I hope you're all doing great. It's been a busy summer for me, I'm still hard at work on finishing up The Curse That Binds and while it's a complex book to write, I'm loving it. 

 

Speaking of, I'm sharing the second chapter in this newsletter (make sure to scroll all the way down) and I can also tell you that I'll be announcing the official release date on August 30th, so make sure to check out my Instagram or Facebook page!

But before that, I am so excited to reveal my hardcover special edition of Bewitched! I’ve been wanting to do a SE of my own for a long time and after months of work, it’s finally here! I honestly couldn’t be happier with how it turned out.

Price: $45 + shipping. Shipping: $6 domestic and $30 international.

 

This is an open pre-order until October 6, 2024. Once the pre-order period closes, it will not reopen. Orders are estimated to ship in February 2025.

 

And YES, I will be doing a special edition for Bespelled and the third book. I actually already have the artwork for Bespelled and it's absolutely stunning!

I won't make you wait any longer, here is the second chapter of The Curse That Binds! This is taken directly from my manuscript and hasn't been edited yet. If you'd like to catch up and read the first chapter, click here.

 

I stare out from the doorway of the apartment I live in, watching the early morning sun rise over the lively courtyard of our insula.

Five years have gone by. Five confusing, agonized years I only remember wisps of. The only real thing left of the past and that first life is the dull, heavy ache in my chest that comes and goes, depending on the day.

Beneath me, many of the other occupants of this complex are already up, washing laundry or chatting as they busy themselves for the day. A few kids play knuckle bones and street sellers set up baskets filled with produce and bread. A young mother soothes her crying toddler, holding the child close in her arms, and at this brief show of love, a terrible, yearning seizes me, and I have to draw my eyes away.

It’s taken years for me to acclimate to this city—its language, its people, its customs, its sweltering stink.

And as my eyes land on two Roman soldiers passing through the complex’s courtyard I’m sure I still haven’t fully acclimated. Not when my breath hitches at the sight of them and my skin grows clammy. The childlike terror is an old, familiar sensation, but the rage that begins to fester like a boil beneath my skin—that is new.

These Roman soldiers might not be the same evil men who killed my family and burned down my home, but they’ve likely destroyed someone’s life, killed someone’s family.

“Girl!”

I tense at the shrill sound of my adoptive mother’s voice coming from inside our apartment.

“Girl!” Livia calls again. The anger in her voice is unmistakable.

I wander back inside, bracing myself.

Livia stands by our kitchen table, which is littered with folded bits of cloth, some wound yarn and a few stray loom weights.

She has a bit of gossamer thin gauze fisted in her hand. “Why is the gold detailing on this veil not finished?”

My heart hammers as my gaze drops to the translucent yellow fabric in her hand. Livia runs a thriving business tailoring clothes for the elite, and as her dependent, she expects me to assist her in all ways, including tailoring garments myself.

But my hands are clumsy, and I work slowly to make up for it. She knows this just as well as she knows there are always too many clothing items and not enough time anyway. But admitting all of this will only stoke her anger, especially when she caught me day dreaming, so I swallow my explanation before I can voice it.

This time, my silence angers her all the same.

“You useless, worthless thing,” she spits out, shaking the veil in her hand and crinkling the delicate material. “I saved you all those years ago, sheltered you, fed you—” Her chest is rising and falling faster and faster, and I’m trying not to cower or back up, which has only ever spurred her on.

She takes a threatening step forward and my pulse begins to race. “All for you to be a lazy, sullen girl. Now, answer me: why isn’t this finished?”

If I had completed this veil another garment would be left unfinished, one Livia would’ve found and accused me of the same thing.

“I was about to—”

She closes the distance between us in two quick strides, then hits me, hard. The sudden force of it sends me careening into the wall, bits of plaster and pale green paint flaking off from the impact.

“Don’t lie to me!” The pitch of her voice has me cowering.

It’s the wrong reaction. It always is.

She hits me again, this time against my upper arm. I bite my lower lip to keep from crying out.

“I saw you out there, daydreaming like you had all the time in the world.”

Another hit, this one to the head.

