Hello, reading friends...

Do you ever struggle to finish something, even though it seems like it shouldn't be that hard — and then the more you haven't done it, the harder it is to do? That's the way I've been feeling these last couple of weeks, which is why you haven't heard from me, even to get the final Oona-week-release-plus-puppy-pictures email.

I don't know if it's hormones. Or exhaustion. Or the world coming to an end at the hands of AI tech oligarchs who are destroying our jobs AND the coral reefs, which is alarmingly efficient of them.

Anyways, I appreciate talking to you, my real reading friends who are not AI bots. So although I am too tired to come up with something thoughtful and clever, I will do my best to send you a smile.

Help me name a manor house!

Despite my inability to interact with the real world, my fictional world is going great. Except for naming things.

I've managed family names, secondary character names (is Guy Fellowes too much like Guy Fawkes?), and one small country estate. My brain switched OFF for the main estate, so I roped a teenager into helping me pick names from a name generator (not AI, just drawing names out of a hat), and I am outsourcing the final decision to YOU.

My email program does not let me embed a poll, but I did make these cute graphics. Please admire the graphics and then hit "reply" to send me an email with your name selection.

Essential information about the house in question:

Potential names for the house in question:

1. Hartwell Park

2. Cliveden Manor*

3. Cranleigh Hall

4. Pavenly Hall

* I found out that Cliveden Manor is a real place, so I will have to change some letters. If you vote for this one, feel free to suggest variations!

(Scroll to the bottom for a sneak peek at #4 in The Bonnet Brigade series!!)

Check out these options for fr** books and samples...

Romance is always a good idea. Lead magnets are always a fun way to sample what's going on in a fictional world. But I have to admit, I don't know what's going on with this graphic. Coal miners? Anyhow, if you want to take your labor day literally with... um... coal mining, it is indeed some heavy labor and maybe some good books. Click here...

btw this is my writer friend and I standing in front of a bona fide mine,

which was not a sexy place to work

If you're in a more contemplative, character-driven mood, here are some women's fiction books. Click through to find coffee, angels, a golden retriever, and a bouzouki band (I want to know too).

Just for a smile...

Here's some puppies.

Somebody makes it hard to get my writing done... sheesh! Too bad it's against the rules to move a sleeping puppy.

I thought I captured hr half a blue eye in this one!!

Sálie is a smart little cookie who already loves searching for her breakfast in a puzzle, like her brothers.

And here are all four gathered 'round in the kitchen, telling me how much they love me and hoping that I will return their love along with the delicious thing in my hand.

The thing in my hand is a tomato. They all know it's a tomato, because they've already gotten a slice of tomato, and they watched me cut this one. This is how my dogs feel about tomatoes.... very very VERY happy.

And thanks for being you, and not this dude...

Do you want to know the biggest thing that makes me sad as an author? AI written books produced by AI book factories, who compete for the same readers (most of whom do not know they are buying AI books), and sell 24 times as many as my human-written, human-edited, human-loved book. Real data taken from also-boughts on my book page.

But, in an attempt to find humor in the gory, there is also this dude, who went out of his way to comment on my cute little post about Oona & the Swan. (The first sentence of his comment is copy and pasted from the text of my post.)

John's comment: "Are you looking for a relaxing reading escape, with tender humor — and magic that feels like it's right around the corner?
— This looks to be a closed question. If so, can i say NO please? Thank you"

Luckily for our friend John, if he doesn't want a relaxing reading escape with found family and enchanted animals, all he has to do is KEEP ON SCROLLING. My marketing campaign does not actually involve throwing copies of the book in through his front window and chaining him to his chair until he leaves a 5-star review on GoodReads. As a matter of fact, in order to be subjected to tender humor and magic that feels like it's right around the corner, he has to click on the link and actually pay me money. It's a relatively easy fate to avoid, if one so desires.

However, if you ARE looking a cozy reading escape with family, Fae, and feathers in the guest bedroom, check out the latest in the Castle in Kilkenny: Fairy Tales.

Oona & the Swan

And if you DO happen to either buy a book or leave a review, please know that it brings me genuine joy, even in the blurry sort of sad mood I've been in lately. Because I'm not an AI bot, I'm a real live person who truly loves sharing her stories with people. ❤️

Happy reading,

Christy & the Shelties

P.S. from Malin: We are all very alive too! Go read the swan book, or I will bark at it!

Sneak preview incoming....

January, 1826 — Amsterdam

Marianne had asked Peter to come get her, but she had not expected him to look so old.

