Keith Donohue’s new novel, The Girl in the Bog, brings ancient Irish myths and legends into the modern world.

A present-day Irish farmer discovers the preserved body of an ancient young woman in a peat bog. Anxious to keep her away from prying eyes, he wraps her body in a muslin tarp and stashes her in his shed. In this excerpt, the girl—Fedelm—awakens and begins to remember: her centuries of being buried, her occasional “soul leaps” into creatures straying close to the bog, and then, finally, the cause of all her troubles. Fedelm offended Medb, the queen of western Ireland, who retaliated by sending the men who dropped the hapless lass in her watery grave. Now Fedelm begins to fear the killers might be after her again. Or perhaps it is Medb’s longtime enemy, Cúchullain, who has reason to hunt her down.

It seems everyone is after the girl in the bog.

An Excerpt. Chapter 4, Killers

She blinked. For the first time in two thousand years, she opened her eyes. Sure, she had seen plenty of the world in the form of a hare, a dragonfly, a magpie, but this time she could see through her own eyes, and though the view was merely the dim blue fabric of the tarp, she was dazzled by the color, astonished to be making any movement at all. Her lips parted in amazement, and her small gasp sounded like an ocean’s storm. Alive, alive-o. No longer in the peat but drinking in oxygen. Her chest swelled and ebbed. Despite the close air of the little shed, each gulp tasted as sweet as mead.

She twitched.

The quake traveled across her shoulders, and she laughed at the electric jolt in her limbs. Wrapped tight as a pig in a

blanket, she hadn’t the strength to break free, but she could flex her fingers and wiggle her toes, suddenly aware that the wee one on her right foot had gone missing. Right, so, amputated by the clumsy oaf with the spade. An accident to be sure, but the man could not stop apologizing for the damage he had done, talking to her corpse as if he knew she had feelings.

After the mistake he took his time digging her out. Careful now, he’d whispered to himself again and again. The gentleness in his rough hands surprised her. He was prim as a curate’s wife, brushing the bits of peat stuck to her face, reluctant to touch her. Then the other fella showed up, full of blather, inebriated by the sound of his own voice. The kind who could not abide silence. And last to the scene was the suspicious dog. That bitch could smell the truth wafting off a body. Ach, there was a terrible ache in her neck and a stiff bow of her spine from being scrunched these many years, reminding her of girlhood mornings when she woke from deep sleep and needed a good stretch like a cat waking in a patch of sun.

She yawned.

She let her jaw drop and then coughed out bog water, thick as syrup. The staleness of her own breath alarmed her. The smell off her. Leather, blood, the roughness at her throat. By the gods, she thought, if I could only move. An apple would be brilliant. A bit of fresh watercress would be grand. Nothing to be done, unfortunately, till the ould fella came back to unwrap her from the cocoon. Outside, the birds sang the day to its end. She could only wait patiently, but what was one more night after the thousands she had suffered alone? The turf cutter would be astonished, no doubt, to find her alive come morning. Hello there, she practiced, how are ye? Where’s the craic? Or she could take a more obtuse approach, let him slowly discover the truth. And then? Who knows, perhaps he might explain how and why he’d unlocked the door and pulled her through.

She remembered.

Unable to rise on her own, she recalled her last thought upon earth. The quick end and the absurd circumstances that led her to this most unusual place and time. In retrospect, she had missed all the signs, beginning with the lad who came to warn her.

The blind boy had fanned his palm, revealing five small round calluses on the tips of his fingers, a talisman for his secret sight. He swiveled his head to the northeast, listening for a sound only he could hear. Despite her own powers of envisioning the future, she had no foreboding of the disaster. Perhaps this poor waif had read the signs incorrectly. Blank as the moon, his face bore the same untroubled countenance he presented to one and all. His chapped lips twitched as he mumbled, counting under his breath.

“Run,” he said. “They are after you. Three men, not far.”

Learn more about Keith Donohue and his work at keithdonohue.com.
Find The Girl in the Bog wherever books are sold.

We’re super excited about #1 New York Times bestselling author/Queen of Faerie Holly Black‘s new novel The Prisoner’s Throne, the “stunning blood-soaked conclusion to the Stolen Heir duology” which comes out next Tuesday! Visit here to order the book, as well as to read about The Stolen Heir AND see fan playlists and other delights.

Here’s a summary of this new tome:

An imprisoned prince. A vengeful queen. And a battle that will determine the future of Elfhame. 

