for most of their careers, but like with many a situationship before them, they catch feelings, hard (cue Taylor Swift’s Down Bad). Then, in typical romance fashion, these two dumb dumbs pretend that they are not in love. Hurting each other in the process, but they are able to work through their stuff and give in to the beautiful relationship they didn’t even know they were building. 😭

The show ended in December (I swear I never wanted Christmas to be over so badly cause the finale aired on the 26th), but many other Loons (the official fan name) and I have yet to leave the cottage. There have been many an article written about this show and why it has us in a chokehold. And, as I said in the opener, I think it’s the pure queer joy of the show. I’ve heard countless people say they were waiting for the bad thing to happen at some point during these 6 episodes, but it never arrives. This show is the emotional catharsis we need. So many of us push down or mask our feelings in order to make it through the day. But Heated Rivalry creates an environment where it’s okay to express lust, desire, love, longing, hope, and joy. Heated Rivalry shows us that it’s okay to feel.

I also feel for Shane as a fellow queer adult who came out in adulthood (early 30’s for me). I know for me, acknowledging my queerness was like that scene in Grey’s Anatomy where Callie’s first girlfriend realizes she’s queer, was like when she got glasses. This whole new world opens up for you. I know for me it was like having the world finally make sense, and this sense of “wrongness” I felt my whole life finally fall away. Before this post becomes even longer, here are some rapid-fire things I adored:

• The verbal and nonverbal consent between Shane and Ilya is a masterclass

• Shane’s nervousness when he first puts on the suit while waiting for Ilya

• Shane putting on his clothes as he’s texting Ilya that he can’t come over

• Ilya’s everything (What I wouldn’t give to get Conner Storrie an Emmy nomination. May he and the rest of the cast/show win all the Canadian awards)

• Cinematography - check out cinematographer Valentina Vee on Instagram. She does in-depth deep dives on the cinematography and visual storytelling for Heated Rivalry

• The music! Peter Peter did such a good job with the original music; Scotty Taylor and Jacob Tierny also selected some bangers. - link to Spotify playlist (If you’re an Apple listener, no fear, you can import the playlist using Playlistor (Don’t forget to tip the creator)

Reads That Ruined My Sleep Schedule

Heated Rivalry by Rachel Reid

The book that started it all! This is the second book in the Game Changers series. This book can best be described as a slow burn, but they have sex the entire time. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rosonov spend over 300 pages pretending that they aren’t in love with each other. Idiots-to-lovers is one of my favorite tropes, and these two are the dumbest. Rachel can tell one hell of a story and captures their feelings of yearning and longing so well. Especially at the cottage, when both wish they could say more about wanting to be together. I would stay up late multiple nights to see what these two were up to and how they would make things right.

Purchase the book (I receive a commission from this link)

Something Like Love by Beverly Jenkins

Olivia Sterling is that girl! For me, Olivia Sterling goes in the pantheon next to Oliva Pope. Something like love tells the story of Olivia Sterling as she starts her life over in a beautiful black community in Kansas. And the thing that puts a wrench into her life is the handsome and rugged outlaw, Neil July. (oh what a name!). Olivia is trying to live a quiet life, but Neil keeps bursting into her world like a tornado. And Olivia’s quiet confidence and kindness attract Neil like a moth to a flame. Neither stood a chance. Beverly’s wit and lyrical writing shine in this book. From twists and well-needed pranks, this book kept me up many a night.

Purchase the book (I receive a commission from this link)

Non Romance Things:

Happy Black History Month

I love Ice Dance, and I love seeing this young black team on the Junior Circuit. Watch their 2025 Rhythm Dance. And get into it!

Celebrating 100 years of Black cinema - a wonderful list but also a great retrospective on Black cinema and film.

Run don’t walk to watch THE Jill Scott on Tiny Desk. She is an icon, and this is well deserved, a little bit overdue.

Happy New Year, Passion Seekers!

