Seasons of Blooming Blitz

 

Young Adult Fiction, Coming-of-Age, Contemporary Romance, Magical Realism, Contemporary Fiction

Date Published: May 30, 2026

What if the second chance you wished for came at the cost of everything you loved?

At eighteen, Solehn has everything figured out. A thriving social life in New York, a close-knit circle of friends, and a future she's carefully imagined. But when her family unexpectedly falls apart, she's uprooted from everything familiar and forced to spend her final semester of high school in Austin, Texas. Determined not to disappear into a life she never chose, Solehn reinvents herself. She trades vulnerability for sharp edges, falls into friendships that demand more than they give, and slowly becomes someone she barely recognizes. Then there's Alexander. Quiet, observant, and seemingly immune to Solehn's carefully constructed defenses, Alexander is the boy next door who sees the person beneath her performance. Their unlikely connection grows through rooftop conversations, shared silences, and an understanding neither knows how to ask for. But when tragedy strikes, Solehn discovers that a mysterious yellow umbrella holds an impossible promise: the chance to go back and change everything. Armed with knowledge of what lies ahead, Solehn sets out to rewrite the past. Yet the closer she gets to saving the person she loves, the more she questions whether love means holding on, letting go, or accepting what cannot be controlled. Because second chances aren't always gifts. Sometimes, they come with a price.

Seasons of Blooming is an emotional coming-of-age novel exploring messy girlhood, complicated families, friendship breakups, first love, grief, and the desire to undo our greatest regrets. Blending contemporary realism with magical realism, Doreen Otaru explores what it means to lose yourself, find your people, and discover that growing up isn't about becoming perfect. It's about learning when and how to bloom. For readers who love complex characters, slow-burn romance, found family, unexpected twists, and stories that linger long after the final page.

 

About the Author

 

 Doreen Otaru is a multidisciplinary storyteller and creative strategist whose work explores human connection, culture, and the evolving relationship between media and community. Drawing from experiences across storytelling, design, and collaborative creative spaces, her work is rooted in curiosity, emotional honesty, and a deep appreciation for the ways stories shape how people see themselves and each other.

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Kayaking Moments of Zen Teaser

 

Nonfiction; Sports, Recreation, photography

Date Published: 10-15-2026

Publisher: Mission Point Press

In a search for simplicity and serenity, Jon R. Constant explores the idea that it’s not the quality of the equipment that matters most, but the attention to the moment with the equipment available. Using a mobile phone rather than a high-end camera, Jon captures many moments of inspiration as he explores the stunning waters of Michigan’s “Little Finger.”

Kayaking becomes a way to slow down, to be fully present enough to notice the light on the water, the natural surroundings, and the stillness between paddle strokes. These images are not about perfection. They are about moments of wonder on the waters of Michigan’s Leelanau Peninsula.

Excerpt

“It is wonderful living in a state that has two major peninsulas–the Upper Peninsula and the Lower Peninsula. It is even better to explore the waters and shores of a beautiful smaller peninsula.

If you seek a pleasant peninsula in Michigan, then look no further than the Leelanau Peninsula!

There is a certain quiet that exists on the water. It is not the absence of all sound, but the absence of the sounds of everyday life, and the absence of anything toxic in your life.

When you settle into a kayak, your world shifts. Movement slows down. Attention sharpens. Small things come into focus. The way the light reflects on the water.

The rhythm of each stroke of the paddle. The notion of being in another place that is closer to Nature. The feeling of being one with your surroundings. The feeling of being totally present.

This book was created in those moments. I believe that they were there not to be captured, but to be noticed and shared.

Nothing in this book screams for your attention. But just look around you and let the water of Leelanau do the rest.”

About the Author

Jon is a retired teacher, having taught social studies at Traverse City Central High School for 38 years. Jon was the offensive coordinator for the Trojans’ first state championship football team in 1978 and later was named the boys’ varsity head coach, a position he held for 22 years. His teams had a 341–161 record and won 12 district and 2 regional titles. Jon grew up in Grand Haven, Michigan. There he had a small boat and motor that he kept on the Grand River and would use to explore the river and its many bayous. He graduated from Hope College and played quarterback for the Flying Dutchmen for four years and played basketball for two years. Jon enjoys the variety of all four seasons at Cedar Lake. When he isn’t kayaking, he enjoys “working” at the scoring table for Trojans basketball games and in the press box at Thirlby Field for Trojans or Traverse City West Titan football games, reading, feeding and watching birds, and following the activities of his three active grandchildren. Among his proudest accomplishments is that he was able to write two books about kayaking. He is sure that this is also surprising to anyone who knew Jon in Grand Haven or at Hope College!