Prince Oak is paying for his betrayal. Imprisoned in the icy north and bound to the will of a monstrous new queen, he must rely on charm and calculation to survive. With High King Cardan and High Queen Jude willing to use any means necessary to retrieve their stolen heir, Oak will have to decide whether to attempt regaining the trust of the girl he’s always loved or to remain loyal to Elfhame and hand over the means to end her reign—even if it means ending Wren, too.

With a new war looming on the horizon and treachery lurking in every corner, neither Oak’s guile nor his wit will be enough to keep everyone he loves alive. It’s just a question of whom he will doom.

Whom he will doom… !

And then HERE is an excerpt/sneak peek from chapter two of The Prisoner’s Throne. (You can read the whole chapter here!)

He pulls the hood of the cloak down over his face and heads toward the Great Hall. Getting a glimpse of her feels more like a compulsion than a decision.

He can feel the gaze of courtiers drift toward him— covering one’s face in a hood is unusual, at the very least. He keeps his own eyes unfocused and his shoulders back, though his every instinct screams to meet their looks. But he is dressed like a soldier, and a soldier would not turn.

It is harder to pass falcons and to know they might spot his hooves and wonder. But he is hardly the only one to have hooves in Faerie. And everyone who knows that the Prince of Elfhame is in the Citadel believes him to be locked up tight.

Which doesn’t make him any less of a fool for coming into the throne room. When everything goes wrong, he will have no one to blame but himself.

Then he sees Wren, and longing shoots through him like a kick to the gut. He forgets about risk. Forgets about schemes.

Somewhere in the crowd, a musician plucks at a lute. Oak barely hears it.

The Queen of the Ice Citadel sits upon her throne, wearing a severe black dress that shows her bare pale blue shoulders. Her hair is a tumble of azure, some strands pulled back, a few pieces braided through with black branches. On her head is a crown of ice.

In the Court of Moths, Wren flinched away from the gazes of courtiers as she entered the revel on his arm, as though their very notice stung. She curled her body so that, small as she was, she appeared even smaller.

Now her shoulders are back. Her demeanor is that of someone who does not consider anyone in this room— not even Bogdana— a threat. He flashes on a memory of her younger self. A little girl with a crown sewn to her skin, her wrists leashed by chains that threaded between bones and flesh. No fear in her face. That child was terrifying, but no matter how she seemed, she was also terrified.

“The delegation of hags has come,” snaps Bogdana. “Give me the remains of Mab’s bones and restore my power so that I can lead them again.”

The storm hag stands before the throne, in the place of the petitioner, although nothing about her suggests submission. She wears a long black shroud, tattered in places. Her fingers move expressively as she speaks, sweeping through the air like knives.

Behind her are two Folk. An old woman with the talons of some bird of prey instead of feet (or hooves) and a man shrouded in a cloak. Only his hand is visible, and that is covered in what seems to be a scaled, golden glove. Or perhaps his hand itself is scaled and golden.

Oak blinks. He knows the woman with the feet like a bird of prey. That’s Mother Marrow, who operates out of Mandrake Market on the isle of Insmire. Mother Marrow, whom the prince went to at the very start of his quest, asking for guidance. She sent him to the Thistlewitch for answers about Mellith’s heart. He tries to recall now, all these weeks later, whether she’d said anything that might have put him in Bogdana’s path.

Knots of courtiers are scattered around the room, gossiping, making it hard to hear Wren’s soft reply. Oak steps closer, his arm brushing against a nisse. She makes an expression of annoyance, and he shifts away.

“Have I not suffered long enough?” asks Bogdana.

“You would speak to me of suffering?” Nothing in Wren’s expression is soft or yielding or shy. She is every bit the pitiless winter queen.

Bogdana frowns, perhaps a little unnerved. Oak feels somewhat unnerved himself. “Once I have them, my might will be restored— me, who was once first among hags. That’s what I gave up to secure your future.”

“Not my future.” There is a hollowness to Wren’s cheeks, Oak notices. She’s thinner than she was, and her eyes shine with a feverish brightness.

Has she been ill? Is this because of the wound in her side when she was struck by an arrow?

“Do you not have Mellith’s heart?” demands the storm hag. “Are you not her, reborn into the world through my magic?”

Wren does not reply immediately, letting the moment stretch out. Oak wonders if Bogdana has ever realized that the trade she made must have ruined her daughter’s life, long before it led to her horrible death. From the Thistlewitch’s tale, Mellith must have been miserable as Mab’s heir. And since Wren has at least some of Mellith’s memories in addition to her own, she has plenty of reasons to hate the storm hag.