You’ve found your way to Pages of Passion, which means you’re either a hopeless romantic, a writer who lives for that perfect kiss scene, or you accidentally clicked something and now you’re curious. Welcome!

Here’s what you’re getting yourself into: once a month, I’ll slide into your inbox with thoughts on writing, recommendations for romances that made me kick my feet, and whatever else strikes my fancy. Maybe I’ll confess how many times I rewrote that one spicy chapter. Maybe I’ll tell you about the book that ruined me for a week.

Pour yourself something cozy and get comfortable.

Under the Covers

Since 2025 just ended, I want to talk about the beautiful chaos that was my year as a romance writer.

Last year, I was inspired by another writer in my writing group to enter contests (hi Lisa!). So I decided to try my hand and set a goal to enter six writing contests. I thought this was quite “ambitious.” How adorable. I entered fourteen. FOURTEEN. Because apparently I am an emotional masochist.

How did I find these contests, you asked? Lots of hours lost to Google. But as it is my calling to do all the legwork, I will share with you the fruits of my labor. My fellow writer, Jenna Harte, posted about the process on her website, Write with Harte. And here’s a link to a list of contests, so you can submit in 2026 if you’re interested. Or if you’re nosy like me and are just curious.

Not that I have sufficiently created some suspense, I can let you know what happened with all those contests. I made the short list for two categories in a contest; I won one, placed second in another, and was not selected for the rest. Finding myself on a social media post stating that my work made the shortlist was one of the best mornings of 2025. I was beyond elated and ecstatic! Then, a few short weeks later, when my name and work were announced on the winners list, it became surreal. I remember seeing the post and closing phone and not knowing what to do with myself. My partner asked me what was wrong, and I told her I won a contest. Her joy shocked me out of my stupor. I still can’t believe all these months later that I was selected.

But on the other side of that win is months and months of rejection emails. While very kind, those emails hit different at 3 PM on a Tuesday when you’re wearing yesterday’s sweatpants and spiraling during a bout of imposter syndrome. I have talked at length to my writing group, friends, partner, and therapist about the rejections. And they keep me grounded when I want to fling my laptop out of the window. But the thing that has kept me sane is Lisa reminding me that not being selected isn’t a reflection on my writing; it just means I’m not a fit for those judges.

I will say that overall, the contests did something magical, though. It made me look more deeply at my writing. How do I translate the humor and witty dialogue in my head onto the page for the reader? How do I capture the reader’s attention in the first several lines? How do I keep the pace moving fast without giving the reader whiplash? And it forced me to obsess over every single word choice until my critique partners started avoiding my texts.

“Should it be ‘gazed’ or ‘stared’?” I’d ask at 1 am.

“Jackie, go to sleep,” my partner would reply. Fair.

My other goal was to finish the first draft of my Victorian enemies-to-lovers rom-com, The Hoyden and The Duke. This novel has been living rent-free in my mind for the past two years. My hero starts as an emotionally constipated duke who morphs into a man who feels deeply. While my heroine is capable of eviscerating a man at fifty paces, she learns to let her guard down in the face of my hero’s steadfastness, despite her many attempts to push him away.

Now I’m deep in developmental edits, which is basically ripping your story apart and painstakingly putting it back together. The best analogy I have seen for this process is that I am currently taking a chainsaw to the manuscript, and that is quite apt.

For 2026 I have some new goals. I want to submit to 11 contests this year. I found that several I had selected last year were not a good fit for genre writing. So I want to save money and my sanity by not entering those this year. I also want to have a fully polished draft of Hoyden and Duke completed by the end of the year to submit to agents. Publish my Hades and Persephone novella on this here Substack. And to keep sending you, lovely readers, this newsletter once a month!