I fold into myself, trying to become as small as possible. Tears well in my eyes, and more than the pain and even the terror, I hate this reaction.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I plead over and over again. Anything to make it stop.

She kicks me once, twice, to the abdomen.

“Please, mom—” I don’t mean to call out for my mother, to that warm, half-forgotten presence that hummed songs to lull me to sleep and brewed strange things in the pot over our hearth. The woman who once must’ve held me as that young mom held her child in the courtyard below.

Livia pauses, her leg pulled back. I can hear her heavy breaths and sense her acidic anger. I know she’s fighting to keep herself from hitting me again. It scares me that she is so full of ruthless fury.

Today, temperance wins out over violence.

She drops the unfinished veil on top of my huddled form. “You won’t eat next until this is finished,” she says, looming over me. “I don’t care if it takes you all day and all night, you will get it done.” To herself she mutters, “Why I took you in is beyond me.”

Her words are nothing I haven’t already heard, but they still sting like another blow to the head.

I know Livia once had a husband and daughter, though both died in quick succession. Livia, alone in her grief, adopted me. I think she wanted to get back a bit of the family she lost, but no one can bring back the dead.

Maybe that bitter truth turned her heart. Or maybe she hated me for other unknowable reasons. Either way, every day feels like a held breath.

I rise slowly, my belly hurting where she kicked it. Sometimes even getting back up can re-anger her.

Livia presses her lips together, her eyes flicking over me as she moves to the table. I can feel her anger and her disgust thickening the air.

“Fix your hair,” she says sharply, gathering up the yarn and the loom weights, “and put something more modest on. We’re meeting with Septima Opimia later this morning, and she holds modesty above all else. She’ll pass on our business if she sees you looking like a harlot …” Livia’s voice fades as pressure builds beneath my sternum. Mounting, mounting—

I place my hand over it, taking in shallow breaths as the sensation crowds out all others.

Livia’s frown lines deepen, but for an instant she looks concerned, like she might’ve taken things too far.

“What is wrong with you?” she demands.

I’m about to answer, when, all at once, the pressure releases, like water breaching a dam, and something seals into place, right beneath my breastbone.

With it comes pain. I lock my knees to keep from falling as a sharp, throbbing pain blooms in my left shoulder.

I stumble a little at the sound of a young, masculine voice speaking in a foreign language. It is like nothing I’ve heard before. And yet it’s so close, almost as though it’s coming from inside my own—

My gaze sweeps over our apartment, taking in the table, Livia’s agitated face; the chipped green walls; the long shelf that held our pitchers, bowls, and cups; the massive loom leaning against a back wall and, on either side of it, the baskets filled with fabric, yarn, beads, and tailored garments. There are many things in this apartment, but a young man is not among them.

“Girl,” Livia says, her voice a little more demanding, her face a little more annoyed, “pull yourself together.”

I try to breathe through the strange sensations flowing through me. Pain, alarm, determination.

“Just feeling faint—”

I place a hand to my head at the sound of the young male’s voice. It’s definitely coming from inside me, but that only makes the situation more distressing.

Beneath the words themselves, there’s desperation and exhilaration and—my shoulder continues to throb—pain.

“Here—” Livia moves to the shelf and grabs a pitcher and cup from it. She pours me a glass of watered down wine. “Drink this and pull yourself together,” she says again, pressing the cup into my hands. Despite her abrasive tone, I think she’s genuinely worried about me. At least, until she adds, “I don’t want you to embarrass me in front of the senator’s wife.”

My hand shakes as I take a sip, trying to steady myself.

The wine sours in my mouth, and I set the cup down heavily on the table. Whatever is happening, I’m not fine, and liquid won’t help.

“I’ll—I’ll just go fix my hair,” I mumble.

Before Livia can respond, I hustle to my room. The room is small yet sparse, adorned only with a stool, a shelf, a bed and a couple of baskets.

Hastily I set the veil I still clutch into the basket I have tucked away in the corner, and then I collapse onto my thin mattress. Half of me expects Livia to follow me in and scold me again for laziness, but instead I hear her move about the living area, then leave our apartment.

I exhale a shaky breath. One less thing to worry about.