Bogdana is playing a dangerous game.

“I have her heart, yes,” says Wren slowly. “Along with part of a curse. But I am not a child, no less your child. Do not think you can so easily manipulate me.”

The storm hag snorts. “You are a child still.”

A muscle jumps in Wren’s jaw. “I am your queen.”

Bogdana does not contradict her this time. “You have need of my strength. And you have need of my companions if you hope to continue as you are.”

Oak stiffens at those words, wondering at their meaning.

Wren stands, and courtiers turn their attention to her, their conversations growing hushed. Despite her youth and her small stature, she has vast power.

And yet, Oak notices that she sways a little before gripping the arm of her throne. Forcing herself upright.

Something is very wrong.

Bogdana made this request in front of a crowd rather than in private and named herself as Wren’s maker. Called Wren a child. Threatened her sovereignty. Brought in two of her hag friends. These were desperate, aggressive moves. Wren must have been putting her off for some time. But also, the storm hag may have thought she was attacking in a moment of weakness.

First among the hags. He doesn’t like the thought of Bogdana being more powerful than she already is.

“Queen Suren,” says Mother Marrow, stepping forward with a bow. “I have traveled a long way to meet you— and to give you this.” She opens her palm. A white walnut sits at the center of it.

Wren hesitates, no longer quite as remote as she seemed a moment before. Oak recalls the surprise and delight in her face when he bought her a mere hair ornament. She hasn’t been given many presents since she was stolen from her mortal home. Mother Marrow was clever to bring her something.

“What does it do?” A smile twitches at the corners of Wren’s mouth, despite everything.

Mother Marrow’s smile goes a little crooked. “I have heard you’ve been traveling much of late and spending time in forest and fen. Crack the nut and say my little poem, and a cottage will appear. Bring the two halves together again with another verse, and it will return to its shell. Shall I demonstrate?”

“I think we need not conjure a whole building in the throne room,” Wren says.

A few courtiers titter.

Mother Marrow does not seem discomfited in the least. She walks to Wren and deposits the white walnut in her hand. “Remember these words, then. To conjure it, say: We are weary and wish to rest our bones. Broken shell, bring me a cottage of stones.”

The nut in Wren’s hand gives a little jump at the words but then is quiescent once more.

Mother Marrow continues speaking. “And to send it away: As halves are made whole and these words resound, back into the walnut shell shall my cottage be bound.”

“It is a kind gift. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Wren’s hands curl around it possessively, belying the lightness of her tone. He thinks of the shelter she made from willow branches back in her woods and imagines how well she would have liked to have something solid and safe to sleep in. A well-considered gift, indeed.

The man steps forward. “Though I do not like to be outdone, I have nothing so fine to give you. But Bogdana summoned me here to see if I can undo what—”

“That is enough,” Wren says, her voice as harsh as Oak has ever heard it.

He frowns, wishing she’d have let the man finish. But it was interesting that for all the damning things she allowed Bogdana to say, whatever he wanted to undo was the one thing she didn’t want her Court to hear.

“Child,” Bogdana cautions her. “If my mistakes can be unmade, then let me unmake them.”

“You spoke of power,” Wren snaps. “And yet you suppose I will let you strip me of mine.”

Bogdana begins to speak again, but as Wren descends from the throne, guards gather around her. She heads toward the double doors of the Great Hall, leaving the storm hag behind.

Wren sweeps past Oak without a look.

The prince follows her into the hall. Watches the guards accompany her to her tower and begin to ascend.

He follows, staying to the back, blending in with a knot of soldiers.

When they are almost to her rooms, he lets himself fall behind farther. Then he opens a random door and steps inside.

For a moment, he braces for a scream, but the room is— thankfully— empty. Clothing hangs in an open armoire. Pins and ribbons are scattered across a low table. One of the courtiers must be staying here, and Oak is very lucky not to be caught.

Of course, the longer he waits, the luckier he will have to be.

Still, he can hardly barge into Wren’s rooms now. The guards would not have left yet. And there would certainly be servants— even with so few in the castle— attending her.

Oak paces back and forth, willing himself to be calm. His heart is racing. He is thinking of the Wren he saw, a Wren as distant as the coldest, farthest star in the sky. He cannot even focus on the room itself, which he should almost certainly hunt through to find a weapon or mask or something useful.