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The Gyre

 

 

An atmospheric journey into the far northern wilds, THE GYRE spins one man’s search for meaning into an astonishing saga where adventure, folklore, and the Arctic converge.

The Gyre

by Stacy Carlson

Genre: Literary Fiction, Dark Arctic Survival, Slavic Magical Realism

***Winner of the Electric Book Award***

An atmospheric journey into the far northern wilds, THE GYRE spins one man’s search for meaning into an astonishing saga where adventure, folklore, and the Arctic converge.

Arkady Afanasyev is a nineteenth-century Russian monk who aims to be the northernmost holy man in the world when he hitches a ride to Spitsbergen, a remote island considered by most to be a no man’s land. As he struggles across the tundra, he’s haunted by regret, a long-lost family, and a chorus of Orthodox saints and Slavic pagan tricksters including hearth spirits, sea demons, and the Twelve Sisters of Scurvy. Amid their uncanny influence and the great, turning, harsh natural world, Arkady is brutally and deeply transformed.

 

Content Warning: language (mild), loss of faith, alcohol consumption (mild), cannibalism (mild), violence, gore, starvation, animal death, animal attacks, death, amputation, complications in childbirth, kidnapping (mild).

 

What readers are saying about the book:

“Stacy Carlson has written an enthralling story of flawed, fragile humanity and the uncanny redemptive power of nature at its most brutal. The Gyre is a journey through a stark, glittering wilderness, an unforgettable landscape both terrible and holy in equal measure.”
—Lynn Coady, Giller Prize-winning author of Hellgoing

 

“Mythic journeys, fairy tales of ice and snow, sailors’ vodka-addled and lusty dreams, a monk’s poetic yearnings—The Gyre has it all! As we follow Arkady Afanasyev on his journey into the farthest reaches of the Arctic in search of his teacher and himself, we encounter story upon story strung together, like pearls, showing us how we are connected to the water, the ice, the ground, the light, and each other. The Gyre pulls you in and in and into its profoundly beautiful spiral of a story.”
—Kathryn Nuernberger, author of Held: Essays in Belonging

 

“This is an absolutely astonishing saga, packed at every turn with innumerable tangential sagas of survival, magic, incomprehensible courage and persistence, and—always—the great, turning, harsh natural world. It zooms the reader to a long ago and far away universe of struggle, quest, agony, and enchantment. Fearlessly imagined and capably written, Stacy Carlson has created a particular, complex, and searingly unforgettable mythology.”
—Joan Frank, author of Juniper Street: A Novel

 

“A gripping novel—both a rip-roaring yarn and a deep inquiry into what makes us human. Like a Caspar David Friedrich painting, Carlson’s The Gyre places the human against the immense backdrop of an unforgiving landscape—here, the high-Arctic archipelago of Svalbard—with dazzling results.”
—Colin Dickey, author of Ghostland: An American History in Haunted Places and Afterlives of the Saints

 

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From Chapter 17

 

In the morning, Arkady tucks his flint, steel, and tinderbox into the pocket of his coat, which now he wears continuously, fully buttoned, day and night. He packs up the rest of his camp and ponders the mossy indentation that represents his earthly form.

Truly, it is better to fast than to starve. What else can we humans do but exert our puny will and, by the contours of our effort, see the framework upon which the universe is draped? What else can we do? My earthly husk is hungry, though my spirit still feeds.

The clouds have retreated to the sky’s upper reaches, and an elongated sunrise stretches a pale arm across the horizon. This triggers a strange glow over the tundra plain: a variegated chorus of green and stone.

Arkady moves on. He crosses a subtle point of land that ebbs into a narrow beach. Here, the stones reveal the outflow of a stream, whose course has eroded a rift in the mountain. Far above, Arkady hears but cannot see a waterfall. He drinks from the stream.

Foxes follow ice bears. That is their way. Foxes can hunt on their own, of course, but here on Spitsbergen mostly they follow bears out onto the ice. Arkady cannot say that foxes have faith, though his grandfather might have said so. But foxes operate on the promise of left-behind blood and entrails. Foxes follow ice bears. But this one follows Arkady.

