Cornwall has its own collection of mischievous fairies and humbling, awe-inspiring deities. Some share similarities to those in the other five Celtic nations, but those in the duchy are shaped by hard granite and a warm hearth, by storm-lashed coastlines and buttercup-strewn meadows, by yawning mines and the glistening ore that lies within. Tin. Copper. Gold. The Little Folk guard their treasure cautiously, whether it be metal or kindness. Tread carefully. Cast the corner of your pasty crust aside as an offering, and always—always—be respectful. Then you will be fine and dandy—truly, you will. Welcome to Cornwall.

Let’s hear from Robert Hunt in an extract from Hunt’s Complete Cornish Folklore…

The Elfin Creed of Cornwall

The Piscy or Pixy of East Devon and Somersetshire is a different creature from his cousin of a similar name in Cornwall. The former is a mischievous, but in all respects a very harmless creation, who appears to live a rollicking life amidst the luxuriant scenes of those beautiful counties. The latter, the Piskies of Cornwall, appear to have their wits sharpened by their necessities, and may be likened to the keen and cunning “Arab” boy of the London streets, as seen in contrast with the clever child who has been reared in every comfort of a well-regulated home. A gentleman, well known in the literary world of London, very recently told me that he once saw in Devonshire a troop of fairies. It was a breezy summer afternoon, and these beautiful little creatures were floating on the circling zephyrs up the side of a sunlit hill, and fantastically playing—

“Where oxlips and the nodding violet grow.”

They are truly the fairies of Midsummer Night’s Dream. They haunt the most rural and romantic spots, and they gather—

No such fairies are ever met with on Dartmoor. A few, judging from Mrs Bray’s tales^⁠1, may have been tempted into the lovely valley of the Tavy, but certainly they never crossed the Tamar. The darker shades in the character of the Cornish fairy almost dispose me to conclude that they belong to an older family than those of Devonshire.

It should be understood that there are in Cornwall five varieties of the fairy family, clearly distinguishable:

1. The Small People

2. The Spriggans

3. Piskies, or Pigseys

4. The Buccas, Bockles, or Knockers

5. The Browneys

The Small People

Of the Small People I have heard two accounts. Indeed, it is by no means clear that the tradition of their origin does not apply to the whole five branches of this ancient family. The Small People are believed by some to be the spirits of the people who inhabited Cornwall many thousands of years ago—long, long before the birth of Christ. That they were not good enough to inherit the joys of heaven, but that they were too good to be condemned to eternal fires. They were said to be “poor innocents” (this phrase is now applied to silly children).

When they first came into this land, they were much larger than they are now, but ever since the birth of Christ they have been getting smaller and smaller. Eventually they will turn into muryans (ants), and at last be lost from the face of the earth.

These Small People are exceedingly playful amongst themselves, but they are usually demure when they know that any human eye sees them. They commonly aid those people to whom they take a fancy, and, frequently, they have been known to perform the most friendly acts towards men and women.

The above notion corresponds with the popular belief in Ireland, which is, “that the fairies are a portion of the fallen angels, who, being less guilty than the rest, were not driven to hell, but were suffered to dwell on earth.”^⁠2

In Cornwall, as in Wales, another popular creed is, that the fairies are Druids becoming — because they will not give up their idolatries—smaller and smaller. These Small People in many things closely resemble the Elves of Scandinavia.

The Spriggans

The Spriggans are quite a different class of beings. In some respects they appear to be offshoots from the family of the Trolls of Sweden and Denmark. The Spriggans are found only about the cairns, coits, or cromlechs, burrows, or detached stones, with which it is unlucky for mortals to meddle.

A correspondent writes: “This is known, that they were a remarkably mischievous and thievish tribe. If ever a house was robbed, a child stolen, cattle carried away, or a building demolished, it was the work of the Spriggans. Whatever commotion took place in earth, air, or water, it was all put down as the work of these spirits. Wherever the giants have been, there the Spriggans have been also. It is usually considered that they are the ghosts of the giants; certainly, from many of their feats, we must suppose them to possess a giant’s strength. The Spriggans have the charge of buried treasure.”

The Piskie

This fairy is a most mischievous and very unsociable sprite. His favourite fun is to entice people into the bogs by appearing like the light from a cottage window, or as a man carrying a lantern.

The Piskie partakes, in many respects, of the character of the Spriggan. So wide-spread were their depredations, and so annoying their tricks, that it at one time was necessary to select persons whose acuteness and ready tact were a match for these quick-witted wanderers, and many a clever man has become famous for his power to give charms against Pigseys. It does not appear, however, that anything remarkable was required of the clever man. “No Pigsey could harm a man if his coat were inside-out, and it became a very common practice for persons who had to go from village to village by night, to wear their jacket or cloak so turned, ostensibly to prevent the dew from taking the shine off the cloth, but in reality to render them safe from the Pigseys.”^⁠3

They must have been a merry lot, since to “laugh like a Piskie” is a popular saying. These little fellows were great plagues to the farmers, riding their colts and chasing their cows.

The Buccas or Knockers

These are the sprites of the mines, and correspond to the Kobals of the German mines, the Duergars, and the Trolls. They are said to be the souls of the Jews who formerly worked the tin mines of Cornwall. They are not allowed to rest because of their wicked practices as tinners, and they share in the general curse which ignorant people believe still hangs on this race.

The Browney

This spirit was purely of the household. Kindly and good, he devoted his every care to benefit the family with whom he had taken up his abode. The Browney has fled, owing to his being brought into very close contact with the schoolmaster, and he is only summoned now upon the occasion of the swarming of the bees. When this occurs, mistress or maid seizes a bell-metal, or a tin pan, and, beating it, she calls “Browney, Browney!” as loud as she can until the good Browney compels the bees to settle.