But instead he counts the minutes until he believes he can safely— well, as safely as possible, given the inherent danger of this impulsive plan— go to Wren’s rooms. He finds no guard waiting in the hall—unsurprising, given the narrowness of the tower, but excellent. No voices come from inside.

What is surprising is that when he turns the knob, the door opens.

He steps into her rooms, expecting Wren’s anger. But only silence greets him.

A low couch sits along one wall, a tray with a teapot and cups on the table in front of it. In a corner beside it, the ice crown rests on a pillow atop a pillar. And across the room, a bed hung with curtains depicting thorned vines and blue flowers.

He walks to it and sweeps the fabric aside.

Wren is sleeping, her pale cerulean hair spread out over the pillows. He recalls brushing it out when they were in the Court of Moths. Recalls the wild tangle of it and the way she held herself very still while his hands touched her.

Her eyes move restlessly under their lids, as though she doesn’t even feel safe in dreams. Her skin has a glassy quality, as though from sweat or possibly ice.

What has she been doing to herself ?

He takes a step closer, knowing he shouldn’t. His hand reaches out, as though he might graze his fingers over her cheek. As though to prove to himself that she’s real, and there, and alive.

He doesn’t touch her, of course. He’s not that much of a fool.

But as though she can sense him, Wren opens her eyes.

I wrote A Year in the Enchanted Garden: Cultivating the Witch’s Soul With Spells, Crafts & Garden Know-How, my new book from Llewellyn, to inspire you to discover the true enchantment of a garden (big or small), to get your hands dirty and learn to work with the rhythms of nature in your own specific region, and to get to know the spirits of your land.

I invite you to tap into energy that is unique to your own magic with gardening tips, stories, recipes, charms and spells, herbal folklore, and seasonal celebrations for every month.

This is your invitation to stroll through the garden gate and down a stony path. Sit beneath the willow; she whispers eloquent tales of a witch (like you, like me) weaving magic with a green-tipped wand. Never mind the dirt stains under the witch’s fingernails; she finds solace in the company of growing things. Here is an excerpt:

Here We Go A-Wassailing

In northwestern Washington, winters can be particularly dreary. We have known people who have moved to our beautiful valley during the summer and by September declared, “The rain isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” We chuckle at their naïveté and say, “Just wait until November.” Where I am, in eastern Skagit County, the mountains that surround us trap the clouds, so we can sometimes go months without a break in the weather. By the time spring arrives, we open our doors bleary-eyed and suspicious of the big, bright round thing that dominates an unfamiliar blue sky.

One particularly cold, soggy January afternoon, after weeks of continual drizzle, my five-year-old daughter said to me, “Mama, can’t we just shoo it away so the sun will come back?”

I smiled and then said, “I wish I had a spell to make it disappear.”

She went back to playing with her dolls and had soon forgotten all about the gray dampness that kept her indoors, but it got me thinking about rituals meant to scare away the winter and encourage the arrival of spring. I knew all about the carnival celebrations that would be happening in February; their pre-Christian roots began with festivals to usher in the spring. But the ritual I was most interested in was the mid-January ceremony known as wassail.

Long, long, ago, British people set out in small groups, sometimes led by a wassail king and queen, into the bitter cold of a January evening. This would typically take place on the eve of Twelfth Night, January 5 or January 17, depending on which calendar was used. As they walked down the winding paths that led to their orchards, they banged drums and rang bells to frighten away winter spirits. Along with them they brought a special brew of cider or beer that had been prepared with herbs, sugar, spices, eggs, and cream. Typically, they surrounded the oldest fruit-bearing tree, chanted rhymes, and sang songs to wake up the spirit of the tree. In some traditions, the trunk of the tree was beaten with a stick to get the sap moving. As an offering, pieces of dried bread would be dunked into the wassail bowl, and the elected queen would place them in the hollow or supporting branches of the tree. Some of the wassail brew would then be poured about the roots or upon the tree’s trunk, and the revelers shared the rest.

It was that very evening that my daughter, Chloe, who was rightly elected queen, and my sons, Joshua, age twelve, and Elijah, age nine, followed me down a winding path, equipped with apple cider and some bells, to our small orchard. As we walked, we shook our bells and cried out, “Go away, winter! Ye have been banished!”

The kids ran circles around the gnarly old apple tree that produced the smallest and knobbiest apples you can imagine. “Wake up, wake up!” they screeched and jingled their bells. Chloe, taking her role of elected queen very seriously, ceremoniously dunked toasted bread into our wassail bowl and tucked it into the crook of one of the lower branches. “Here you go, nature spirits,” she said. “I hope this helps you wake up and make all this rain go away.”