Peter, Viscount Avonleagh, stood in the front hallway of the Thompsons’ house, which smelt of medicine and boiled vegetables for groentesoep. He was tossing a key up and catching it again, which on Peter looked less like a nervous habit and more like he held the whole world casually in his hand. There were lines in the corners of his eyes and gray in the hair at his temples, which Marianne felt like could not possibly have been there when she left.

Peter and the Thompsons dispensed with the proper salutations, and Marianne closed the door and took his coat herself because their one maid was busy preparing dinner for their boarders. Her parents glanced at each other, confused.

“You’re always welcome, my lord,” Mr Thompson said. “But we did not know to expect you.”

“I have come to fetch Marianne,” Peter replied.

“Fetch her?” repeated Mr Thompson.

“Back to England?” cried Mrs Thompson.

Peter raised his eyebrows in silent assent.

Mr Thompson cleared his throat. “We were not intending for you to fetch Marianne just now.”

“No.” Peter threw the key particularly high and caught it one last time. “I don’t suppose you were.”

Mr Thompson shuffled his feet and stood somewhat more upright. “She cannot leave. Marianne is about to be married.”

“No.” Peter buttoned the key into his waistcoat pocket, smoothing out his jacket. “She is not.”

Marianne held her breath, looking between her parents and her erstwhile guardian—she was one-and-twenty, now, and supposedly able to take care of herself. Clearly, the one thing they all agreed upon was that she could not.

“I have arranged the marriage and drawn up all the contracts,” Mr Thompson said. “It is an excellent situation for my daughter. Very advantageous.”

“She is engaged to be married to a prince,” Mrs Thompson breathed, still impressed after all these weeks.

“Be that as it may,” Peter answered, “she is not going to marry him. She is coming home with me. We sail in the morning.”

The Thompsons stared at each other, more and more perplexed. Marianne knew they were both intelligent people with skills at forming a cogent argument, but they did not know how to stand up to someone like Peter. He did not follow the proper rules of debate—and more importantly, he was so very much more wealthy than they.

Peter nodded at Marianne. “Can you be packed in time? I have a hackney for six in the morning, and I can pick you up on the way down to the harbor. Tide’s at half-nine, but you know how they like to be prepared well in advance.”

Marianne wanted to throw herself into his arms and bawl, but she had not done that sort of thing even when she was young, so she did not do it now. She curtsied instead. “Yes, my lord.”

He winked at her.

“Will you at least come to dinner?” Mrs Thompson asked. “We are family, after all.”

“Yes, please join us,” added her husband. “For old time’s sakes.”

Peter looked at the pair of them, his face still. In the past year, Marianne had learned that her parents and Peter weighed morality quite differently.

After a long moment, he bobbed a tiny, stiff, bow. “It will be my pleasure. What time may I arrive?”

There was a fluffy of discussing the hour of sunset and whether to gather for drinks beforehand, and then Peter was turning back towards the door. He had not even come into any of the rooms in the house; he had not given her messages from Celia and Elinor; she could not tell if he was angry at her for making such a demand on his time. Well, Peter would not be angry—merely exhausted, thinking “here’s another one of Merry-Berry’s scrapes.” Peter had gotten her out of a great many scrapes, and this was the largest one yet.

Marianne slipped towards the door, as though she were the butler, and was rewarded by a flash of Peter’s smile when he turned to leave. He did look older.

“Welcome to Amsterdam,” she said, meaning a thousand things she could not say.

He surprised her with a quick half-hug, his arm around her shoulders, wiry and strong and familiar.

“As for the rest of the afternoon,” he said, voice low, “I’ll be doing a little investigating of my own. See what is going on with this prince of yours.”

“He’s not mine,” Marianne said, even lower. Even at a whisper, it was a declaration of freedom and made her want to fly like a swallow and sing from the rooftops.

Peter gave her one more quick squeeze and trotted down the steps, where a hackney waited in the narrow street. Marianne’s parents clumped behind her, watching the cab pull away from the curb, for once disregarding the cold air that swept inside.

“I didn’t know he wanted you back again so soon,” Mrs Thompson said, sounding tired. “Do you really have to leave so early in the morning?”

“I can ask him to wait one more day for you to say your goodbyes,” Mr Thompson suggested, closing the door. “Ships leave for London every day.”

Marianne drew in breath to speak, but held it, her lungs filled with fear, her bones crumpling inward. She could have said what she wanted—that this was her own decision; that she was aching to go home.

But instead, for one last time, she leaned on Peter.

Marianne shook her head. “It’s probably better not to cross Lord Avonleagh. He’s known to have a temper sometimes, and he’s getting very important in the House of Commons. If he says I am to be ready tomorrow morning, then I shall be ready.”