The Wandering Mandrake **PRE-ORDER**

Nemython House, late summer

On hearing her uncle’s words, Fern nearly choked on a mouthful of coffee and swallowed it with an awkward gulp. Sir Luxton Davies had sent his wife to murder her father? She couldn’t imagine the man who resembled a baked potato having that much sway over someone. But then, you never knew how other people’s relationships worked behind closed doors.
“Whether she is his wife or mother, it doesn’t matter. She will face justice for what she did.” Mentally, Fern scribbled notes of all she had to do. A trip to London, obviously. Tapping a few robust-looking soldiers to assist, finding where Lady Davies lived, and then dragging her off to Newgate. They probably wouldn’t hang her. Noble women escaped that fate. But Fern would be satisfied if the woman spent the rest of her life in a cold, damp, and flea-infested cell.
“I wonder if our old acquaintance coerced his wife to do his bidding, or if she was a willing participant?” Ambrose mused as he used a fingertip to slide the letter towards George.
Fern hardly heard the question as she wondered if Millie would accompany her to London. She had promised they would scandalise society one more time. Here was an opportunity to do so by pointing a finger at one of their own.
“We leave for London today.” Fern rose and pushed back her chair. Energy coursed through her veins, hot and purposeful. After all these years, she finally had a name and a target for the grief that had hollowed her out. Fury now filled the space left by her father’s death. “Tomorrow at the latest. We need to arrange care for Osier, and I need to persuade Riddy to come.”
Now that Riddy was rapidly growing in size, she would be handy for catching a criminal. Or for making one talk. She wondered if the dragon could breathe fire yet. A light application of flame to the bare soles of Lady Davies’s feet would surely make her confess.
George had been silent at the head of the table for some time. After a slow sip of coffee, he carefully placed the tankard down. One finger tapped the handle as he rehearsed something in his head. Then his gaze fixed on Fern. “Where’s your proof?”
Fern’s hands clenched at her sides. “I am armed with the truth. All of London will hear that Lady Vivian Davies murdered my father.”
“Proof.” George enunciated the word with care. “Not a dream.”
“It wasn’t a dream! I journeyed to the realm of the dead, and Father showed me who did it. That is eyewitness testimony from the victim.” Even just speaking about it made the chill of death course through Fern’s veins. She remembered being a ghost in that realm as her father revealed his last moments.
“A judge can’t ask a dead man questions.” George drew a long inhale as he considered his next words. “Justice is a tool used by the wealthy and nobles, not one they submit to.”
Tears burned behind Fern’s eyes. “It’s not fair! Are we supposed to do nothing because they are rich? Just let them stay safely wrapped in their wealth while they destroy the lives of ordinary folk?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” George stood and dropped his hands on Fern’s shoulders, turning her to face him. “An accusation without proof is slander. No one at this table is particularly well thought of by London society, so don’t expect any support from them.”
Ambrose huffed. “Speak for yourself. I am known as a man of elegance and refinement.”
“Who makes up stories for a scandalous magazine.” George’s words might have sounded harsh, but the love in his eyes for his lifelong partner tempered them.
Fern slumped. George was right. She hated it when he was right. She had seen enough of the world to know that wealth was worn like armour and a social position became a fortress. But knowing it and accepting it were entirely different matters.
Ambrose removed his glasses and polished them with a fresh handkerchief pulled from his waistcoat. “I’m afraid George is right, my dear. As much as it pains me to admit it.” He replaced his spectacles and looked at her with worried eyes. “We need proof. Real, undeniable proof. Like a very public proclamation of her guilt.”
The impossibility of it deflated Fern’s righteous anger into something heavier, something that settled in her chest like waterlogged soil. She sank back into her chair. “I cannot do nothing. Give me something I can do, please? Any direction.”
“We investigate them. Find a chink in their armour.” George returned to his seat and his breakfast.
“Father’s been dead for five years. How much time does she deserve to walk free?” Fern’s words came out flat.