We sang what verses we could remember from that old carol “Here We Come A-Wassailing,” then spilled a little of the wassail onto the roots of the old tree before sharing the rest among ourselves. “Here’s to a good try, old friend,” I said and raised the bowl. Of course, after taking a big swig from our wassail bowl, Joshua had to spray the contents from his mouth all over the tree’s trunk.

“Joshie!” Chloe screamed and started hitting him with her bells.

“I was just blessing the tree,” he said, blocking her blows with a now sloshing bowl of apple cider. This statement threw my nine-year-old into a fit of laughter, to which Chloe responded with a set of bells between his eyes.

“It’s time to go in,” I said as calmly as I could. I watched as my three little witchlings ran screaming and laughing back to the house, and then I turned toward the tree. “I know you get it,” I said and patted the twisted trunk. “Blessed be, dear spirit.”

Planting Your Bare-Root Tree

Bare-root trees and shrubs are typically available to buy at your local nursery between January and March. What’s great about buying bare-root plants is that it is an easy and affordable way to add fruit-bearing or flowering trees and shrubs to a new garden. Also, most bare-root trees sold are typically a dwarf or semi-dwarf variety, so spacing isn’t as big of an issue as it would be were you to purchase a standard-size tree.

When to plant your bare-root tree will vary from region to region, but ideally you want to plant trees when they are still dormant. In warmer regions, that means late fall to early winter. In colder regions, just after the ground has thawed.

When you are ready to plant your bare root tree or shrub …

• Take off the protective packaging and gently untangle root system.

• Soak in water for approximately three to six hours.

• Dig a hole that is at least double the size of the root spread. Break up the sides of the hole to accommodate growth.

• Mix equal parts garden soil and good compost and partly fill in the hole.

• Place the tree in the hole and fill soil in around the roots. Make sure the root collar (where the roots meet the base of the tree) is level with the ground. Pack the soil in well.

• Build up the soil a little around the tree to form a water basin and give your tree a good watering.

• Cover a three-foot-wide and two-inch-deep area around the base of your tree with mulch to hold in moisture.

• Water every seven to ten days until the tree is well established.

How lovely is this new tome from Sharon Lynn Fisher, Salt & Broom, a witchy retelling of Jane Eyre?

Or, as Sharon puts it, “Jane Eyre, but make it witchy”! Yes.

---

Here are a few words from Sharon about the book:

The publication of Salt & Broom by 47North this month represents a dream come true for me. The novel is a witchy retelling of Jane Eyre, which is the book I consider to be my gateway classic. Before Jane Eyre, I didn’t believe I enjoyed classics. But a friend recommended the book (some 30 years ago), saying “trust me,” and after that I was on to the other Brontes, Austen, Eliot, Shelley, Trollope, and many more.

I’m not sure exactly what made me fall in love with the original. I think I identified with Jane herself, though we were born worlds apart. She was an outsider, felt small, and described herself as plain – I felt much the same growing up. She felt connected to the supernatural, and in fact Rochester is constantly (playfully) accusing her of being a witch or fairy. I loved that aspect, along with the gothic vibes, and as an adult fantasy author, I got to thinking how wonderful it could be if the book actually had supernatural elements. I had been wanting for some time to write a witchy book, too, so it all came together perfectly.

A number of readers have mentioned in reviews that it was brave to take on a Jane Eyre retelling, and until seeing those it hadn’t occurred to me that such an endeavor was risky. It should have. The book is near and dear to many people’s hearts, after all. But once the story began to spin itself in my mind, there was simply no stopping it. I’m incredibly grateful that so many readers have connected with my witchy Jane.

And here’s the prologue:

(Edward Fairfax Rochester)

Thornfield Hall, North of England—October 1, 1847

Nearly midday, and still I tarried at my bedchamber writing desk, gazing out over the grounds of my ancestral home. Beneath the window, a maid dug quick fingers into the rich soil of the kitchen garden, harvesting some variety of root vegetable that would no doubt make its way to the dinner board. Her birdlike voice lifted to the window as she spoke with Thornfield’s cook, the earthier-toned Mrs. Glenn, who stood closer to the house and out of view.

Off to the northeast, where the great oak wood wrapped around one corner of the estate, crows jagged and dived like my own unquiet thoughts, harrying the gilded treetops. Beyond the wood, and in all other directions, stretched rolling green hills and swaths of fading-purple heath. Bruised-looking clouds hung oppressively over all.