Mr Thorns has noticed that in Cornwall “The moths which some regard as departed souls, others as fairies, are called Pisgies.” This is somewhat too generally expressed; the belief respecting the moth, so far as I know, is confined to one or two varieties only. Mr Couch informs us that the local name, around Polperro, of the weasel is Fairy. So that we have evidence of some sort of metempsychosis amongst the elf family. Moths, ants, and weasels it would seem are the forms taken by those wandering spirits.

We read in Bishop Corbet, whose work was published in 1648, and was reprinted many years after by Bishop Percy—

Other writers have supposed that at the time of the Reformation the fairies departed from the land. This hypothesis is not warranted by evidence. It is possible that they may have taken possession of some of the inferior creatures, but they are certainly still to be found in those regions which lie beyond the reach of the railway-giant, with his fiery mouth, or of that electric spirit who, travelling on his mysterious wires, can beat the wildest elf that ever mounted “night-steeds”.

An extract from Hunt’s Complete Cornish Folklore, Robert Hunt.

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Find out more here

¹ Traditions, Legends, Superstitions, and Sketches of Devonshire, on the Borders of the Tamar and the Tavy, by Mrs Bray.

² See Keightley’s Fairy Mythology.

³ The Cornish had formerly a great belief in piskays or fairies. If a traveller happened to lose his way, he immediately concluded he was “piskay led”. To dispel the charm with which the “piskay-led” traveller was entangled, nothing was deemed sufficient but that of his turning one of his garments inside-out. This generally fell upon one of his stockings; and if this precaution had been taken before the commencement of the journey, it was fully believed that no such delusion would have happened. —Drew and Hitchins’ History of Cornwall, p. 97.

My publication The Cave Under the Mountain is free for all. But if you do want to support my work, you are most welcome, and it is truly appreciated.

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Author News

The swallows have officially returned! For those of you who’ve been following my plight with the tiny feathered friends, who do stunning acrobatics right outside my window above my screen when I’m trying to write, distracting me completely, well, it’s started all over again.

Other than new growth in spring and leaf fall in autumn, we don’t have many strong seasonal markers here in Cornwall. The seasons can be summarised as…

• Winter—colder with westerly storms off the sea

• Autumn—damp with westerly storms off the sea

• Spring—can be warm with westerly storms off the sea

• Summer—a bit warmer still with westerly storms off the sea.

But here in my village, we do have the swallow return. Who knows where they go each year. Southern Europe? South Africa? Honestly, if I had the choice I’d be right on their feathery tails.

But one thing is for sure, as certain as the sun rises each day, they do return. And they are such a delight (and a distraction)!

Last time when I wrote about them, I got a number of lovely emails from you guys saying they were distracting me because they wanted an appearance in the book I was writing at the time (Folkloric Guile).

I thought about including them long and hard, and it went something like this:

• Evil swallows who dominate the world?

• Nice swallows who help everyone?

• Swallow magic?

• Show-off swallows who distract everyone? (Yep, you can see right where I’m coming from.)

I couldn’t quite picture them as world-destroying supernatural entities, so I was angling for the helpful kind, but as the book is plant themed, I just didn’t manage to work them in.

What they had to settle for was a brief cameo appearance, and actually they were heard not seen. They made the perfect excuse for when Camille forces Lucas out her bathroom window because of SPOILERS.

So they got their mention, albeit a super brief one. And I’m really glad they’re back again. The sun will continue to rise. All is right in the world.

Actually, it’s better than alright, because the hedgerows are blooming and the warm days are here!

And last night at 10pm, Venus was shining bright over Sennen Cove after a very warm day, the scent of wild mint and sea salt all about…

The Piano Tuner’s Song Kickstarter

(Including Promo and Review Copies)

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If you love stunning books with sprayed edges, foiling and all the extras, it’s the best place for it. There are also lots of other creative projects on there too.

You can visit The Piano Tuner’s Song prelaunch page here and find out more about the collector’s edition I’m preparing. Click the ‘notify me on launch’ button to follow and get updates.

I’m doing an ARCs (free advanced reader ebook copies) of the collector’s edition for anyone who’d like to review on Amazon, Goodreads or other places, and also do a bit of promo, whether that be via word of mouth or socials.

Find out more and sign up here.

For those who have already signed up, thank you very much! I can’t wait to get the book to you. It will be my main goal once the audio for Guile is complete (a couple of weeks hopefully).

Audio Review Copies of the Folkloric Series…

Including Folkloric Guile

Find out more and register interest for your Audible review voucher here.

(Estimated release date and when the vouchers will be sent: mid June)

If you’d like to listen and review any of the series, I have copies available on a first-come-first-served basis. (I only have a limited number of vouchers that Audible provides).

It’s not necessary to have listened to all the series on audio, you could dip in and out—read book one, listen to book two etc., but it’s a true series, so you’ll be missing out if you don’t read or listen in order.

With love, until next time!

Karenza

For those of you who haven’t read Folkloric yet, the series can be found here. And the prequel novella eBook Folkloric Fae is available as my gift to you on subscribing to my mailing list.

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Tales of Ferrês: Special Anniversary Collection by K.M Jenkins
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I’m dedicating The Lucas Letters to Abhivyakti Singh, a wonderful writer and member of my first writing critique group who inspired me to undertake this format through her own amazing correspondence-based novel laced with lively humour.

The Lucas Letters are best read in order

Find the previous despatches here

NB: This message may be truncated due to length. If so, click read entire message.

The Lucas Letters: Despatch Two

Appartement 5, 3ème étage

14 Avenue de Camoëns

75116 Paris

France

26th January

By the hand of Slaughter

Lucas, my son,

Are you suggesting that I, the one who bears the knowledge of all that is and all that is not, have made a mistake? If unruly parts of your anatomy are troubling you, I suggest you take a long dip in the icy waters of the Seine.

There are but few threads that bear the possibility Camille Amiel will not become a Keeper of the Bounds and your partner. One is that she fails the testing. Of that, there is always a chance. The other is if she refuses the role, for there is always a choice.

Proceed with the trial.