Books That Ruined My Sleep

The Winter of Our Discontent by Grace Gibson

This is a Pride and Prejudice variation from one of my favorite JAFF (Jane Austen Fan Fiction for the uninitiated) authors. Like Gibson’s previous work, this one turns the Pride and Prejudice story on its head. Asking what if Darcy and Elizabeth had to marry immediately following the Meryton ball, due to a misunderstanding. I am not a fan of the forced marriage trope, but Gibson swept me up in its narrative with her emotional writing. Elizabeth has the patience of a saint and the stubbornness to make the most out of the terrible situation. While Darcy spends 100 pages learning that sulking isn’t actually a personality trait and giving into his worst qualities, he never veers into the outright terrible.

This one kept me up till 2 am, praying for Darcy to get over himself and rooting for Elizabeth as she turned her lemons into lemonade.

Purchase at Amazon

Midnight by Beverly Jenkins

I have been on a Beverly Jenkins kick lately, thanks to my Beverly Jenkins book club (shout out to Bev’s Baddies). How I went so long without reading her books is a complete travesty. But it is one that I am rectifying. This is the tale of Faith Kingston, the daughter of a British Loyalist and American Rebel, Nicolas Gray, in the months leading up to the American Revolution. Faith and Nicholas’s slow burn during the American Revolution kept me riveted page after page. Nicholas is the constant supporting presence in Faith’s life and a sharp contrast to her selfish father. And Faith is a breath of fresh air to Nichols, who is mourning the death of his father. I love the history woven beautifully in Jenkins, and for black Americans, taking up their rightful place in history again.

Purchase Book

Romancelandia

Bridgerton Season 4 drops at the end of this month, and I’m trying to keep my expectations reasonable. Keyword: trying. The trailers look promising, but we all remember what happened with Season 3’s pacing. I’ll have thoughts. Many thoughts. Possibly too many thoughts, and I’m excited to share them all with you next month during my review of the episodes that drop.

I’m sure that a non-zero amount of you are also obsessed with the new Queer Hot Hockey Romance Heated Rivalry. I’ll also be providing commentary on the first season of Shane and Ilya’s romance next month.

Some Non-Romance things

(shout to Nice Capades and Kathleen Schmidt of Publishing Confidential, whom I got the idea from):

1. The Olympics are coming up in a few weeks, and I LOVE the Olympics. I am also an ice dance super fan, so I’m excited to see who ends up on top of the podium. I am rooting for the Americans, Canadians, and the Brits!

   

2. For the past several weeks, I have been dreaming about buss-up-shut, aka roti. A delicious, flaky, buttery Caribbean flatbread. I hope that by the time I send this Substack, I will have made it. I have been thinking about it for weeks. So here’s to pushing future Jackie to make it. Here’s the recipe I follow in case you’re interested: https://www.africanbites.com/paratha-buss-shut/

What sports will you be following? And if you’re reading this newsletter, will you now be paying attention to Hockey cause of Heated Rivalry? 😂

That’s all, folks. Thank you so much for reading the January newsletter.

Jackie

P.S. Share this with someone who needs more chaos in their reading life.

You can always purchase any books I mention from Bookshop.org using my affiliate link. Thanks!

Gabriela Houston’s Victorian romantasy, Binding the Cuckoo, taps into the rage that comes from watching a character make terrible decisions because everyone has convinced her that’s just how things are. That she exists to be useful, to be owned, and to make someone else’s life easier.

Binding the Cuckoo opens with Hare, a human-looking fay creature trapped in a magical 1890s New York. Stripped of most of her memories and powers, she’s recently been discarded by the man who claimed to love her. When a financially desperate schoolmistress named Anne Bonningham buys her freedom and proposes a con, Hare agrees. What choice does she have?

The scheme is simple. Travel to Victorian London, marry a wealthy aristocrat, and secure both their futures. When Hare is introduced to the Duke of Brandon, she finds a perfect candidate. Handsome, kind, and genuinely charmed by the woman she’s pretending to be. This should be the easiest con in the world.

Then his best friend, Ernest Thompson, shows up and ruins everything.