The nearest village was Hay, but the orientation of my bedchamber gave me no view of it; Thornfield might have been the only house for miles.

The estate came to me from my father, Osborne, and to Osborne from his father, and so on in an unbroken line all the way back to the first Rochester, who had married into it in the sixteenth century. Since the death of my father, I’d been the sole Rochester upon the place, except for the very brief period when there’d been a mistress of Thornfield.

If I continued in my procrastination, I might very well find myself the only soul still haunting the old hall by Christmas.

Sighing, I gazed down at my littered desk. I gathered up the crumpled, half-written sheets; carried them to the fireplace; and tossed them in, watching as they bloomed and hissed into yellow flame. I’d meant to complete this task days ago but had so far found it impossible to word a request for a thing I simply did not believe existed.

Yet I must do something. Else the servants would certainly desert me, and I could hardly blame them. For myself, I cared little if the old place fell derelict, but they deserved better. Thornfield’s tenants deserved better. And I had a duty to my father to preserve the estate—though at this rate I might very well be the last Rochester to inhabit it.

Blast.

I returned to the desk, sank down, and took out a clean sheet of paper. With a long breath for clarity of thought, I dipped my pen into the inkwell and wrote with determination. When I lifted nib from paper, I did not read what I’d written but quickly blotted the letter, then folded it and applied my seal, addressing it finally to Mr. Simon Brocklehurst of Lowood School in Lancashire.

Is that not swoony? Here are some more links for Sharon:

WEBSITE: https://www.sharonlynnfisher.com/
BOOK PAGE: https://www.sharonlynnfisher.com/salt-and-broom
GOODREADS https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/123443274-salt-broom
INSTAGRAM https://www.instagram.com/sharonlynnfisherauthor/
FACEBOOK https://www.facebook.com/sharonlynnfisher

We wanted to tell you about this brand-new novel from best-selling author M. Louise Cadrin called The Starchild of Atarashara: The Field of Unlimited Possibilities, which is about a magic-seeing thirteen-year-old girl who feels like a misfit until she learns of her true origins: she is the Starchild of Atarashara, destined to save the Ancient Forest in its darkest hour of need …

Which is, as it happens, kind of like our own life story!

Here is the forest-y cover:

And here is a lovely excerpt from the book:

---

Here’s how Louise describes Starchild:

This book is a coming-of-age story of a thirteen-year-old heroine but can speak to any reader who is striving to understand their true, core identity. It is a story about coming into one’s power, fulfilling one’s destiny, and staying true to oneself when challenged with adversity. It is also a story to remind us of the field of magic and infinite possibilities that exist around us at all times.

Sarah Starbright, the main character, can see and sense magical beings that others cannot. As a result, she does not fit in with others her age. Her life changes abruptly overnight upon discovering that she is made up of pure magic, manifested from a portal of unlimited possibilities and destined to save many. This story is a Hero’s Journey, filled with magical allies, challenges and obstacles, and ultimately the heroine finding her own tribe of beings and a place where she belongs.

When we asked Louise about her inspiration, she said:

A number of years ago, I travelled to Europe, the last seven days of which I spent in rural Tuscany, Italy. Every night, as darkness fell, I would walk down to the river and be filled with wonder as the woods came alive with the presence of fireflies, their lights reflecting on the water. That mystical view, coupled with the song of the bullfrogs, pulled me into a world of magic and awe. The trip, and in particular the experience in Tuscany, was a turning point in my life.

Upon returning home, I felt a pressing need to write but did not know where to start. I will always be in debt to a close friend, who during one of our many coffee dates, remarked, “Why don’t you write out of your head, Louise. You have such an active imagination.” And so it began. Less than two weeks later the Prologue of the book was written, with a firefly becoming a pivotal character in the story. As the book progressed, the characters of the book continued to reveal the storyline to me during my many walks in nature.

Sigh. We personally feel that any book begun in the Tuscan forest is a book worth reading. Here is Louise in said forest:

“I believe that magic is present inside us and all around us,” Louise says. “In opening our senses to it, we open ourselves to a world of unlimited possibilities. This is my hope and wish for the readers of The Starchild of Atarashara: to connect with the wonder that exists around us at all times, to remember that we all have a place to belong, and to know that we all have the power to draw from a field of infinite possibilities to create the life that we want.”

You can find the book here: https://www.amazon.com/Starchild-Atarashara-Field-Unlimited-Possibilities/dp/1999499808

And learn more at thestarchildofatarashara.com.