La Vieille du Fil

SLAUGHTER: DO NOT SEND THIS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES

26^th January

My dearest Belomar,

I could hear La Vieille’s raucous cackling as I read her reply, the shrewd, conniving old…

But no, I must refrain from cussing her. It will only come back to me a hundredfold. No doubt she finds the situation highly amusing, and I cannot prevent my hands clenching, every part of me much too taut, ready to strike. I have already thrust my fist into the wall, evidenced by a hole in the plaster that a couple of Men are patching up while casting me wary side glances. It defeats me why they still hang around.

And here I am, scratching out my frustration to you again. Though after Slaughter almost sent the last letter, bundling it with the others, I’ll be more careful this time.

You would laugh if you saw the state of me, dishevelled and distracted, barely able to concentrate on work today, and your laughter would know no bounds if you read my scrawl.

I didn’t sleep last night either.

I could only replay the memory of Camille Amiel in the cafe, the recollection of her intoxicating scent, the curve of her form as she wove about the tables.

When Hector and I left the place, it was almost dark. I excused myself, pulled up the collar of my overcoat against the snow and took the footpath into the mountains. You should have seen me, my old friend. You would have said I was bewitched, or that I’d taken a foul potion. I could not think, could not gather myself. It was ridiculous that a woman I hadn’t even met could influence me so.

Needing to run, I expanded into sinew, embracing the darkness hidden within, feeling the power of the creature I truly am. A snarl escaping my desiccated jaws, I charged into the heights, the chill of the snow and the gusts of harsh wind doing nothing to ease my predicament.

Nothing at all.

You would have chastised me, my friend. You would have thought me a boy once more, unable to contain myself. And you would have been right, for at that moment, I could not.

But no matter how far I ran, her scent was caught up in me. I could not be rid of it, and after a while, I returned to the town, powerless to resist seeking it out.

Camille Amiel was no longer at the cafe, though wisps of her remained. I know where she lives. I have the details in her file, but they were irrelevant. I followed her scent, wanting to be consumed by it.

For fuck’s sake, writing this, staring at the page, I can’t believe myself, can’t understand what I’ve been reduced to. I will be taking that swim in the Seine imminently.

But as I loped through the town, I caught another scent. Male, testosterone, chemical grooming products, unpleasant. It was the man who’d made life so difficult for the staff at the cafe, who’d leered at Camille. The one she’d dealt with by pouring scalding coffee into his lap. My hackles rose. He’d threatened her, and I wouldn’t allow it.

Perhaps my reaction was some kind of foreshadowing of the Keeper-partner bond? But of course it wasn’t. There was no way we could become partners. Whatever it was, it drove me through the narrow streets of the Old Town, buildings leaning close, shutters secured against the frost-laced night.

The lowlife sensed my approach, knowing on some level that what tracked him was preternatural. His instincts took over, and he ran blindly into a dead end alley.

Fury forged an unearthly roar as I prowled toward him, sinews scraping bone, claws tensed ready to impale. His greasy, sweat-damp hair was plastered to his face, his vapid, pale eyes much too wide, his weak jaw slack and trembling, the snowflakes that adorned him a death shroud.

He barely fought as I wrapped my claws around his throat, as they dug inward, blood beading into his coat. I would destroy him for imposing himself upon Camille Amiel, I would end his miserable existence.

Yet as I squeezed, what should I hear but, “Uh, gov? Uhhumm. Just a moment of your time, if you don’t mind? It is, uh, sort of important, like.”

I stilled my grip and turned to Slaughter.

The miniature prehistoric warrior emerged from behind a bin. I’d been so absorbed, I was taken aback. ‘What is it?’ I scraped out. ‘Can’t you see I’m occupied?’

“Yes, boss, I can see you’re very occupied with being about to rip out the throat of that human, but I uh, just wanted to say that, perhaps it might not be the most sensible thing you’ve ever done.”

“What?” I roared, the lowlife’s body shaking, his eyes on stalks.

Slaughter adjusted the stone axe on his shoulder, unperturbed. “I do appreciate that you’ve got uh… the pong of a woman all stuck up your nozzle, but with you having been appointed a Keeper and all, I’m not sure how well this kind of thing will go down with the assembly. Not to mention, with you about to be the only doctor in the area, isn’t it going to cause problems if you murder the townsfolk?”

All I could do was stare at Slaughter, the scum in my grip sobbing.

He was right, damn him. I could scarce believe what I was doing.

Releasing ragged breaths, I fought the urge to squeeze that accursed throat, fought not to do the one thing that would wreck everything I’d worked so hard to achieve. I was so utterly possessed by Camille, by my instinct to protect her.

Belomar, what the fuck is wrong with me?

I caught Camille’s scent again. So out of it was I that I couldn’t be sure if it was real or a memory. Even so, my claws slackened, the trace of her overcoming me once more. All I could do was follow that blissful fragrance, leaving the lowlife sobbing in the snow.

You know how fast I move, my friend. In moments, I’d traversed the town and the forested foothill beyond to conceal myself in the bushes below her farmyard. There she was, tidying up under a meagre lamp that battled the dark, the goats milling around the yard waiting to be milked, snow trodden away to mush beneath their hooves.

Curses, it was cold there, the night bitter. The chill vied with the warm light radiating from the farmhouse and Camille’s loft apartment above the barn to the side. Not only did I know her living arrangements from the file, but the smell of her was all-consuming.

She broke the ice on the trough so it wouldn’t freeze too hard, and spread straw upon the ground for the mush. Bundling it thicker inside the central goat barn, the queen of the herd nibbled at her pocket.

She was wrapped up against the weather in a feather-stuffed jacket, a woollen hat and ski trousers that covered substantial boots. I pictured unwrapping her, and all I would find inside, my nostrils flaring, her scent assaulting me afresh. I wanted to drown in it, my blood pulsing hard. I wanted to take her and—

Something shifted at the far side of the yard where the farmhouse met undergrowth, something that bore the tang of snow and ice and the north wind.

Tearing myself from her, I slunk closer for a better view.

