Skip to main content

Today's Reading

(The copy in this email is used by permission, from an uncorrected advanced proof. In quoting from this book for reviews or any other purpose, it is essential that the final printed book be referred to, since the author may make changes on these proofs before the book goes to press. This book will be available in bookstores July 2026.)


CHAPTER ONE

Dear Mr. Breck,

As a new resident of Glenmaidens Village, I've lately become aware of the Transport Bureau's interest in extending the Southwestern Railway line beyond the current terminus at Netherbright (nether-bree). I wish to inquire about the status of the proposal—a station nearer the village would certainly resolve several local quandaries.

Cordially,
Ismay Gebhardt


The train itself was hardly the problem. The steward, clutching his hat tightly against his chest, told Ismay that the heart of the matter was a fault in the tracks. When their three-carriage locomotive came to a stop ten minutes before reaching its terminus that evening, the sun was still setting, but not until the moon rose over the fields of Netherbrightshire did Ismay comprehend how little chance she stood of being on time to the most important appointment of her life.

"What sort of fault?" she asked the steward. "Don't you make this journey twice a day?"

"It's only a matter of time before we're moving again."

"How much time? I'm already late."

"There's no way to know, miss. There are some complex engineering explanations particular to our regional...I wouldn't want to bore—"

"Will we disembark here, then?" asked Ismay, shifting in her seat. She could not afford for anything to go awry and needed to keep herself moving by any means possible. "How far is the station?"

"Oh..." The steward frowned, a narrow man in every sense. Behind his round spectacles, his eyes shone. "Nobody's getting out of the train. It's impossible. We're still miles from Netherbright. There's no footpath between here and the station, and even in daylight it would be treacherous. As you can see"—he pointed a white-gloved hand out the window—"the sun has set."

"Yes." Ismay stared out into the dark. This deepest part of the southwest was wilder than her granite city, and far more superstitious, but she would rather face a few arcane beasts than Netherbright, than arrive late.

A pale man sitting across the aisle sighed. His shirt was so starched it might have stood up on its own. "Don't worry too much," he said to Ismay. "We're not usually more than an hour delayed."

Only three passengers remained in their carriage this near the end of the line: Ismay, the man in shirtsleeves, and, in the far corner behind him, a woman in a violet cloche, who had not looked up from her knitting once since the train's whistle last sounded and they rolled to a halt.

"You'll be well catered to while you wait," said the steward. "You have my word."

"Then at least go and fetch us some biscuits, please, Jeremy," the man snapped, his boyish face pinching tight.

"Apologies, Mr. Williams." The steward clicked his tongue in apprehension and rocked back on his heels. "I'll go and check the dining car. Perhaps we even have some cakes remaining."

Once he was gone, Mr. Williams shook his head at Ismay. "The trains are very unreliable," he said. "It's ridiculous, and I've complained endlessly."

"Can't they fix the problem with the tracks?"

"They do. It doesn't matter how often they repair the line; this journey is always delayed anyway. I've begun to suspect the Transport Bureau do this on purpose, for sport. We aren't usually this late, but you never know how long it'll be. Makes planning a nightmare."

"That makes no sense. Surely engineering is engineering."

"A mystery of this rural life. You get used to the disruption. I can hear you're from the granite coast." He lifted an eyebrow, and Ismay's heart thudded. Her palms itched. Surely this man would not recognize her, either by name or appearance. She had come much too far to still be infamous. "What brings you to Netherbright?"

"I'm not going to Netherbright," she said evenly, "but a smaller village called Glenmaidens. Do you know it?"

From the corner of the carriage, the woman in the cloche finally glanced up, meeting Ismay's eye only for a moment before she resumed her knitting.

What our readers think...

| Online Book Clubs Skip to main content

Today's Reading

(The copy in this email is used by permission, from an uncorrected advanced proof. In quoting from this book for reviews or any other purpose, it is essential that the final printed book be referred to, since the author may make changes on these proofs before the book goes to press. This book will be available in bookstores July 2026.)


CHAPTER ONE

Dear Mr. Breck,

As a new resident of Glenmaidens Village, I've lately become aware of the Transport Bureau's interest in extending the Southwestern Railway line beyond the current terminus at Netherbright (nether-bree). I wish to inquire about the status of the proposal—a station nearer the village would certainly resolve several local quandaries.

Cordially,
Ismay Gebhardt


The train itself was hardly the problem. The steward, clutching his hat tightly against his chest, told Ismay that the heart of the matter was a fault in the tracks. When their three-carriage locomotive came to a stop ten minutes before reaching its terminus that evening, the sun was still setting, but not until the moon rose over the fields of Netherbrightshire did Ismay comprehend how little chance she stood of being on time to the most important appointment of her life.

"What sort of fault?" she asked the steward. "Don't you make this journey twice a day?"

"It's only a matter of time before we're moving again."

"How much time? I'm already late."

"There's no way to know, miss. There are some complex engineering explanations particular to our regional...I wouldn't want to bore—"

"Will we disembark here, then?" asked Ismay, shifting in her seat. She could not afford for anything to go awry and needed to keep herself moving by any means possible. "How far is the station?"

"Oh..." The steward frowned, a narrow man in every sense. Behind his round spectacles, his eyes shone. "Nobody's getting out of the train. It's impossible. We're still miles from Netherbright. There's no footpath between here and the station, and even in daylight it would be treacherous. As you can see"—he pointed a white-gloved hand out the window—"the sun has set."

"Yes." Ismay stared out into the dark. This deepest part of the southwest was wilder than her granite city, and far more superstitious, but she would rather face a few arcane beasts than Netherbright, than arrive late.

A pale man sitting across the aisle sighed. His shirt was so starched it might have stood up on its own. "Don't worry too much," he said to Ismay. "We're not usually more than an hour delayed."

Only three passengers remained in their carriage this near the end of the line: Ismay, the man in shirtsleeves, and, in the far corner behind him, a woman in a violet cloche, who had not looked up from her knitting once since the train's whistle last sounded and they rolled to a halt.

"You'll be well catered to while you wait," said the steward. "You have my word."

"Then at least go and fetch us some biscuits, please, Jeremy," the man snapped, his boyish face pinching tight.

"Apologies, Mr. Williams." The steward clicked his tongue in apprehension and rocked back on his heels. "I'll go and check the dining car. Perhaps we even have some cakes remaining."

Once he was gone, Mr. Williams shook his head at Ismay. "The trains are very unreliable," he said. "It's ridiculous, and I've complained endlessly."

"Can't they fix the problem with the tracks?"

"They do. It doesn't matter how often they repair the line; this journey is always delayed anyway. I've begun to suspect the Transport Bureau do this on purpose, for sport. We aren't usually this late, but you never know how long it'll be. Makes planning a nightmare."

"That makes no sense. Surely engineering is engineering."

"A mystery of this rural life. You get used to the disruption. I can hear you're from the granite coast." He lifted an eyebrow, and Ismay's heart thudded. Her palms itched. Surely this man would not recognize her, either by name or appearance. She had come much too far to still be infamous. "What brings you to Netherbright?"

"I'm not going to Netherbright," she said evenly, "but a smaller village called Glenmaidens. Do you know it?"

From the corner of the carriage, the woman in the cloche finally glanced up, meeting Ismay's eye only for a moment before she resumed her knitting.

What our readers think...