Ernest and Hare meet when he tries to rescue her from a mob, and she practically bites his head off for it. Their dynamic starts hostile, stays prickly, and gradually cracks open in ways that had me clutching my phone at 1 AM.

Even though these two constantly bicker, Ernest can’t help but pay attention to Hare. Like when he notices her dress catches fire and puts it out with his coat. There’s another scene at a ball where Hare has to escape an assault by climbing out a window. She headbutts her attacker, breaking his nose, then locks herself in a room and shimmies down a drainpipe in her petticoats.

Ernest, walking through the garden below, helps guide her down petticoats and all. Then he has to deal with the fact that she’s furious at him for witnessing it. The tension between mortification and gratitude, and something neither of them wants to name? I was kicking my feet. When Ernest uses his resources as a lawyer to disgrace her attacker, it isn’t just Hare who swoons.

Houston makes the tragedy of summoned mythical beings, called mythics in the novel, feel real. They’re bound by red strings around their wrists, forced to serve, and treated as objects. In this version our our world, nobody trusts an unbound mythic. Since Hare is unbound, her choices are to let herself be bound again or sink into something worse. The con with Anne is genuinely her best option, and Houston never lets the reader forget that.

Houston also gives Hare a life outside the romance. Lady Anastacia, the Duke’s wonderfully chaotic sister, drags Hare into her circle of radical friends. There’s Melody, a water nymph living openly and lavishly, running something like an underground railroad for freed mythics. Hare gets involved. She finds purpose that belongs to her alone. It’s the kind of detail that gives her real weight on the page. Transforming her from a romantic lead waiting for her happy ending into a fully realized character.

It took some time for this novel to grow on me. There’s a lot of setting up the rules of London society, the magic system, and the con. I wasn’t entirely hooked until Hare climbed out that window. I stayed up late on a Saturday night to finish this novel, and I was glad I did. The villain’s reveal landed, and the confrontation was satisfying. The separation made me want to throw my phone. The reconciliation made me forgive everything.

There’s also a love scene near the end that earned every bit of its buildup. It’s steamy, yes, but what got me was Hare finally letting someone see her. Magic and all, without flinching.

Binding the Cuckoo is the kind of book that rewards your patience with a heroine who fights back (sometimes literally), a love interest who earns her trust by respecting her autonomy, and a world where magic and social climbing are equally dangerous games. This book made me smile like an idiot.

This is a great pick if you want your slow burn, not rush the landing. You’re intrigued by heroines who aren’t fully human as they navigate human expectations. If Victorian London, magic, and class commentary are your aesthetic, and you appreciate a female friendship subplot that doesn’t feel like an afterthought. Then this book will not disappoint.

You can purchase Binding the Cuckoo at the following retailers:

Barnes and Noble and Amazon

“Where the Waters Agree" by Susan Adriani is a sweet, low-angst Pride and Prejudice variation novella. It is set after Darcy’s disastrous marriage proposal at Hunsford and before Elizabeth's summer visit to Pemberley. This story follows Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy after they meet again in Evermore-on-Sea, Kent.

In this variation, Mr. Bennet indulges his wife and youngest daughters' desire to visit the seaside. Instead of Brighton, however, he chooses the fictional town of Evermore-on-Sea. Darcy visits Evermore, hoping that the town will help him overcome his heartbreak following Elizabeth's rejection. After reading his letter, Elizabeth feels regret over how she treated him. Both wish for a second chance, and  they get one when they meet on a bluff in Evermore that summer.

However, their path to happily ever after faces some obstacles. Darcy’s cousin, Viscount Emerson, decided to stay with Darcy in Kent to avoid running into the husband of his current lover. During a low moment while staying in London before heading to Evermore-on-Sea, Darcy confided in Emerson that he was considering proposing to their cousin Anne. In a misguided effort to help, Emerson went to visit their aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh at Rosings. During this visit, he intimates to Lady Catherine that Darcy is amenable to marrying Anne, prompting Lady Catherine and Anne to visit him, pushing for a proposal.