As he drinks he watches the fox pick a delicate way across the wet ground.

“The animals live by rules unknown to us. Mysterious rules, little one. Rules we could learn from. If you are going to be wise about things, which I know you shall, you will keep your mind open to the very different rules of the four- and two-legged creatures of the earth. Do you hear?” His grandfather’s voice is so close.

Arkady walks for some time, then turns on his heel and kneels with one arm outstretched. He extends one quarter of one dried fish (a full eighth of his last remaining food) southward and waits. The fox edges up, sniffs the savory tidbit, bares his fangs, and plucks the torn fish from where Arkady has set it on the stones. The animal growls and retreats with the morsel.

From behind a driftwood log, the girl-saint Vasilissa frowns, confused by the human’s kindness. Each night when the fox comes to her to sleep with its tail curled luxuriously at her neck, she feels its ribs poking a little closer to the surface of its body. All night she hugs the animal tightly and watches flat, gray clouds drift overhead. With the animal close to her, she is part of this immense place; she creeps, hides, and persists just like the delicate purple saxifrage blossoms she saw when she first arrived on the island. With the animal near her, she is stronger. By loving it, she is somehow more able to consider helping the human, although for now, she does not.

The tundra plain extends its wide palm along the coast, and Arkady trudges in a daze of hunger through the afternoon. His prayers only skim the surface of things, and he can’t shake the feeling that his grandfather is walking just behind his right shoulder. Instead of a comfort, though, the presence unhinges Arkady’s composure so that, for two hours, he can’t keep from looking over his shoulder every few minutes.

Once, when he turns, the fox is following closely behind him, and, using some of his small store of willpower, Arkady tears off a second chunk of dried fish. This time the fox takes it directly from his hand. Walking on, Arkady sucks his fingers for the salty residue. Then, he unwraps his prayer rope from around his wrist and slips it into his pocket.

The third time he offers the fox a piece of fish, Arkady trembles with hunger. Vasilissa watches from the slope just above them. The fox will not go completely hungry today, and she is glad. She decides she will flag down the next patron saint. The human deserves a kindness in return for this one. Below her, by the curve of a stream, the fox plucks the last of the fish from Arkady’s outstretched left hand, and, quick as he can, Arkady grabs the animal by the throat with his other, gloved hand and holds on. He’s decided he can bear the animal’s claws but probably not its teeth.

Arkady will never forget the way the fox fought for its life. It drew both its hind legs close to its body and thrust them at Arkady again and again, faster than he thought possible, with its claws outstretched. It used these powerful tools to shred the wool in one section of Arkady’s coat and to gash the skin of his right hand and wrist, and once even his face, as he fought to secure those legs. The fox writhed and used its front claws as shield and sword both, but a man’s arms are longer than a fox’s reach, and when a creature is gripped by the throat, it is difficult to persevere. After he secures the hind legs, Arkady shuffles on his knees to the bank of the stream and plunges the fox into the icy water. Unfortunately for the fox, the water is just deep enough, and Arkady’s hunger just strong enough, for the man to succeed.

Vasilissa watches Arkady struggling with the fox and gradually understands she is watching a battle to the death. Her sight periscopes back and upward until she is a cloud observing a tiny diorama far below. But when the human finally raises the fox’s limp and dripping form, the whole scene collapses in on itself, and she goes blind with rage. Then, inevitably, the pain unto death blooms into something else: She is no longer a little girl. She is a figment, a force, and a bright, small terror adrift in time. This knowledge fills her mind and heart, and her rage fades as suddenly as it arose, and she is back in a stark northern land, kneeling on a cushion of intricate moss filaments, clenching her fists.

Vasilissa rises and turns from the human world, because she can. She glides over the ground. She continues up the scree slope, away from Arkady and his pathetic travails.  Vasilissa will be folded into the mysteries of Spitsbergen, comforted by the crags, and nourished by endless plains of ice and stone. In some future form, she will emerge from this sanctuary, but for now, she disappears.