My shoulder still aches from that phantom pain, and my stomach churns from wine, and—and—

I press my palms to my eye sockets.

Shut up, I tell the voice.

I know there are people who hear voices—is this what they deal with? This is awful.

Lasa otvas do si’n! Pesa govak pusanutapsa susazakunam wek i’nagatvup, vakosazakunam wek wovubga …[6]

Shut up! I say, louder, beginning to panic.

What happens if the voice doesn’t go away? What if this is my life now?

Damn you, get out of my head! I shout.

My mind seems to go very, very still, as though it’s holding its breath. The brief silence draws my attention to the pain in my shoulder, my cheek, my stomach. I feel surprised, curious, and hopeful, so hopeful, though I cannot figure out why I’m feelings anything beyond simple confusion. And there’s another sensation again, like water rushing, surging—

You can hear me? This time, when the masculine voice speaks, it’s in Latin. Rough-edged, accented Latin, but Latin all the same.

My breath catches. Should I respond? It’s probably a bad idea. No, it’s definitely a bad idea.

Yes, I say anyway.

At my answer, I feel a wondrous thrill and breathless joy.

At last! he says, though I don’t know if he’s speaking to me or not.

What’s that supposed to mean? I say, unnerved by his response. I want the voice to go away, not for it to be eager to speak with me.

I will tell you more tonight, the voice says, but I cannot talk at the moment. I’m trying not to get killed.

Killed?

It takes a moment for the rest of his words to sink in. Wait, what’s this about tonight? The voice is making plans? Oh, no, no, no.

We’re not going to speak again, I insist. Not tonight or any other time.

We are, the voice says with horrible certainty.

He had mentioned just now that he was trying not to get killed. I can’t make sense of that. But I do know this: death is a permanent end. Probably even for wretched voices in my head.

Then I hope you die, so I never have to hear you again. It’s a vile thing to confess, even to an abstract voice. I don’t regret it.

There’s another pause and I feel that rush of joy bleed away.

Just because you said that, I’m going to make sure I live, the voice says.

His voice retreats.

I wait a few moments, but I think he’s gone.

 

I was wrong. The voice is not gone.

Whatever this entity is, he clearly survived the ordeal he was in the middle of because I hear him talk incessantly throughout the day, through the fitting appointment Livia scheduled with stern-faced Septima, who eyes my outfit and hair with begrudging approval and my swollen cheek with obvious disapproval, then when we meet with the family of a Praetorian guard to fit the family with lighter, brighter fabrics for spring and summer.

His voice is there while Livia lectures me on our way home, and it’s there while Livia reads the notes on her wax tablet and I prepare dinner for her, my own stomach cramping from hunger. The voice has reverted back into that other language. It’s coarse and guttural and it drags goosebumps from my skin.

And it won’t shut up.

For the love of the gods, will you please stop talking? I beg after I nearly drop the pitcher of wine I’m pouring from.

I’m in a foul mood. My head throbs from the stress of having a second voice in my head, there’s still that phantom pain in my shoulder, and I’ve been struck several more times today by Livia for being absent-minded. And that’s all on top of my gnawing, swelling hunger. The cursed veil I’m supposed to detail remains unfinished, and I don’t dare defy Livia’s orders by eating.

I’m not talking, I’m thinking, the voice snaps back in Latin.

Well, it’s distracting, I say, annoyed.

I don’t breathe for a moment. You’ve been able to hear me … for years?

I hope I’ve misunderstood.

Unceasingly, the male voice responds.

My mind has been the one place in this entire world that I can find refuge. To know that somewhere out there this voice could hear my truest, deepest thoughts?

I shudder. Just when I assumed the situation couldn’t get any worse.

Please leave me alone, I beg as I cut fruit and cheese and pull apart a thick wedge of bread, ignoring the way my mouth waters.

The voice doesn’t respond, and I think … I think he’s trying to honor my wishes. Not that it stops me from hearing his voice in that other language intermittently throughout the rest of the evening. But I don’t believe he intends to be speaking in my head. It’s almost like my mind is listening into a nearby conversation someone else is having.

It’s still distracting as sin.