Elizabeth also has her mother to contend with, as Mrs. Bennet hopes that she will marry Mr. Drummond. Elizabeth finds Drummond boring and is unnerved by his eerie devotion to his mother and cat, who share the same name.

While trying to stay away from their meddling family members, Darcy and Elizabeth find time together at an ice cream shop and during visits to the home where the Bennet family is staying. In these moments alone, Darcy and Elizabeth reconcile, eventually leading to Darcy declaring his feelings.

This was a quick read, and I enjoyed the plotting. If you're looking for a JAFF to pass a few hours, I recommend picking this up. Happy reading!

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The first part of Season 3 of Bridgerton has arrived!

We have waited two years for this season. Our featured couple this season are our favorite characters, Penelope Featherington (also known as our beloved Lady Whistledown) and Colin Bridgerton.

Before I get down into the nitty gritty, here is what I enjoyed about this episode. 

Colin’s introduction as the male love interest is perfect! The shot of him as a mysterious dashing suitor heading into town perfectly suits his new role as the lead love interest this season. Colin has definitely had a major glow up and I like what I see!  The green cravat he is wearing is a subtle nod to Penelope! We see her later in the episode at the modiste looking at a similar color fabrice and eventually see her embrace green, a most fetching color as noted by Colin. 

I also enjoyed Penelope stepping into the spotlight. She has always deserved to be the center of attention. 

Now it breaks my heart to say this, but this season of Bridgerton is not giving! Where are my yearning looks, tantalizing almost touches, shaking your head to get the hearts out of your eyes? It is seriously lacking in romance!

Yes as an audience we are familiar with Colin and Penelope, but we do not know them as lovers. We saw a young naive Colin in season one fall in love with Marina. But now he is older and more world wise, who is this Colin Bridgerton?

During the presentation of the new debutantes, Eloise questions Colin, “Since when are you one who simply glides in?”. I’ve never known Colin to be awkward or uncool. So this is an example of his character/personality being unknown. He has been Bridgerton male number three, nothing to set him apart from his other two brothers. For example we are shown that Benedict has a love of art and Anthony takes his duty as the head of household very seriously. But what are Colin’s passions?

If we had seen him as an awkward bookish younger man who was friends with Penelope bonding over books, and poking fun at society as wallflowers, then this change would feel more earned.  Colin would then have seamlessly transitioned to handsome flirty suitor who men want to befriend and women swoon over.

The rift between Penelope and Eloise breaks my heart. But I will say, I am here for the redemption of Cressida Cowper. I love complex female characters. And it's nice to know that she is not just the Mean Alpha Girl trope. 

I do enjoy Penelope’s transformation because it's very human to think that changing one aspect of your physical appearance will lead to a change in your personality. Penelope’s grand entrance to Gayle’s ABCDEFU is perfect. A wonderful screw you to all the people who only know her as a wallflower. My heart goes out to Penelope and her awkwardness. 

This is why I wish there had been greater characterization of Colin to juxtapose the difference between Colin and Penelope’s transformation. We watched Penelope transform but we are just to accept Bridgeton number three as male heartthrob archetype. We have another scene of Eloise saying to Colin they’ve both “joined the winning side”. For Eloise, I understand this means she has given up being a radical and pushing against society's norms. Again, I ask what does this mean for Colin? What aspect of his personality has he put aside to be this version of himself. 

Even Penelope, as Lady Whistledown, calls into question the new persona Colin has taken on this season. I don’t know what kind of personality he has or what his interests are to know why he’s changed. Everyone just keeps commenting that he’s changed. 