It wasn’t just Lady Davies who needed to be held to account for her crime; Fern recalled the gnarled hand of Jacobo as the prematurely aged man had drawn his last breath. “We need to destroy them both.”
Ambrose reached across the table and patted her hand. “We’ll find a way, Fern. I promise you that. Poison was procured, which gives us a line of enquiry to follow. Then we have a plethora of devious minds available to us in Drake’s Bend to help craft the perfect justice for Rowan and the others who had their lives stolen.”
Her uncle was right there. Sir Luxton thought his wealth and position protected him. But they would be a horde of rats who would nibble at the mortar until his castle tumbled down around him. Fern had access to imagination, alchemy, and magic.
“Poison, yes, only a few apothecaries would sell such a fatal draught as the one Father drank. I’ll draw up a list later. First, I need to see Millie.” Fern buttered a piece of toast and took it with her.
The slice was clenched between her teeth as she pulled on her boots outside the kitchen door. The walk to Drake’s Bend helped settle her thoughts, though it couldn’t calm them entirely. She took the western route and the main road with its pretty rows of shops and cottages. The village shook off its slumber and greeted the day around her. Shutters were flung open, and smoke curled from chimneys. On the village green, the kelmsgale tree showed the first signs of approaching autumn. A soft edge of gold rimmed some of its leaves.
Over the bridge, she headed for Scribbles with its painted sign. The foot of the building was softened by late-blooming lavender. Fern tended the plants, removing spent blooms to keep them flowering into autumn. The small magic of nurturing life and coaxing beauty from soil and seed usually brought her comfort.
Today, it felt inadequate.
The bell above the door chimed as she entered. A rich aroma of paper and ink filled the air. She found her writer friend clinging to the rolling ladder. Anchored by a sturdy brass bolt George had installed, the ladder no longer changed direction on Millie mid-reach for a book. Squib sat on the shelf above, chattering away.
“I know sorting by colour looks more pleasing, my friend, but it’s a nightmare to find anything. Alphabetically by author surname is, I believe, the conventional method for shelving books,” Millie replied to her small companion.
Squib flapped his wings and squawked.
“I have to agree with Millie, Squib. People usually ask for a book by author name or title. Not many ask for the pretty green one with silver edges.” Fern tried hard to keep her expression serious as the pixie dragon threw a diminutive tantrum.
Millie smiled at Fern and slowly descended the ladder. “Squib is a fantastic assistant, but we do occasionally have creative differences.”
The little dragon snorted heated air and flew to the adjoining conservatory.
“Fern and I are going outside. Did you want to join us?” Millie called after him.
Squib stared at her, then quite deliberately turned his back and nestled on a sofa in the sun.
Fern linked arms with Millie and drew her through the shop to the kitchen. “I fear you have created a tiny dictator.”
Millie glanced over her shoulder before speaking. “I suspect it doesn’t matter the size of a dragon; they are a species unused to hearing the word no.”
Alice was busy in the kitchen, and she waved a flour-covered hand before returning to her baking.
The door was propped open to let in a refreshing breeze. Millie grabbed two canvas-covered cushions from a wooden box outside, and the women walked across the grass to the river. Fern sat cross-legged, uncaring if any damp grass stained her dress. Millie carefully wrapped the fabric of her dress around her body before sitting and tucking her feet underneath her skirt. The two women watched the ducks fishing for their breakfast. They sat in near silence, with only the gurgling water and quacking to puncture the quiet. There were no questions or demands for an explanation from Millie. Just an immediate understanding that Fern needed her. It was one thing she cherished about their friendship. They had so easily learned to read each other’s moods and offer comfort without requiring words first.
“Ambrose had a letter from London this morning,” Fern began, then the story poured out. She had the name of the person who wore the sapphire ring at last. But George made his maddeningly practical assessment of their situation and the sheer weight of the impossibility that pressed on Fern.