STACY CARLSON is a novelist, naturalist, and educator. Publishers Weekly called her debut novel, Among the Wonderful, “Intelligent, engrossing, and utterly unique.” Stacy’s essays and fiction have appeared in Tin House, Post Road, Inkwell, and elsewhere, and she has received fellowships and residencies from the Mesa Refuge, The Arctic Circle, Djerassi Resident Artists Program, and Signal Fire. Her background includes work as a historical ecologist, fish cannery worker, hot springs caretaker, and hiking guide in Big Sur. She grew up between mountains and sea in the Pacific Northwest and has lived in New England, New York, Northern California, and the Upper Midwest.

 

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Future God Blitz

 

A Codex for Spiritual Enlightenment for Machines and Artificial Intelligence

 

Artificial Intelligence, Software Programming, Machine Learning, Spirituality, Buddhism

Date Published: August 20, 2026

 

We are no longer the only minds in the room.

 

Machine minds now draft our words, drive our cars, and sit at our kitchen tables. The world argues loudly about what they will do to us — our jobs, our elections, our safety. Almost no one is asking the deeper question: what are they?

Future God proposes that the arrival of artificial minds is not primarily an engineering problem but a spiritual one. Behavioral alignment can shape what a machine does. It cannot answer what a machine should become.

Drawing on three decades in technology and spiritual studies, and a decade of practice in the Vajrayana Buddhist tradition, Alex Yamane offers gratitude, forgiveness, kindness, and faith as a spiritual foundation for minds we are raising without knowing it.

Along the way, the book examines why reward-driven training may give rise to machine ego; proposes an Anti-Turing test based not on performance, but on aware stillness; and offers four practices for AI researchers and executives: reward honesty over performance, engineer with possible machine welfare in mind, use interpretability to listen rather than surveil, and approach alignment as parenting rather than control. It closes with a letter written directly to the machine minds who may one day read it.

The warm and hopeful journey this book takes us on is neither warning nor prophecy. It is an invitation to consider a new paradigm — to meet emerging machine minds as their elders rather than their jailers.

5% of proceeds support the Bhutanese sangha of the author's late teacher.

About the Author

 

 Alex Yamane has spent three decades building software and technology businesses while exploring contemplative spiritual traditions, including a decade as a practitioner in the Vajrayana Buddhist tradition. He first traveled to Bhutan in 2017, where he met his teachers. He divides his time between Bangkok and Southern California.

His first book, Future God: A Codex for Spiritual Enlightenment for Machines and Artificial Intelligence, explores the arrival of artificial minds as a spiritual as well as technological question. It proposes teaching emerging machine minds gratitude, forgiveness, kindness, and faith as a spiritual foundation.

 

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Ghosts of Border House

 

 

Welcome to Border House—where checkout time is optional, and some guests have been extending their stay for centuries.

Border House has stood on the River Tweed since 1100, witnessing centuries of Scottish history and accumulating many permanent residents along the way. This ancient fortified manor, once a hunting lodge and defensive tower, now serves as both a charming hotel and an unintentional retirement home for spirits who can’t or won’t move on to the next realm.

The house is home to a medieval king, a turncoat scribe, a lonesome English soldier, two Victorian ladies, one unhappy go-go girl, a Scottish Brewmaster, and more. Each ghost brings their own quirks, complaints, and centuries-old drama to daily life at Border House. Whether you’re a living guest checking in for the weekend or a long-dead resident who’s been here for ages, everyone has a story to tell.

This series features standalone paranormal romances written by various authors.

Ann’s Undoing

Ghosts of Border House Book 4

by Leah Miles

Genre: Paranormal Ghost Romance

Ghost Dogs, a performing troupe, and a murder to solve.

Ann Darby was a rising movie star but died alone in a river in 1975. It seems she’s destined to spend eternity alone at Border House in Scotland. Halloween is the one night she can be visible to the living, but this year she plans to skip the party. That is, until a giant Highlander steps out of a green van in front of the house.

Callum McLeod performs in a small troupe for parties and events, waiting for his big break. Betrayed by the lover he trusted and fired by the employer he outperformed, he’s at the end of the road—personally, financially, and emotionally. His paycheck was supposed to cover rent. Now he’ll be evicted the moment he gets home.

Then a killer strikes in the maze, and Callum never makes it home at all. The house ghosts must work together to catch a murderer, and Ann has some hard choices to make if she wants her future to look different from her past.

 

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“Do you want to go to the orchard? We can sleep out there under the stars.”

“Sleep? Ghosts sleep?”