Let’s get into the Penelope of it all.  She is working on trying to get over Colin after his rude declaration of never thinking to court her. And speaking of that statement, it might have been helpful for the narrative if Colin maybe even felt bad about what he said. Rather than just dismissing it out of turn. Maybe that could have added more dimensions to the tension related to their reunion. As a viewer, it would have been better for me if he was carrying around guilt for that statement. I would have liked to see him grovel a bit more once she told him she had heard what he said. Maybe he keeps trying to talk to her and she ignores him, until he proposes to help her. There’s a great fanfiction that does this idea really well, Best Laid Plans by EllieCarina. We should also see Colin feel out of sorts without Penelope in his life. That would really set the foundation, that she means more to him than just a friend. 

Penelope deserves to have someone fight for her and I am not getting that with Colin at the moment. 

Stray observations:

• I appreciate Francesca’s frankness and practicality when it comes to romance. 

• I am enjoying the Mondrakes' rise in society. I like the actors and I’m glad their roles are expanding. 

• Queen Charlotte and Lady Danbury’s friendship also makes me smile. Especially now that we have more back story from Queen Charlotte’s show. 

To continue the conversation, subscribe, comment below, and check out my other channels linked below.

"I love the romance genre, but one thing that annoys me is the stereotypical book covers. Particularly, romances between men and women often feature a certain style of cover, regardless of the novel’s content.

This novel has a wonderful backbone heavily steeped in period accurate portraits of country living and the impact the landed gentry had on the lives of the people around them. 

Martha Russel, Mistress of Seton Park, is deeply committed to her community and doing all she can to make it better. Her focus is on bettering the lives of her tenants and those tenants' children by championing a local school and encouraging the families to send all their children, not just the boys.  Her neighbor, Theophilus 'Theo' Mirkwood, initially lacks direction but is inspired by Martha's dedication. Witnessing the poor conditions of his laborers, he becomes more involved in estate management. 

We are shown how seriously Martha takes her duty through her interactions with the Vicar, Mr. Atkins. She’s heavily involved with speaking to the local families and trying to convince them of the benefits of sending all their children. I truly enjoyed watching her execute her strategy on the parents. Most families were okay with sending their sons, and having the daughters stay home. Martha understands the family's hesitancy and is in it for the long haul. Her plan is subtle, starting with the girls just going to Sunday school for an hour at first then hoping to transition the female students to the school during the week. 

She also appeals to the idea that if the girls have some education they might be able to marry a tradesman of some standing. I enjoyed Martha being progressive and fighting for what she believes is right. As women have done for centuries she’s able to advocate for better circumstances within the confines of society using her wit, wiles, courage, and resourcefulness.

Theo sees the beauty in her determination: 

But she was never lovelier than when she spoke this way, all afire with the knowledge of wrongs to be righted and good to be done

Theo is a youngish man who has never had high expectations placed on him and, as a result, hasn’t really applied himself. He is sent to the Sussex countryside  to gain an education in estate management by his father, the Baronet. Theo has been a wastrel in London and his father is hoping some time at one of the family homes will help him gain a sense of responsibility. A visit to the homes of the laborers on his estate impacts him deeply as he finds their living conditions unacceptable This spurs him to become better acquainted with the people living on the property. Seeing Martha’s example of taking care of her tenants he begins to take more of an interest in estate management. With Martha’s help and support Theo begins to see the impact he has on the lives of those around him. He takes initiative to better the lives of those around and even comes up with an idea to create a local dairy since there is no good cheese, butter or milk to be had for laborer and tenet families. 

The pacing of this novel is exceptional. Grant quickly establishes the stakes, engaging the reader from the outset. She also trusts her reader is smart enough to make connections with subtle hints. I enjoyed the fact that once I made a connection once certain information was revealed, Grant revealed the information in the next section. I cannot begin to state how frustrating it is when an author stretches out an obvious conclusion in a novel. 

If you’re looking for great character development, good dialogue, and women being supported and protected in the regency era, Cecilia Grant’s A Lady Awakened is for you! 

Enjoy your reading !

Novel TW: mentions of sexual assault 

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