Through the trees, surrounded by a faint white glow, strode an old woman, her lanky grey hair bedraggled, her dress and shawl thin and tattered, her face as hard as ice. Eternal winters shone in her eyes, and all about her as she walked, the undergrowth froze harder, icicles forming upon branches, the ground glazing.

It was late in the year to see the Mascou abroad, a fae embodiment of winter who trails the harshest weather in her wake. Her gaze locked onto me, a fierce chill piercing my monstrous hide, her bitter stare more sobering than any dip in the Seine.

It brought me to my senses. What was I doing here, reacting to Camille Amiel, responding as if… as if… as if she meant something to me.

Ridiculous.

I was having some inexplicable reaction to her pheromones, a physical, chemical response, that was all. The only problem… however could I manage a Keeper partnership with a woman who could unravel me by her mere existence?

It was at that moment, my dear friend, that I realised what I must do. It was also then that the Mascou vanished, and the stately queen sensed my presence and ambled over, followed by a good number of the herd.

Camille tracked their advance into the bushes, searching the darkness for whatever caught their attention. And although I do not think she knew it, her eyes met mine. Her gaze captured the air in my lungs. But certainty had overruled my instincts.

With all I possessed, I pulled myself away and left without a backward glance.

Thankfully, Belomar, my path is now clear before me, for I must preserve myself. I cannot let this woman tear me apart. It is so obvious that I release a laugh, startling the Men who’ve almost finished repairing the wall, one of them falling off the sideboard.

La Vieille wrote that there was a thread of possibility Camille might fail the Keeper testing. Well, I must ensure by any means necessary that she is unsuccessful.

There can be no chance of our partnership proceeding.

LUCAS ROUSEAU: AMAZON’S RECOMMENDED TITLES FOR YOU

Folkloric Fae (A Prequel Novella to the Folkloric Series) by Karenza Grant

Perfect for reading before or at any time during the Folkloric series, it is an accompaniment to the events that take place at the time of The Lucas Letters.

(Also available free by signing up to the author’s newsletter here.)

Slaughter, send this one, not the other, and whatever you do, DON’T SEND ANY MORE TO BELOMAR WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT INSTRUCTIONS

Belomar Rei, High Elf King, Charmant

By the hand of Slaughter

Belomar,

It seems matters are proceeding with my appointment as Keeper of the Bounds.

I have to say, my friend, I’m beyond honoured that the assembly has taken a chance upon me. I imagine your influence was not insignificant, and for that I am grateful.

You are most likely aware that I have been appointed a partner by La Vieille, though I have to admit, after observing her, I wonder how suitable she is. However, the testing will bear that out.

To that end, I require use of the Chateau de la Lune to set up the trial on the full moon, which will be ideal timing for the incantations and colludes, as well as the intrusion into the candidate’s mind.

Wishing you and your kin the very best. Surely it is time we drank together once more? It has been far too long.

Lucas

Thank you for reading!

The next instalment will be in a month’s time.

For those of you who haven’t read Folkloric yet, the series can be found here. And the prequel novella eBook Folkloric Fae is available as my gift to you on subscribing to my mailing list.

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Where birds sing melodiously in Cornish hedgerows woven with ferns, pink campion and foxgloves (a fairy bloom if ever there was one), so striking is the sound, is it any wonder that it might be taken for otherworldly music? And yet perhaps there is something beyond the trill and warble, a lightness, an undulation so sublime it cannot be resisted, a melody that if followed, leads to a realm so beautiful that to scratch its description onto the page would never, ever do it justice. Who could blame a child for following such a thing?

The Lost Child

In the little hamlet of Treonike, in the parish of St Allen, has long lingered the story of a lost child, who was subsequently found. All the stories agree in referring the abduction of the child to supernatural agency, and in some cases it is referred to the “Small People or Piskies”— in others, to less amiable spiritual creatures. Mr Hals^⁠1 has given one version of this story, which differs in some respects from the tale as I heard it, from an old woman some thirty years since, who then lived in this parish. Her tale was to the following effect.

It was a lovely evening, and the little boy was gathering flowers in the fields, near a wood. The child was charmed by hearing some beautiful music, which he at first mistook for the song of birds, but being a sharp boy, he was not long deceived, and he went towards the wood to ascertain from whence the melodious sounds came.

When he reached the verge of the wood, the music was of so exquisite a character, that he was compelled to follow the sound, which appeared to travel before him. Lured in this way, the boy penetrated to the dark centre of the grove, and here, meeting with some difficulties, owing to the thick growth of underwood, he paused and began to think of returning.

The music, however, became more ravishing than before, and some invisible being appeared to crush down all the low and tangled plants, thus forming for him a passage, over which he passed without any difficulty.

At length he found himself on the edge of a small lake, and greatly to his astonishment, the darkness of night was around him, but the heavens were thick with stars. The music ceased, and wearied with his wanderings, the boy fell asleep on a bed of ferns.

He related, on his restoration to his parents, that he was taken by a beautiful lady through palaces of the most gorgeous description. Pillars of glass supported arches which glistened with every colour, and these were hung with crystals far exceeding anything which were ever seen in the caverns of a Cornish mine.

It is, however, stated that many days passed away before the child was found by his friends, and that at length he was discovered one lovely morning, sleeping on the bed of ferns, on which he was supposed to have fallen asleep on the first adventurous evening.

There was no reason given by the narrator why the boy was “spirited away” in the first instance, or why he was returned. Her impression was, that some sprites, pleased with the child’s innocence and beauty, had entranced him. That when asleep he had been carried through the waters to the fairy abodes beneath them; and she felt assured that a child so treated would be kept under the especial guardianship of the sprites for ever afterwards. Of this, however, tradition leaves us in ignorance.

An extract from Hunt’s Complete Cornish Folklore, Robert Hunt.

Find out more about the new release here.

¹ See Davies Gilbert’s Parochial History of Cornwall.

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My publication The Cave Under the Mountain is free for all. But if you do want to support my work, you are most welcome, and it is truly appreciated.