It’s only later, when the moon is high in the sky and Livia has long gone to bed, that I finally return to the vexing issue of the voice in my head.

I sit with my back to the wall of my bedroom, the unfinished veil in my lap and a needle in my hand, and I sigh out a breath.

Are you there? I speak into my mind.

I wait for an answer. When none comes, I try again.

Nothing.

Of course the voice would be gone now when I actually want to speak to it—him.

Voice! I say, growing impatient. Are you there?

I have the worrisome urge to laugh—and laugh and laugh.

I have lost it. Truly, I have.

I see you didn’t die, I say instead. I had been holding the slight hope that injury or blood loss or infection might’ve taken him sometime between dinnertime and now.

Your disappointment gives me strength, Memnon says.

With his words I feel a combination of annoyance and humor. The emotions are his, I realize. I’m not just hearing him speak, I’m feeling what he feels.

I push past my own discomfort at the thought. Are you hurt?

It’s nothing I can’t handle, he says gruffly.

So you are hurt. My pulse quickens. Where? I ask, even as my shoulder continues to throb.

I took an arrow to my back, he says hesitantly, right beneath my shoulder blade.

My breath catches. I can feel it, I admit.

I’m not entirely sure the emotion rushing through me is mine or this voice’s, but it feels like fingertips touching, like connection.

I swallow, then make another stitch in the veil[NL3] , the lamp propped on the stool next to me flickering in the darkness.

A part of me is curious about what this voice is. Logic is telling me that my mind simply turned on itself, but I badly don’t want to believe that.

What … are you? I say carefully.

What do you mean “What am I?” Memnon asks, sounding affronted. I’m a man.

I’m not sure man is the right word to describe this voice. He doesn’t sound like a man. More like a teenage boy.

I’m real, he says. He must sense my deep mistrust because he adds, I’m staring up at the stars right now. I can see Orion the hunter.

Orion the hunter. That was one of the few constellations I could easily recognize.

I cannot remember the last time I stopped and looked up at the stars, and right now, when my muscles feel leaden from a long day of work, I don’t want to move.

But curiosity spurs me to my feet, so I set the veil aside and pad to the doorway of my room. Livia’s bedroom is to my left, and I pause, listening to her soft snores before I decide to tip toe across our apartment and slip out of the house. I have to shuffle down to the courtyard to get a good view of the sky. Tonight is cloudy, but I can make out several scattered stars. Among them are the three even dots of Orion’s belt.

The sight of the constellation makes my stomach clench.

So Memnon was telling the truth.

Girl? he says as though I beckoned him. Are you still there?

Don’t call me that, I say absently as I head back up the stairs and inside my house. I rub my arms against the chill.

What should I call you?

My throat tightens as I slip into my room and pick up the veil once more. I resettle myself on the ground next to my lamp and resume stitching, ignoring the painful ache in my belly.

Instead of answering him, I say, So you can see the night sky. I’m sure all sorts of beings can see the sky. How do I know you’re an actual person and not some vengeful spirit or a capricious god?

I could ask you the same thing, he says.

I think over that logic when he says again, What is your name?

Do you truly not know? I ask, once more evading the question. I thought you’ve been hearing my thoughts for years.

You’ve spoken many names in your thoughts, he says, names that are already foreign and difficult to remember, and I have not been able to figure out if any of them are yours.

His admission sparks a curiosity in me. I know he’s not Roman. The language he spoke is coarse yet rolling, the sounds guttural.

Are you going to tell me your name? he prods.

I hesitate. People don’t usually ask me for my name. Formally, it’s Nimmia Livia, Nimmia being the feminine version of Livia’s familial name, Nimmius, and Livia being the name of my adoptive mother. Usually, if I’m being referred to as something other than Girl, it’s Nimmia.

I hate that all I really get is a family name—and that of a family that doesn’t much want me. And right now I don’t want to give Memnon this name I must answer to.

What would you like to call me? I say instead.                                                           

There’s a moment of silence. That seems like the sort of response a vengeful spirit would give, Memnon says.

I press my lips together to keep from smiling. That’s true enough.

I don’t like my name, I admit.

Then give me a different one, he says, unfazed by my answer. One that you do like.

