Table of Contents
Synopsis
Other Books by Heather Rose Jones
About the Author
Acknowledgments
A Note on Alpennian Pronunciation
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Bella Books
Synopsis
The streets are a perilous place for a young laundry maid dismissed without a character for indecent acts. Roz knew the end of the path for a country girl alone in the city of Rotenek. A desperate escape in the night brings her to the doorstep of Dominique the dressmaker and the hope of a second chance beyond what she could have imagined. Roz’s apprenticeship with the needle, under the patronage of the royal thaumaturgist, wasn’t supposed to include learning magic, but Celeste, the dressmaker’s daughter, draws Roz into the mysterious world of the charm-wives. When floodwaters and fever sweep through the lower city, Celeste’s magical charms could bring hope and healing to the forgotten poor of Rotenek, but only if Roz can claim the help of some unlikely allies.
Set in the magical early 19th century world of Alpennia, Floodtide tells an independent tale that interweaves with the adventures.
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Praise for Heather Rose Jones
Daughter of Mystery
What I enjoyed most was the gradual friendship, emotional connection, and at last, openly declared love that grew between experienced but vulnerable Barbara and unworldly but determined Margerit. The ability to come to terms with each other’s greater (or lesser) power, even more than ability to fight the baron intent on their harm, is what makes Jones’s heroines so utterly appealing, both as feminist role models and as romantic heroines.
—Romance Novels for Feminists
This is a must-read for anyone looking for a fantasy novel. It is well worth it for lesbian fantasy seekers or those who love a good, complex read without knowing what will come next.
—The Lesbian Review
Reviewers Pick — Top Book of 2014!
—Tor.Com
A slow dance of court intrigue mingled with scholarship and miracle working… Not every fantasy is a wild ride with sword fights, sorcerers and dragons. Daughter of Mystery is a different and very rewarding read indeed. It starts out so real that I first thought I had started a historical novel set in the 18th century in the Alpine region of Europe. And when Heather Rose Jones begins—nearly imperceptibly—to bend reality it took me a minute or two to realize that she now had led the reader into the realm of fantasy. Well done! Brava!
—Curve Magazine
In Daughter of Mystery Heather Rose Jones captures the essence of the sweeping epic often pervasive in speculative fictional works with the largess of language and intricacy of tale.
—Lesbian Reading Room
A wonderful book of intrigue and romance… Arguments over succession to the throne, clearing Margerit’s name, and finding the plotters behind the charges complete this well written first novel. Jones has done a wonderful job in creating the world of Alpennia.
—Lambda Literary Review
Mother of Souls
What Jones did so brilliantly, though, with these returning characters is age them a little and give them personality tweaks which are likely to occur as one goes forward in time. They are still the beloved characters, just a little wiser and more polished by life now. With minor storylines of their own, they remained a captivating bunch to read about. Her characters are perfectly flawed, uniquely individual and beautifully crafted. It may be possible that this book is even more beautifully written than the first two. I cannot help but get absorbed in the words and the storyline that begs to be finished.
—The Lesbian Review
The Mystic Marriage
Heather Rose Jones is a superior author. Any lovers of fantasy must give the Alpennia novels a chance. And if you are not a fan of fantasy but you like period dramas then this will work for you as well.
—The Lesbian Review
Other Bella Books by Heather Rose Jones
Daughter of Mystery
The Mystic Marriage
Mother of Souls
About the Author
Heather Rose Jones is the author of the Alpennia historic fantasy series: an alternate-Regency-era Ruritanian adventure revolving around women’s lives woven through with magic, alchemy, and intrigue. Her short fiction has appeared in The Chronicles of the Holy Grail, Sword and Sorceress, Lace and Blade, and at Podcastle.org. Heather blogs about research into lesbian-relevant motifs in history and literature at the Lesbian Historic Motif Project and has a podcast covering the field of lesbian historical fiction which has recently expanded into publishing audio fiction. She has a PhD in linguistics and works as an industrial failure investigator in biotech pharmaceuticals.
Copyright © 2019 by Heather Rose Jones
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
First Bella Books Edition 2019
eBook released 2019
Editor: Medora MacDougall
Cover Designer: Sandy Knowles
ISBN: 978-1-64247-046-8
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Acknowledgments
As always, I would like to express my gratitude and appreciation for my beta readers and subject matter experts, for their time and candid feedback: Beth B., Irina R., Jennifer N., Sara U., Ursula W., Maya C., Margaret B., Beth T., Marissa L., Christine W., and, as always, Lauri W. This would not be nearly as good a book as it is without your insight, criticism, and praise, though of course you bear no blame for any of my failures.