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The Piano Tuner’s Song: Gothic Fantasy Romance Luxe Edition

A beguiling standalone where music becomes colour, slow-burn becomes ache, and the discord beneath the melody waits in the shadows.

follow the campaign here

A master piano tuner who sees music as colour.

A woman who’s spent her life forcing her colours away.

When they meet in the French mountains, the connection is instant, dangerous and impossible…

Because he’s been missing, presumed dead, for five years.

The Story

Violette Romèu fled Paris when her synaesthesia broke through every wall she built against it. Returning to her childhood mountian village, she means to live quietly… the way other people do.

Then she meets Rémy Rabasten, a master tuner for the Paris Opera. A man who sees colours too, who looks at her as if he knows her completely, and whose presence is impossible to ignore.

A man who vanished years ago.

Seduced by his world of sublime music, ancient sanctuaries and melodies composed to undo souls, Violette glimpses what Rémy is part of… and what lies in wait.

The diabolical force that rent creation when the first discordant note was struck wants him, and only the gift Violette has spent a lifetime burying stands in its way.

The Piano Tuner’s Song is inspired by French folklore, The Phantom of the Opera and ancient musical esoterica.

Spice level: low steam, max chemistry and tension.

Reading tone: similar to A Discovery of Witches.

It’s Close to My Heart Because…

This is my first published book, and it’s been an extraordinary journey to get it here.

The story began in the South of France, in the foothills of the Pyrenees, where I found myself returning again and again. The mountains there have a particular quality. There’s something magical about the wild slopes and the half-dreamed villages, the chateau fortresses high on peaks and the thermal waters gushing from the earth. The area has a strong musical tradition of troubadours and poetry. In fact, the very concept of the modern novel was born in there.

Then came the musical aspect, and with it, the colour. The book grew from a fascination of the beauty music holds, of how notes themselves carry hue, how some people see music literally as colour, and how the old esoteric traditions thought of the cosmos itself as music. The more I researched, the more I became fascinated by Pythagorean tuning, Robert Fludd’s diagrams, the mystical compositions of Erik Satie. The deeper I went, the more I wanted to write this story.

Violette and Rémy arrived almost by themselves and refused to be anyone else. I’ve spent a lot of time with them, and I’m proud of who they became.

This is a book that wouldn’t let me go. And now I have the opportunity, with you, to make it the way I always imagined.

The Covers, the Design and the Inspiration

With The Piano Tuner’s Song collector’s edition, I’ve strived to create a piece of art in the design and format of the book itself, inspired by the story.

The design is rooted in the esoteric revival of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, which found its visual voice in the bold, symbolic linework of Pamela Colman Smith, amongst others. It flowered in fin-de-siècle Paris through Art Nouveau, opera and theatre, and Satie’s mystical compositions. The revival also reached back into the older traditions of sacred ornament expressed here in the haloed icons and geometric patterns. It was a moment when music, art and ancient knowledge drew together as one. The Piano Tuner’s Song embodies that confluence, bringing it into a contemporary yet evocative setting.

The lineage of the revival leads back to the alchemical plates of Robert Fludd, the ancient philosophy of Pythagoras and Plato, and the idea that music is the substance of creation itself, all of which inspired the black and antique gold design.

The additional complementary modern illustration brings warmth and colour to the page, as colour in the story brings emotion and expression.

There are many lovely details to the design and format such as sprayed edges, foiling, a ribbon bookmark and plenty more. Find out more and support here.

What is Kickstarter, Anyway?

Kickstarter is a platform where creative projects come to life through community support. Instead of traditional sales, creators share their ideas and invite people to back them before they’re made. Supporters can pledge money to help bring a project into existence, often receiving rewards like exclusive editions, content and merch. It’s a way to be part of something from the beginning, backing new work and your favourite creators.

The ARC (Advanced Reader Copy)

Last week I put out feelers as to whether anyone would be interested in ARC reading the story. As it was my first book out, and I wasn’t used to publishing, I didn’t know what I was doing in that regard and it only went out to a few people.

Well, I got a great response, so it looks like I will be going ahead with sending out the ARC. When, is the question. It’s not going to be long, but I have to find a moment to fit it in somewhere after I’ve updated the existing format. So we’re looking like within the next month or two.

It’s likely you’ll receive the existing edition to ARC and review (as the special ed won’t be ready), and then once your review in, I’ll send you the eBook special edition as a thank you.

Please pop your name on this form if you are interested.

For those of you who don’t know, ARC means ‘Advance Reader Copy’, which involves reading a free copy and reviewing, ideally on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Not so much ‘advanced’ in this instance, but it’s the same principle.

sign up to ARC read

With love, until next time!

If you would like to subscribe to my newsletter and/or support my work, you can do so here…

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This collection starts on 1st May…

If you’re wondering why this email is coming from Substack, and you didn’t see the message about it, I moved recently for more visibility and features, but it’s still the same old me!

Happy May Day, Beltane, Spring—Whatever You Celebrate!

As a spring celebration, Folkloric is free until Monday. Get your copy here. Happy reading!

Folkloric Guile Audio

Audio production is starting in early May, so fingers crossed it should be winging its way to you by the end of May/beginning of June. I’ll have audio ARCs going out for the other books in the series very soon, and then for Guile once it’s released. Watch this space.

The Piano Tuner’s Song Possible ARC and Kickstarter

I sent a newsletter about the Cornish folklore Kickstarter I’m working on in the background as I began that first, but I’m letting you know about things in totally the wrong order. My first Kickstarter, which I’m focussing on at the moment, is a super special edition of The Piano Tuner’s Song.

The pre-launch is almost ready, and I have some great artwork for it. I’m loving the concept and working on the design myself. I’ll let you know when it goes live, but while beavering away on the project, it occurred to me that this book never really got its chance in terms of promotion. It was my first published book and I didn’t know what I was doing, plus it’s hard to advertise a standalone.

