The Blighted Reeds ** PRE-ORDER **

Chapter 1
Fern flung the blankets from her fevered skin, tore off her chemise, and dangled her bare leg over the side of the bed. She reasoned it was the long summer days spilling over into unseasonably warm nights that caused her discomfort. And it had nothing to do with a certain dragon lord who had kissed her senseless the night of the kelmsgale festival.
Deciding that sleep was pointless and dawn wasn’t far away, she might as well start her day. After a wash in cool water, which helped shove overheated thoughts back behind a solid door in her mind, she padded down to the kitchen in stocking-clad feet.
George was already up and sipping steaming coffee from his tankard. He glanced at Fern, nodded, and went back to reading the newspaper. Fern joined him but opted to splash a bit of milk into her morning brew. Ambrose also rose early, which was unusual for him, and joined them.
They were all deep in quiet contemplation when three urgent raps at the kitchen door shattered the morning quiet like a stone through glass. The sharp insistence startled Fern. Most people who use the back door usually burst in without knocking. Whoever stood on the other side wasn’t particularly well acquainted with their family.
“I’ll get it.” George waved for Mrs Bentley to carry on with her precise cutting of vegetables.
The barrel-chested man rose and flung the door open on a travel-stained messenger stamping one foot as though it had gone to sleep on him.
The man flinched and took a step backwards. His hands worried at a letter he carried. “Pardon the intrusion, sir. I have an urgent letter for Miss Oakby from Witherby. I’m to wait for a reply.”
George grunted and took the proffered letter. Crossing the slate floor, he handed it to Fern and then returned to his seat at the head of the table and his interrupted breakfast.
Fern rubbed a finger over the folded sheet of paper, tracing her name in an unfamiliar and hurried handwriting. The sheet showed small tears from being hastily folded, and the seal had cracked on its journey. The tiny signs of urgency set her nerves on edge.
“Mrs Bentley, would you be so kind as to offer this gentleman a drink while he waits? He has ridden some distance.” Fern slid her knife under the wax seal and unfolded the letter. The single sheet revealed a message that made her stomach clench.
Miss Oakby,
I write to you in desperate need from Witherby.
Unnatural reeds are choking our river. There is whistling when the wind blows. And children claim the water sings.
Please, help us. I fear for the children.
Your servant,
Mrs Haddrell
“What is it, dear—you’ve gone unusually quiet?” Ambrose asked over the rim of his teacup.
“Unusual reeds that whistle,” she replied.
Her botanical curiosity warred with a sense of unease. Reeds of unnatural vigour reminded her of the deadly vine, Helix mortifera. Could magic have conjured the plants into existence? The mention of children hearing singing sent a chill down her spine.
Ambrose turned the page of the periodical spread before him. “Whistling reeds? That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“If magic is involved, whistling is never just whistling.” Fern could spare a few days to investigate what grew in the river.
She left the table to talk to the messenger, who took large sips from a mug of tea. “Tell Mrs Haddrell I will leave today. I should reach your village by nightfall.”
The man nodded his thanks, and Fern took the empty mug from him before he hurried back to his horse.
“Take Millie.” George didn’t look up from the newspaper.
“A brilliant idea, George.” Fern would be away for a few days, and the trip would give the writer a taste of bigger adventures to come. She drew a deep breath of the yeasty aroma wafting from the bread laid to cool on the bench. The mouthwatering aroma reminded her to pack sufficient food for their journey. She would also need to tell Lord Drakeman of her absence. A thought that warmed and unsettled her in equal measure.
She turned her gaze to her uncle. The morning light caught the golden-grey strands in his fading red hair. He had a contented expression on his face; he must have found a satisfying piece of gossip in his magazine.
“You wouldn’t mind, would you, Uncle Ambrose, if I stole Millie away?” It had been some time since Fern had last wheedled something out of her uncle, and the attempt sent her back fifteen years in time.
“Nothing would delight me more than to see our darling writer spread her wings like Riddy.” He set down his teacup with a theatrical flourish, nearly knocking over the salt container. “Although I suspect that finding a place in our little community has helped her find her voice and confidence. Thanks to you, dear niece.”
“She has blossomed since I rescued her from Warrington Manor.” Fern considered how the shy woman had changed since escaping her brother’s oppressive household. “But I should warn you—if she comes with me, someone will need to mind the bookstore. I know how particular she is about Scribbles.”
Ambrose's face lit up with genuine delight. “You want me to play shopkeeper? Oh, my dear, what a perfectly marvellous idea! I have been dying to recommend something meatier for Mrs Thorwick.”
Mrs Thorwick had been widowed some years previously and missed her husband terribly. Her cottage’s well-tended grounds had been an outlet for her grief, and it kept her occupied.
“That woman is a seething mass of denied passion that needs an outlet other than pruning her hedge constantly.” Ambrose winked and toasted Fern with his tea.
A snort came from George’s end of the table, and the newspaper went up to hide whatever amused thought was written on his face.
Despite her worries about the mysterious letter, Fern also found herself chuckling at how Ambrose would help Millie’s customers. “I’ll take that as a yes, then?”
“Absolutely. When will you leave?” Ambrose reached for another piece of toast and painted it with bright-yellow butter.