“After all these years, I finally know who killed my father.” Her voice cracked, and she wrapped her arms around her knees. “But I cannot see a path to justice for Father. Or Jacobo. Or all the others who were drained by Sir Luxton’s greed.”
Millie listened without interruption, her hand finding Fern’s and squeezing gently. The bubble of silence around them wrapped Fern in comfort and support. She let it brush against her worries, smoothing the sharp edges until she could breathe deeply again.
“Lady Vivian needs a public downfall. As we had,” Millie said at length.
Those words echoed in Fern’s head, and through the despair that had clouded her mind, she now recalled what her Uncle Ambrose had said. “A public declaration,” she murmured. But words alone could never equate to any sort of justice for all those harmed.
“We have both experienced what happens when society turns against someone. The shame. The isolation. The loss of position. It’s a terrible enough thing when you’ve done nothing wrong.” Millie hesitated, her gaze unfocused as a scene played out in her head.
“Lady Davies is protected by wealth and position. She would be shunned for a few weeks, then life would carry on as usual.” Fern plucked a daisy from the grass and tugged at its petals.
“But murder cannot be ignored or swept under the rug. Society only protects its own until the scandal is too loud to ignore.” Millie’s expression was open and hopeful as she crafted the perfect downfall for Lady Davies.
“She needs to face more than social ruin. The baron and his murderous wife need to be torn down. Let them see what life is like for the poor in our world.” Fern wrenched the head off the flower (which hadn’t committed any crime at all apart from being close at hand) and scattered the tiny bits in the breeze.
“They would be forgotten. A lingering, slow punishment as they are erased from memory,” Millie said.
Both women fell silent. The river murmured its way around the bend, and a fish broke the surface with a soft plop.
They had the seed of a plot, but it needed a way to germinate and set events into motion.
Fern regarded her friend. “Could you do it? Could you write a story that would make her confess? Like how you told Elsie’s truth.”
Even as she asked, she saw the answer in Millie’s expression. The hope in her chest guttered.
“Oh, Fern…my gift doesn’t work that way.” Millie’s voice was full of regret. “Elsie wanted her story told, and the village needed the truth to heal. I don’t think I could compel someone who is hiding the truth.”
“No, of course not. I shouldn’t have asked.” Fern felt foolish for even suggesting it.
“It’s natural to grasp at any possibility when you feel helpless.” Millie’s tone became small and quiet.
If anyone understood the particular agony of powerlessness in the face of wealth and position, it was Millicent Carlisle. She had spent years under her brother’s control, unable to change her circumstances.
Like Miss Hambling.
It was time to rescue that woman.
“Have you heard from Mrs Garrick recently?” Fern picked at a task that seemed more likely to succeed.
A faint pink hue blossomed over Millie’s cheeks. “I may have had a letter this week.”
“Why, Mrs Carlisle, the colour in your cheeks makes me think you two aren’t corresponding with each other about books. Unless it’s naughty books?” Fern gently teased her friend.
The blush deepened to a rosy red.
She studied the other woman’s face. Had she inadvertently guessed correctly about a certain topic? Too late, Fern realised what might have caused her friend embarrassment. “I was merely curious if there was news about Miss Hambling. I wasn’t prying…”
A shy smile lit up Millie’s expression. “Dorothea is indeed a friend of mine. But to answer your question, she is most worried about Miss Hambling and promised more news soon.”
Fern had been curious about who had piqued the writer’s romantic interests. “I like Mrs Garrick, and I’m glad that time and circumstances have given us a chance to renew our friendship.” Troublesome women needed to support one another. If there were enough of them, they could storm the halls of government and establish a new world order. One with less fighting caused by overly emotional men, and with greater support for those who wished to be mothers.
Millie leaned in closer and whispered in her ear, “I like her too.”
Warmth washed through Fern, and she pulled her friend into a hug to hide the silly grin on her face. Her friend deserved adventure and romance and whatever else sparked her dreams.