It’s one reason why I’m doing the Kickstarter, to give it a chance. It’s a super story and I want to get it out there. And it made me think, should I do a round of ARCs for this book?

It went out to a few people when it was first launched but that was all (I’m eternally grateful to those first ARC readers who took a chance on me—you know who you are, and you are amazing!) So if you think you might like to ARC read it, please pop your name on this form. If I get a bit of interest, I’ll go ahead.

For those of you who don’t know, ARC means ‘Advance Reader Copy’, which involves reading a free copy and reviewing, ideally on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Not so much ‘advanced’ in this instance, but it’s the same principle.

Below is the original cover. The blurb and everything on the Amazon listing needs updating, though I have some new details here (part of what I’m working on for the Kickstarter)…

The Piano Tuner’s Song: A Gothic Romantasy

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Where this book differs from Folkloric…

It’s probably obvious from the blurb, but there’s a fair bit of romance, not much humour, totally no small prehistoric Men (sorry!). But there is a compelling plot, unique and sumptuous world building, as well as it being based on folklore—oh, and it’s set in the same region of France as well as Paris. There might even have been a little inspiration from The Phantom of the Opera too. In terms of tone, it reads like A Discovery of Witches.

On other matters

Have you had the lovely spring weather? (or autumn if you’re down under.) I’ve been making the most of it by working at the beach when I can. Here in the UK in recent years, our summers are coming earlier. Often I miss out, thinking, hey, it’s not actual summer. And then the summer is cooler. I’m determined to catch the sun this year.

With love, until next time!

If you would like to subscribe to my newsletter and/or support my work, you can do so here…

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Two amazing novellas for you to download

from Georgiana Kent…

Before the mask, destinies are tested, and dragons rule the skies.

Re’Niah is lethal, efficient, and unstoppable—but when her latest mission plunges her into Korath’s web of manipulation, even her deadly skills may not be enough.

Trust is a weapon, and betrayal is closer than she thinks.

Across the border, Prince Taevion is trapped behind palace walls, desperate to prove himself and earn his father’s respect. When a daring switch with a commoner grants him the freedom to enter Nathair Caisteal, the legendary dragon-rider academy, Taevion steps into a world of deadly trials, whispered secrets, and dangerous ambition.

Dragons soar, secrets stir in shadowed corridors, and the fire of ambition burns hotter than ever.

Of Masks & Iron: A Prequel is a fast-paced romantasy novella filled with high-stakes adventure, political intrigue, assassin romance, royal deception, forbidden loyalties, and powerful dragons.

Soul gatherers, quondams, Chinese demons, celestial beings... Sounds like your average night for KeyMaster Michael Nicholas and his Faerie Ashayla.

Despite battling his own demons, when his friend, Anatole, is in trouble, Michael doesn’t hesitate to help. But he gets more than he bargained for when he’s thrown in the middle of a case of Truth or Dare gone wrong. Horribly wrong. The kind of wrong when a Chinese huapi demon rampages through London on a killing spree. Thank goodness the nine-tailed Kumiho, Jade Fox, can help. But can she be trusted?

Shadowhunters meets The Guild Codex. Welcome to Inner Demons, a prequel to Georgiana Kent’s Soul Dominion series.

Some amazing Kickstarters live right now…

On the 4th May…

New Release…

This collection starts on 1st May…

The Lucas Letters: an introduction

This is my way of giving you, lovely readers and newsletter subscribers, something extra—a little more of the Folkloric series once a month. The Lucas Letters are a sequence of communications between Lucas and various other people, written as he prepares to make contact with Camille, knowing she will be his partner as Keeper of the Bounds between the fae and human realms. They detail his side of things and feature exploits of his own, taking place in the period from before Folkloric Fae, the prequel, to the beginning of Folkloric, book one.

Why letters?

I’m aiming to do something fun and different whilst delving into the murky regions of Lucas’s head. I flirted with the idea of writing Lucas’s point of view out in full, but it didn’t quite fly, possibly because this is Camille’s story, but also because I want to focus on book six, Folkloric Devilry.

The letters can be read at any time

I’m doing my absolute best to avoid spoilers, so other than new material, there’s nothing in these letters that isn’t in the blurbs for book one and the prequel, other than a more detailed look at what’s going on in Lucas’s head at that time, so you should be safe reading at any point. A few characters who feature in later books do appear, but there are no spoilers as to the storylines.

To help the letters’ delivery…

As we don’t all have Slaughter to deliver things, I have to use my mailing list. Let me know you’re enjoying the content by clicking somewhere on the newsletter. This helps as deliverability of this kind of email depends on how many people open and click. So if you click something, anything, even a random link, it helps so much.

Without further ado, the first despatch…

The Lucas Letters: Despatch One

25^th January

My dearest Belomar,

Honeysuckle. That was the scent of her skin. Couteto in the old language.

Wild woodlands. Summer evenings.

I could sense her before I entered the café, and when I did, all I could do was draw her in, my sinews constricting, the monstrous part of me pressing at my fingertips, urging to unfurl, to take hold. Even now, while scribbling this, it is demanding everything I have not to submit to my own dark self, to expand into cord and muscle, to feel the power of what I hide so well rushing through my veins. But I will not allow my drac to form, not now.

Something is wrong. Seriously wrong.

Which is why I’m writing to you, my old friend. Not because I’ll send this. Of course, I won’t. But because something cursed is stirring within, something that has caused me to already snap two quills as I scratch this out, though I barely know why. It is unnatural to me, unexpected, unruly.

The snow flurrying at my apartment window, filling the Avenue de Camoëns and almost obscuring the Tour Eiffel on the other side of the rushing Seine, is usually a comforting sight, but today it is not. Neither is my reflection in the window. Too fierce, too intense, the arrogance others see in me unmistakable. My hair is a mess as usual, along with my stubble, all of it made stark in the glass by the encroaching dusk, a sign I need to grasp this situation firmly, to crush the life from it.