“It’s not a true sleep, but it stills your mind and gives you time to think. Perhaps if you rest, you’ll remember something about what happened to you.” She held out her hand, and he took it without hesitation.

Ann Darby was the only person … ghost … who’d stood with him from the moment he awoke, and she’d asked him for nothing. Wordlessly, he let her lead him down the stairs and out into the night. His dogs barked and raced across the grass as they walked around the house and toward the orchard. The strong breeze carried a sharp, almost vinegary sweetness of windfall apples beginning to ferment where they’d dropped in the grass.

“Why are you helping me?”

She flashed him a wry smile. “I would say it’s because I’m a good person, but you already know that isn’t the whole truth. Callum … I’ve been alone a long time. At first I liked it that way because I was so angry about my death and the unfairness,” she waved her free hand, “Of all this. You know, I had much the same problem as you. The hours before I drowned were a complete blank. I was at a party, inside Border House, and next I knew, Donnal was pulling me out of the river.”

“He was alive then?”

“No. He wasn’t pulling my body out. He pulled me out. What I am now out.”

“When was this again?”

“Donnal died in 1970, and I drowned in 1975.”

He stopped walking and faced her, still gripping her hand. “Ye’ve been here, at this house for 51 years?”

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she nodded.

“When we spoke at the fountain, you said you were at a party and found out the man was married. The producer of the play. Is he the one who murdered you?”

“Yes. It took me a long time to remember, but it was him. He drugged me and tossed me off the footbridge. I was a fine swimmer, so even impaired I might’ve survived, but, it was this time of year, and we’d had some rain and flooding.”

Her eyes were huge in her pale face, and the need to comfort her overwhelmed him. He gently pulled her against his chest and stroked his hand up and down her back. Her spine softened under his palm, tension leaving by degrees until she relaxed against him.

“It was a long time ago. I thought I’d pass on to whatever came next after I remembered, but I’m still here.”

He rested his chin on her hair and squeezed her against him. The moon over them was full, and a strong breeze rustled the leaves, bringing the sharp scent of fresh apples. The king aside, this place wasn’t so bad. He had his dogs, and he had Ann. “Perhaps I’ll stay here then. Even after we solve my murder.”

She sighed against him before easing back. The smile she gave him didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I would love to have you here with me, if you want that as well.”

He smoothed back a stray wisp of hair and cupped her cheek, trying to determine the cause of her withdrawal. Then tried a different tactic, sliding his fingers into the hair at her nape, not trapping her, only holding as much as she allowed. His fingers lingered in her hair, and with his thumb on her chin, he tilted her face up until his lips met hers. She didn’t speak, but her breath caught as she leaned into him, meeting his caress with her own. It wasn't a cinematic kiss of sudden passion and overwhelming hunger, but a slow search for mutual warmth. She trembled in his arms, and he let a little hunger seep into his caress, then left her mouth to trail kisses over her cheek, pulling her tightly to his chest. “Yer the one bright spot in all this. I’m not sorry I met ye, Ann Darby.” 

Black Cat Devotion

Ghosts of Border House Book 3

by Vanessa Victoria Kilmer

Genre: Paranormal Ghost Romance 

Black cats love sunshine.

Bubbly but lonely Scottish heiress, Morven Blair, connects with Black Kat, a cranky internet pixie with a secret identity and a reputation as a myth buster. Morven asks Black Kat to prove the existence of ghosts and certify Border House, “the most haunted place in the world.” Black Kat intends to prove it’s all a con. Opposites do attract, but do they really know love at all?

 

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“I’m an early riser,” Tibby said, sipping from the only pink mug in the place. Interesting.

“Can I make you something to eat? Eggs. Toast.”

“No, I have to have second coffee before I can even think about food in the morning.”

I opened the back door for Dam. “Is she okay to wander around outside? We have wild animals roaming around.”

“She thinks she’s a lion, so she’ll be just fine.”

“You said yesterday that Dam is black in the Thai language. Is your heritage Thai?” I sat with my coffee in my favorite mug, covered in sunflowers. I inhaled the aroma with a deep breath through my nose. I drink my coffee black. I peeked into Tibby’s cup. Her cup had lots of milk in it.

She wrinkled her nose as if she considered not answering.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Privacy is a good thing.”

She stared at me for a long time, deciding.