A Note on Alpennian Pronunciation
For interested readers, there are three basic rules for Alpennian
pronunciation. Names are stressed on the first syllable. The letter “z” is pronounced “ts” as in German. The combination “ch” is pronounced “k.” Non-Alpennian names follow the rules for their language of origin. So, for example, the housekeeper Charsintek’s name is pronounced “kar-sin-teck” while Celeste Giraud’s name follows French rules and is pronouned “sell-est jeer-oh.”
Dedication
This book is for Jennifer Nestojko: poet, writer, teacher, warrior, and friend. I am blessed to have such people in my life to inspire me and to share the joy of artistic creation with.
Chapter One
January 1824—Dismissed
You know the scent of lavender on the fresh sheets? When you take them from the linen press, you breathe it in, remembering the long rows of purple flowers in the summer sun. You think of the smile on the maisetra’s face when she settles in for the night with that scent still lingering. That’s what I always imagined love would be like.
But loving Nan was like stripping the lavender spikes in Aunt Gaita’s stillroom back in Sain-Pol. The sharp resin filled my head and the memory of it clung to my hands and my clothes. I’d say the prayers to Saint Cheler with my aunt as we distilled lavender water and mixed herbs to add to the soap. Sometimes I’d get a warm, stretchy feeling at the base of my belly, like the one I got during the mysteries at church.
When I was in the middle of the lavender harvest, I’d forget about everything else. I wouldn’t think about how lucky I was that Aunt Gaita picked me out from my brothers and sisters to learn a trade and teach me how to behave proper in service. I’d forget about tending the boiler where the linens were soaking. My mind would wander off and she’d box my ears and threaten to send me back home to mind the babies. I knew she didn’t mean it, but the scent was that strong it could drive everything else out of my head.
Loving Nan was like that. I was never free of thinking of her. I’d watch her from the laundry room door as she went up and down the stairs to the family rooms and find excuses to call her over to ask about some mending she’d brought down. I’d lean close and breathe in how lovely she smelled. Then at night, even when we were so tired we could barely talk, we’d kiss and cuddle in the narrow bed we shared.
Nan was the one who taught me what to do with that feeling in my belly. We’d never meant it to go further than the ordinary sort of keeping company. Most girls in service have a special friend. You get lonely away in the city with no family about. But it did go further. I was so hungry for Nan we’d be up late into the night, trying not to make noise and wake Mari in the next bed and then stumbling bleary-eyed through the morning chores.
I don’t think Mari told on us. Why would she? But someone did. That morning Mefro Mollin, the housekeeper, took Nan back into her parlor and closed the door for a long time. I watched the door until Nan came out crying. She ran upstairs without looking at me. Mollin saw me standing there and took me by the arm without a word and dragged me out the door, across the yard, and out the back gate, then threw me down onto the cobbles.
I was yelling and crying all the way, begging to know what I’d done wrong. Mollin looked down at me like I was a rat she’d found in the soup.
“You little whore!” she spat. “Don’t you play the innocent with me. We’ll have none of your filthy ways here.”
At first I didn’t know what she meant. “I never—” I began. And then I thought about Nan’s face.
You think all sorts of silly things in a moment like that. I thought about how ashamed Mama would be if I came home in disgrace when they’d worked so hard to find me a good position. I worried about not being able to say goodbye to Nan. I thought how the table linens were soaking in lye and would anyone think to take them out? I remembered that my second dress and good bonnet—the ones I wore to church—were up in my room. The silliest thing was that’s what I asked about: my clothes.
Mollin laughed and slammed the gate in my face. “Whistle for them,” she said and went back into the house.
I stood there for ages, shivering in the cold and stamping my feet in the snow. I stared at the back steps with my hands on the bars of the gate like it was a jail. Except I was locked out, not in. Up at the top of the house the curtain moved in the room I shared with Nan and Mari, but no one looked out. What had Mollin said to Nan? Would she be dismissed too? I’d wait there at the gate until I knew.
Finally the back door opened, but it wasn’t Nan or even Mollin. It was one of the footmen, Ionek, swaggering down the steps and over to where I stood. I’d never had anything to do with the footmen—you get in trouble that way—but he’d always seemed friendly enough before.
Now he sneered, “What are you still doing here? Get on with you.”