Belomar, all I can do is imagine we’re holed up in a camp deep in Fae, armoured and weaponed to the hilt, awaiting first engagement against some terrible foe. Knowing that we may not see another dawn has a way of loosening tongues and opening hearts. Indeed, I may have to write to you, or pay you a call if matters proceed further, but this is most definitely not that communication.

No, for now, I’m scraping this out as if I can scrape away everything that occurred in Tarascon yesterday because… it is impossible. In no comprehensible way does it make sense. In fact, it’s preposterous.

I returned to the town on the edge of the Pyrenees Mountains for the first time in many years. The towering foothills surrounding the valley were capped in snow that descended to cover the streets and houses, the Tour du Castella wearing a white cap. Tarascon had always been home to me, and the moment I entered the town, the notion rekindled with vigour.

I had no reason to doubt La Vieille. The old lady of the thread who winds the yarn of fate between her fingers is never wrong—she spins the knowledge of all that is upon her wheel. Of course, she had chosen the right Keeper partner for me. Her selections are infallible. The bonds she forges are the strongest.

I’m honoured to be offered the position of Keeper. Me, a drac. Thinking of it, a smile tugs at my lips. All I’ve done in recent years has been worth the effort. The assembly has placed its trust in me, and my posting to Tarascon after the current Keeper’s unfortunate ailment seemed a blessing.

Hence, without a backward glance, I have put everything in motion for my move to Tarascon. Yes, it was a high priority to meet Camille Amiel. I’ve studied her file thoroughly. On paper, she seems reasonably appropriate for the partnership. An amateur yet extremely committed folklorist with a well of knowledge, acceptable handling of a sword, a forthcoming personality.

I’d hoped to observe her before meeting with the town doctor, Hector Fournier, but the traffic from Paris had been hellish and I’d cut it fine. Once Hector and I had thrashed out the details for the sale of his practice upon his retirement, he invited me to Pyrenees Café, a short walk away, to sample the renowned patisserie. And as that is Camille Amiel’s workplace, I accepted without hesitation.

That is where I saw her smelt her first, her scent mingling with cocoa and bread and hazelnuts and coffee.

Unmistakable, sweet, fragrant honeysuckle.

I wore a glamour, so I’d be overlooked by those I didn’t address directly. It meant I could track her unhindered as she wove between the regulars and the parties of skiers heading further into the mountains.

Her face was bronzed a little by the winter sun, her hair tied back in a loose plait, escaped strands surrounding her forehead. And curses, if her figure in jeans and a jumper was all too apparent. Fit, strong, yet with substance. She is no waif.

Her dark eyes darted from cup to cup as she cleared tables, and there was a buoyancy about her, a lightness, a thoughtful attentiveness, her lips pursing as she contemplated thoughts I could almost hear. The softness of her nose belied the forcefulness of her gaze, which made me want to come up against her, to challenge her, to experience her extremes, her anger, her laughter, all that lay within.

As Hector covered some of the finer details of our arrangement, I tracked her as often as I could—as she tidied up, served behind the till, confronted a group of overconfident leches who were hassling her and the staff. She dealt with them by pouring hot coffee into one of their laps.

Even writing it down now, my middle shudders with mirth, hilarity rising from my depths, my fingers shaking around the quill to see their startled expressions.

I can certainly still laugh, for what is life without that?

And yes, it was clear she has gumption, but my trouble was, I couldn’t take my eyes off her, that accursed feeling I couldn’t identify stirring me, disconcerting to my depths.

Belomar, we have fought aside each other many a time. We have faced the worst of enemies, and I have held my ground. What’s more, I have kept my composure in the most dire of political situations. And there I was, in the presence of someone I was destined to partner, with whom I would likely develop a fervent bond of strictly platonic friendship, and I was… unhinged.

As written in the old lore, Keeper partners always constitute a male and a female, a fae and a human. They are specifically chosen because they feel nothing for each other on an intimate level. In fact, it is something La Vieille du Fil and the old lore prohibit. Yet despite all this, I could not drag my gaze from Camille, my body responding to her, my loins stirring.

I have to admit it, my friend, I was… I am physically attracted to the woman.

Damn it, I’ve just broken another quill, then roared at Slaughter who turned up unexpectedly to collect the mail. As always, the foot-high prehistoric Man of Bédeilhac stood his ground, grinning and swinging his axe.

Fuck, I need to relax. Because there has to be a mistake. How could it be anything else? So you can see my predicament, my friend. Camille Amiel cannot be my Keeper partner. I don’t know how it is possible, but La Vieille has made a grievous mistake, and something must be done.

LUCAS ROUSEAU: AMAZON’S RECOMMENDED TITLES FOR YOU

Dracs: A Study (A History of French Fae) by Professor Margo Joly

A fascinating overview of one of the most mysterious of European fae. Dracs are incubi and succubi said to haunt the edge of waterways. A vision of perfection in their human form, this is but a disguise of their hideous true shape. As such, they are said to have two faces, one mischievous and one wicked, the epitome of evil, known for luring people into rivers to their deaths. Renowned folklorist Professor Margo Joly explores the associated folklore of this intriguing fairy race.

The Hut, Charmant

By the hand of Slaughter

La Vieille,

I have had the opportunity to observe Camille Amiel in Tarascon, and I can tell you unequivocally, she cannot be my partner as Keeper of the Bounds. As much as it pains me to admit, I find myself having to quash inexplicable physical feelings for the woman, even on first observation. I understand you strictly prohibit such a thing as these sentiments are impossible in a Keeper relationship. I presume there has been a mistake. Please advise.

Lucas Rouseau

Status: SAVED TO DRAFT

To: FredericNoir@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

From: LucasRouseau@MedecinsSansFrontieres.fr

Subject: My resignation

Dearest Frederic,

We have discussed the likelihood of my resignation for some months now. I’m writing to convey that it is time for me to move on to other pastures. Working with Doctors Without Borders has been an honour, not only in Sudan but more recently our work together with refugees in Paris. I will miss the camaraderie greatly, as well as the numerous patients I’ve had the privilege to assist.