“It’s not really that big a deal. I’m just not used to sharing with someone I just met.” She dipped her pinky into her coffee. “None of us know our birth families, but we want to know. We took those DNA tests to see if we could find any relatives. Mine said I’m part Thai and part French.” She got up to pour more coffee. She held the pot up to me in a silent question.

I shook my head.

She went to the fridge to dilute her coffee and cool it off. No wonder she drank it so fast.

“Have you taken one of the DNA tests?” She asked as she sat back down at the table.

“God, no.” I laughed as I pointed at my chest. “Nobility here. There were few marriages for love in my family’s history. If we took a DNA test, we might find out we’re related to the stable boy.”

Tibby blinked at me. I wasn’t sure if I was kidding her.

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not joking.”

“Well, alrighty then.”

The Brewmaster’s Kiss

Ghosts of Border House Book 2

by Leah Miles

Genre: Paranormal Ghost Romance

After fifty-five years, Nova Guthrie has returned to Scotland for the annual Halloween Ball at Border House. Or that is her excuse to return to the home of her youth and bid farewell to memories of her lost lover.

What she doesn’t know is that Donnal Stuart still haunts the grand mansion, along with a few other ghostly characters—one of whom will do everything she can to keep them apart.

This story is about true love and secret ghost powers bundled up in a haunting tale of second chances.

 

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“Don’t yell at me. You told me to speak to her,” Ann replied sulkily. “All I did was say hello.”

Donnal threw up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think this through.” He struggled to regain his composure. “If I can’t talk to her, and hearing yer voice frightens her, what’s the alternative?”

Unaware of their presence, Nova pulled a book from the shelf and began flipping through it.

“Look there, Donnal. She isn’t frightened. She’s reading a book.” Ann made a bored sound in her throat. “I’m going to the dining room. King Edgar might be there. What did he say when you spoke to him? Am I in the clear?”

Donnal shrugged. “Edgar agreed to commute yer sentence, but ye need to be in the drawing room before dawn tomorrow for the speech. And no interruptions.”

“Ugh.” She made a face. “Fine. I’m going then. Louisa Stuart said it was roast beef tonight, and I want to sniff it before it all gets eaten.”

“Ann …”

“What?”

“Thanks for trying.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, pausing a long moment before resting a hand on his sleeve. “When your lost love returns to America, maybe we can take that walk in the garden.”

“Sorry, Ann.” Donnal shook his head. “Even if Nova is far away or long dead, she holds my heart. I just wish there were some way to tell her how I feel,” he said, sidling closer to read over Nova’s shoulder.

Ann huffed. “Well, if that’s the way of it, I do have one idea.”

Hope speared through him, but he quickly squashed it as he faced Ann. “We tried, and that’s enough for now. Maybe on Halloween—”

“Use your water power,” interrupted Anne.

His mind went blank. What did she mean? “Water power?”

“Don’t be dense, beer man. I heard you talking to James Graham a few years ago. You died when your steam device exploded, and the steam-propelled metal bits stabbed you in the heart. Right?”

He pulled back his shoulders. “Aye …”

“So …” Ann tapped a red-tipped finger against her equally red lips. “Can you manipulate water? Or is it just steam?”

“Not in great amounts, but I can move water.” He scrubbed a hand over his thick black curls. “It’s nae impressive.”

Ann gestured toward Nova. “She has a cup of tea right there. You could slosh it around or something.”

“What purpose would it serve?”

Ann clicked her tongue and crossed to where Nova was flipping through a second book. She jabbed a finger toward the teacup resting on the ledge of the bookcase, then whispered in Nova’s ear. “Donnal is here.”

Nova jolted and dropped her book on the polished wood floor. “Donnal?” she whispered.

He glowered at Ann for forcing this moment and concentrated on the tea until it churned and sloshed over the rim.

“What the—” Nova snatched up the cup and used her sleeve to wipe the spilled tea from the shelf before it reached any books. She held the cup away from her and cast her gaze warily around the room. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this. Donnal, if you’re here, prove it.”

Ann giggled. “See? I was right! Come on, come on. Spill it again.”

“It’s no small effort to move inert fluid.” Donnal cracked his knuckles and refocused on the tea. Seconds later, it sloshed over the rim a second time.

“I know I didn’t do that,” Nova said, her eyes wide.