I pause my stitching and stare absently off into the darkness. My mind races, my heart beating frantically.

I already know the name I would like to give him, and that is the name my Northern parents gave me. But—and it’s one of my deepest shames—I cannot remember what that name is. The only other person who might have once known it is Livia, though if she ever learned it, she must’ve discarded it as quickly as she came upon it.

I reach into my past, straining to recall any of the names of people I loved—my aunt, my sister, my mom, my extended family. Instead, all I see are the flames that burned my village. I can still taste the smoke on my tongue and feel the heat of that fire reaching out from the past trying to swallow me up. I have spent so long running from the memory of those flames that the names I cherished burned up with it.

The only names I can think of are Roman names … This is actually a bit distressing.

I’m not Roman, I finish for him.

You aren’t Roman? Memnon asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Listening” is such a generous term, he says. More like “studiously ignoring.” After a moment, he adds, Do you want me to help you with a name?

Do I? The possibility sends a thrill through me.

Yes, I finally say. I do think I want that.

Okay, Memnon says.

He goes quiet for so long, that I almost believe I am alone in my own head once more. The only thing that convinces me otherwise is the light, exhilarated sensation that I’m fairly certain belongs to him.

Roxilana, he finally says, his voice deepening with the roll of his voice.

The name brings goosebumps to my skin. It’s doesn’t sound anything like the Roman names I’m used it. It sounds untamable, like something beyond Rome’s reach.

Do you like it? Memnon asks.

Yes, I say, a slow smile curving my lips. I like it. A lot. I am … Roxilana.

I swear I feel Memnon smile inside my head. The action causes my heart to gallop all over again.

Hello, Roxi, he replies.

I have to bite my lip to smother my smile.

I haven’t even had my name for a full breath, and you’re already shortening it? I say.

Yes, well, you’re less terrifying as Roxi. Memnon says. Roxilana might cut my heart out of my chest, but Roxi … Roxi sounds like … a friend.

I want to tell him that we are not friends, that we just met and I’m still not fully convinced he’s even human, but … for my peace of mind, a friend sounds nice. Especially if they are going to be stuck in my head.

After a moment, I ask, What does the name mean—Roxilana?

If he tells me it means something like donkey dung, I will mutiny.

Does it need to have a meaning? he asks.

Of course it must, I say. I am a vengeful spirit and very easily displeased.

If I spoke to anyone else like this, I would be reprimanded. But with this man that’s not quite a man, I don’t need to be an obedient Roman girl. I can be whoever I wish to be.

I can be Roxilana. The thought sends a surge of pleasure through me.

I don’t know how I sense Memnon’s smile, but I do. And in that moment, I think it might be the most wonderful thing in the world.

Roxilana means “blessed one” in my language, he says.

I think perhaps the last thing I am is blessed, but I keep that thought to myself—or at least, I think I keep it to myself. I have no way of knowing if Memnon can hear every stray thought, or just the words I want him to hear.

Are you really a human? I ask.

I really am, he says.

I make several stitches to the veil as I make sense of the fact that fate somehow connected me to an entire other person.

Where do you live? I finally ask.

That depends on the season, Memnon responds. My tribe moves often, but generally we live near the Black Sea.

The Black Sea? I’ve heard of it, but it’s as remote to me as Egypt and Anatolia. As remote as Britannia, the island I came from.

I’m in Rome, I say.

I try to imagine that distance between us, but I simply cannot fathom it.

How can we hear each other if we live so far away? I ask. It defies nature.

A shiver runs down my spine.

Memnon seems much more accepting of this situation than I currently am. Then again, he’s apparently had years to consider it.

I thread my needle through the edge of the veil, listening to the distant chatter of Romans still out on the streets.

If the gods are real, they have abandoned me entirely, I say softly.

No, est menalamgava amage,[8] Memnon says, they were merely preparing you.

I frown in the darkness. Preparing me for what?

 

I have one last event happening this year, next month actually. I'll be attending Book Bash, a new event organized by Bloom Books and Sourcebooks in Lexington, KY on September 27 to 29. Tickets are still available if you'd like to join in on the fun! I hope to see you there!