I was going to sass him back, but my teeth were chattering too much. So when he doubled up a fist and reached for the latch of the gate, I turned and ran stumbling down the lane. I slowed down when I didn’t hear him following. Running like that’s how you end up slipping on the cobbles and falling into the wet and muck. The part of my head that was starting to think knew that every mistake I made from now on would pull me farther and farther down.
* * *
If I’d been born in Rotenek and knew the city better, I would have known places where girls who’d lost their character could hole up and keep safe. But I’d come straight from Sain-Pol to the Fillerts’ house. It had all been arranged with the agency before I arrived, riding wedged in the driver’s seat of Papa’s delivery wagon and gaping at the crowded streets and tall houses. I only stopped at the agency long enough to show them the letter promising me the position and to get directions.
Thinking of Papa made me start crying. What would I tell him when next quarter day came around and I didn’t have any pay to send? What would they think if I disappeared and never even wrote to explain? Would they think I’d run off to get married? I always figured I’d get married some day when I’d saved enough. At least, I always figured I’d get married some day before I met Nan. Then I wasn’t sure. I’d never met a boy that made me feel like she did. It didn’t matter now. I’d disappear and they think I’d gotten in trouble and been too ashamed to go home. I had, just not the kind of trouble they’d think it was. Maybe Aunt Gaita would write to the agency and ask after me, but they wouldn’t know a thing.
The agency. My mind fixed on that. The matron there had said people were always looking for strong country girls to hire. They could find me a new place. People didn’t hire in the middle of the quarter regular-like, but if someone needed help maybe they wouldn’t ask questions.
That idea gave me somewhere particular to go. I hurried a bit, as fast as I could without slipping. I didn’t know if they’d be open and it was all the way down toward the Nikuleplaiz. I passed by it regular when Nan and I had a half-day off and we went to gawk at the Strangers’ Market, so I knew I could find it again. I thought my luck had turned because I saw the door open and a girl came out, followed by the matron.
“You come back tomorrow for directions. And don’t you lose your character.” She handed the girl a packet of paper.
That was when I knew how foolish I’d been. I didn’t have my letter of character from the priest back in Sain-Pol. It was with my things up in the attic room. And they’d want one from the Fillerts too.
The matron saw me standing there staring at her. When I didn’t say anything, she turned and shut the door again. I’d lost my character in every way. There was nothing for me here.
It was dark. I’d never been down near the Nikuleplaiz at night before. I’d never been much of anywhere outside the house after dark. I could smell the stink of the river even through the cold, but it didn’t stop my stomach from nagging at me. I’d been hungry before. That was why I got sent to live with Aunt Gaita. I knew it wouldn’t be too bad at first, but if you stayed hungry too long then it was all you could think about and I needed to think about finding work.
There were market booths in the plaiz and I thought maybe if I helped someone p
ack up, they’d give me a bite that wasn’t worth keeping over till tomorrow. But others were there before me. The ragged children I’d seen around the Nikuleplaiz had given me the idea after all. I stopped counting how many times I heard no.
The whole plaiz was nearly empty by then and lit only by people carrying lanterns as they crossed the pavement between the church and the river, thinking of their homes and suppers waiting. A group of men huddled around a brazier with a fire going, but when I wandered close, one of them turned and said, “Hey sweetheart, you looking to get warm tonight? I can help with that.”
Nan always teased me about being an innocent, but I knew what he meant. I shook my head and turned away, trying to look like I had somewhere to go.
That night lasted forever and sometimes I still wake up thinking I’m walking through the darkness trying not to be seen by the city watch or worse. The next day was almost as bad. I was hungry by then and stared at the beggars on the steps of the church. I wasn’t a beggar. I thought of what Mama and Aunt Gaita would say if they saw me sitting there with my hand out to strangers asking for a bit of bread. Then I tried not to think about them because I didn’t want to start crying again. I spent all day in the market asking for work, but no one had any. At least, not for me.
* * *
When dusk came, I slipped into Saint Nikule’s church. I only meant to stay a little while. Long enough to get out of the cold. They have to let you come in if you want to pray. And I was praying at first. I had a lot to pray for. I sat near the front by one of the side chapels where there was a brazier. I worked through all the prayers they taught me at the Orisule school back in Sain-Pol. I ended up just begging God to help me so I wouldn’t freeze to death. It wasn’t a proper prayer at all, but I didn’t want to go back outside. I was tired and I thought I could pray as easily with my eyes closed, so I leaned into the corner of the bench and kept saying my Ave and Pater because they were the ones I didn’t have to think hard to remember.
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