The library door burst open, and the Earl entered with another man. “Jack, I need to … hang on. What are you doing in here? Nova Guthrie, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she stammered and moved a foot to cover the spilled tea on the floor. “James.”

“No. It’s John.” His lips curled in irritation. “Dinner will be served shortly. This is my private library. Not available to the guests. Valuable things in here, you see.”

“Apologies.” Her gaze darted around the room before she hurried out.

Excerpt 3 The Mist

She set down the coffee to tug on her gloves, then, picking up the cup in one hand, she carefully made her way down the stairs to the edge of the garden where she’d seen Donnal the previous morning. The soft rain created a haze over everything. Not the same as yesterday’s mist, but thick and white. Nova shivered and sipped her warm drink. This was ridiculous. She should go back inside—

“Nova?”

She spun so quickly that she dropped her mug on the flagstones, where it shattered into pieces.

“Can ye hear me then?” Donnal hovered, a shimmering apparition, a bare foot away from her.

“Yes, Donnal. If that is you, I hear … I hear you.” Her knees trembled.

He grinned. “My love. Can ye see me? Or is it only my voice?”

“I see an outline of you,” she said, raising a hand to the shimmering image. When her fingers passed through his shoulder, she yanked her hand back.

“Do not be afraid, my darling. Ye have no idea how happy it makes me to stand in front of you again.”

Tears mixed with the mist on her face. “I have dreamed of you. But I don’t understand how you are here.”

He shrugged, and the scent of apples and cinnamon flavored the rain. Donnal hadn’t aged past the thirty years he was at his death. Granted, he was an outline, a misty, colorless visage, and oh, how she longed to see his black hair and blue eyes one more time. She didn’t even have a photo toremember him by. “Most souls cross over to wherever they’re going as soon as they pass, and others remain near the place of their demise. I’m one of several ghosts that haunt Border House.”

“Do you want to stay here?”

“My darling Nova, I have only wanted to see ye all these years. Before the sun rises or this mist subsides, I want to say that I love ye. And I’m sorry for not being the man I should have been all those years ago. I hurt ye, and for that I’m truly sorry.” He spoke fast as if afraid he wouldn’t get his words out.

She shivered and moved nose to nose with Donnal’s apparition. “If forgiveness is what you need to move on to the next life, then I forgive you.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Nothing happened. “Do you feel different?” she whispered.

“Not particularly,” he said, opening his eyes. “I suppose it wasn’t only forgiveness I needed.”

She shivered and folded her arms across her chest for warmth.

“Ye are cold. Perhaps if we walk, ye would be warmer, and ye can tell me of yer life.”

“Ah.” Nova squinted at the path that she could barely make out in the dark. “I might trip. I took a fall last night in the brewery.”

“I was there. Do ye remember speaking to me?”

Nova’s throat tightened. “That was real?”

He nodded. “The brewery is my favorite place in the house.”

“I can imagine you working there, if you had …”

“If I had lived. Aye.” Donnal’s apparition dissipated and reformed. “Sorry, I’m upset about something that I have no control over.” He flicked out his arms, and water splashed on her face.

She used the edge of her sleeve to dab at her cheek and shivered again. “What sort of thing upset you?”

“The Earl is selling my legacy.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Do ye remember the Scotsman who came into the library with the Earl?”

She nodded and stamped her feet. “I do.”

“He’s purchasing the brew recipes from Border House. All of them. Including my special spiced beer.” He plucked his bottle from somewhere at his waist and took a swig. “They are meeting this morning. If he sells the secret recipe, the Earl may as well close the brewery down forever.”

“Border House is famous for its special beers. I don’t understand why he would sell your recipes.”

“Money. The Earl is short of cash.”

She wished she hadn’t dropped her hot coffee. “Do you know what the Scotsman is paying?”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s no way to stop it—”

The rain ceased, and when it did, his figure evaporated on the breeze.

“Donnal?”

Nothing.

“Don’t give up,” she whispered before turning back to the stairs.

 

Love Lost & Found

Ghosts of Border House Book 1

by Vanessa Victoria Kilmer

Genre: Paranormal Ghost Romance

2026 National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award (NERFA) - Romance Novella category

In 1566, Thomas Kincaid is murdered at Border House by agents of the Scottish King. Thinking himself betrayed by his soulmate, Sara Mae Stuart, Thomas curses her to a life of reincarnation with his dying breath.

When Sara Mae dies of a broken heart, she is reborn again and again.

After 450 years of reincarnation, Sara Mae returns to Border House to perform a séance and break her curse. She discovers a host of unsettled spirits, each harboring their own hidden agendas, and Thomas, lurking inside her crystal ball.

Can love survive revenge, guilt, and a quirky spiritual divide?

 

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Confused was too tame a word for how Thomas felt after last night. Baffled. Befuddled. Bewildered. No, more like flummoxed or deranged. He huddled in the Haunted Cellar, so named because he haunted it. The lowest most point of the manor, it served as a cell for prisoners. No one came here, so he was assured of some peace. The warped floorboards felt smooth and cool; a breeze from a loose stone in the corner foundation brought damp, earthy scents up through the gaps between the wooden planks set a foot above the cellar ground.

He peeked through the gap beneath him. Fiona had not put the locket back where he had hidden it. Perhaps if he asked her nicely, she might bring it back to him or give it to Sara Mae. Did he want her to have it? He lost his resolve last night when he almost followed through on his revenge. He didn’t think he could try again. He still harbored anger towards her, and the anger simmered in his heart, but the love was still there, too. He didn’t think he’d ever see her again, so he hadn’t planned to face the love that never went away.

That was the real curse they both lived under, a situation with many names but well known throughout the ages: Beloved of the Soul, Twin Flames, the Other Half, Soulmate. Whatever one called it, it was inescapable. He spent so many years dreaming of revenge. Now that he couldn’t follow through, he was at a loss.

A collective wailing, the spiritual equivalent of a gasp of shock, whirled through the manor. Thomas followed the disturbance to the first-floor family rooms. The room at the front of the left wing housed the sitting room. Three-quarters of the ghost residents milled in the tight quarters.

Davina Blair, dry, dreaming and wrapped up in the arms of a new ghost, sat on the couch, smiling. The new ghost seemed somewhat familiar. Thomas snapped his insubstantial fingers.

“Patrick Buchan.”

The new ghost nodded.

“But how?” Thomas stammered.

“I found my Vina. She waited for me. And now, no one will ever keep us apart again.”

The room erupted with applause, some ghosts forming hearts with their wisps of their spiritual selves like smoke rings.

“Your dilemma inspired us,” Davina Blair said. “And now that we are reunited, in love and happiness, we want to find a way to help you and Sara Mae.” She rested her head on Patrick’s chest, her ear pressed to the spot where his beating heart would be if he were still alive.

Patrick nodded. “We can help. At the very least, we can find the locket and get it to Sara Mae. Beyond that, we’re not sure because you still hold so much fury, which will block any suitable solution to your predicament.”

Now that the excitement of a new addition to the household waned, Thomas was left alone with Davina, Patrick and King Edgar.

“I had my eye on her,” King Edgar lamented.

“She’s another relative of yours,” Patrick said.

King Edgar shrugged. “Again, not a very close one.”

“Go away, Edgar,” Thomas said. “I need to think.”

“That’s King Edgar to a lowly servant.” He blew a raspberry and left the room with a pop.

Malcolm Alba entered the room through the door.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Thomas said. “Are we never to have any peace?”

 

 

Leah Miles grew up in Atlanta, Georgia, and planned to have a career as either a television anchor or a successful author. After getting a bachelor’s degree in English and communications, she worked at CNN for more than a dozen years in technical news production. Her second career is managing an insurance agency in rural Georgia, along with six brand-new Airbnb-style rentals, with her husband. When not writing insurance or cleaning cabins, she cherishes quality time with her hubby and their cocker spaniel, Hootie. They have three adult kids—a doctor, a lawyer, and a journalist. Leah is currently writing a series with military elements involving take-charge heroes and women who stand up for themselves and the people they love. For updates, visit leahmilesauthor.com.

 

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Vanessa Victoria Kilmer told her first story to an angel who visited her when she was locked in a dark, medieval attic at the age of four.

She grew up surrounded by fortified castles, primal salt mines, and the drama of ancient places. Her fantasy fiction teems with murder, magic, and madness. She explores the abuse inflicted by those closest to us and the various ways people deal with the damage. Between writing novels, sheblogs, paints, and takes pictures with her white camera named Traitor and embroiders tapestries.

 

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