I’ve taken a small practice in Tarascon-sur-Ariège in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains and will be the sole doctor there. It is certainly a change of pace, but one I welcome. I am due to take my position on May 1st, so I am available to work until shortly before that date.

With much appreciation for all you and the organisation does, and particularly for the Paris team.

Best,

Lucas Rouseau

Thank you for reading! The next instalment will be in a month’s time.

For those of you who haven’t read Folkloric yet, the series can be found here. And the prequel novella eBook Folkloric Fae is available as my gift to you on subscribing to my mailing list.

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There lies an expanse of rugged moorland, where menhirs are scattered between rocking stones and the odd quoit. Soaring granite descends amidst thick bracken only to be restrained by a tangle of ancient field systems that yield to the sparkling and otherworldly blue sea. It is here that the old tale Nursing a Fairy takes place.

Something mythic, almost untouchable, pervades this story. Its meaning hides in shadowy corners of the mind, but don’t look too closely or it will vanish altogether, just like the fairy child it tells of. And yet at the same time, it is so very everyday. The thrifty housewife at the story’s heart could be any one of us with her practicality and her curiosity. And perhaps we all keep a fairy child of sorts tucked deep within, a creature strange and unknowable. Perhaps we all keep a mysterious fairy gentleman there too.

Nursing a Fairy could almost be an archaic moralistic tale. Almost. Don’t poke your nose into things that aren’t your business. Don’t be bold (it’s not becoming of a woman). And for heaven’s sake, don’t make deals with fairies. Yet if the thrifty housewife hadn’t looked, she never would have seen. And that is what we all want most of all… to see… to know.

Nursing a Fairy

A thrifty housewife lived on one of the hills between Zennor Churchtown and St Ives. One night a gentleman came to her cottage, and told her he had marked her cleanliness and her care: that he had a child whom he desired to have brought up with much tenderness, and he had fixed on her. She should be very handsomely rewarded for her trouble, and he showed her a considerable quantity of golden coin.

Well, she agreed, and away she went with the gentleman to fetch this child. When they came to the side of Zennor hill, the gentleman told the woman he must blindfold her, and she, good, easy soul, having heard of such things, fancied this was some rich man’s child, and that the residence of its mother was not to be known, so she gave herself great credit for cunning in quietly submitting.

They walked on some considerable distance. When they stopped the handkerchief was taken from her eyes, and she found herself in a magnificent room, with a table spread with the most expensive luxuries, in the way of game, fruits, and wines.

She was told to eat, and she did so with some awkwardness, and not a little trembling. She was surprised that so large a feast should have been spread for so small a party—only herself and the master.

At last, having enjoyed luxuries such as she never tasted before or since, a silver bell was rung, and a troop of servants came in, bearing a cot covered with satin, in which was sleeping the most beautiful babe that human eyes ever gazed on.

She was told this child was to be committed to her charge; she should not want for anything, but she was to obey certain laws. She was not to teach the child the Lord’s Prayer; she was not to wash it after sundown; she was to bathe it every morning in water, which she would find in a white ewer placed in the child’s room—this was not to be touched by any one but herself, and she was to be careful not to wash her own face in this water. In all other respects she was to treat the child as one of her own children.

The woman was blinded again, and the child having been placed in her arms, away she trudged, guided by the mysterious father. When out on the road, the bandage was removed from her eyes, and she found she had a small baby in her arms, not remarkably goodlooking, with very sharp, piercing eyes, and but ordinarily dressed. However, a bargain is a bargain, so she resolved to make the best of it, and she presented the babe to her husband, telling him so much of the story as she thought it prudent to trust him with.

For years the child was with this couple. They never wanted for anything. Meat, and even wines, were provided—as most people thought—by wishing for them. Clothes, ready-made, were on the child’s bed when required, and the charmed water was always in the magic ewer.

The little boy grew active and strong. He was remarkably wild, yet very tractable, and he appeared to have a real regard for his “big mammy,” as he called the woman.

Sometimes she thought the child was mad. He would run, and leap, and scream, as though he were playing with scores of boys, when no soul was near him. The woman had never seen the father since the child had been with them, but ever and anon, money was conveyed to them in some mysterious manner.

One morning, when washing the boy, this good woman, who had often observed how bright the water made the face of the child, was tempted to try if it would improve her own beauty. So directing the boy’s attention to some birds singing on a tree outside the window, she splashed some of the water up into her face. Most of it went into her eye. She closed it instinctively, and upon opening it, she saw a number of little people gathered round her and playing with the boy. She said not a word, though her fear was great; and she continued to see the world of small people surrounding the world of ordinary men and women, being with them, but not of them.

She now knew who the boy’s playmates were, and she often wished to speak to the beautiful creatures of the invisible world who were his real companions, but she was discreet, and kept silence.

Curious robberies had been from time to time committed in St Ives Market, and although the most careful watch had been kept, the things disappeared, and no thief detected.

One day our good housewife was at the market, and to her surprise she saw the father of her nursling. Without ceremony she ran up to him—at a moment when he was putting some choice fruit by stealth into his pocket—and spoke to him.

“So, thou seest me, dost thou?” he said.

“To be sure I do, and know ‘ee too,” replied the woman.

“Shut this eye.” He put his finger on her left eye. “Canst see me now?”

“Yes, I tell ‘ee, and know ‘ee too,” again said the woman.

“Water for elf, not water for self. You’ve lost your eye, your child, and yourself,” said the gentleman.

From that hour she was blind in the right eye. When she got home the boy was gone. She grieved sadly, but she never saw him more, and this once happy couple became poor and wretched.

An extract from Hunt’s Complete Cornish Folklore, Robert Hunt.

Find out more here

My publication The Cave Under the Mountain is free for all. But if you do want to support my work, you are most welcome, and it is truly appreciated.

Support my work...

You’re welcome to visit my publication The Cave Under the Mountain on Substack desktop or app. It would be amazing to meet you in the chat—and lovely to meet those of you who’ve already found me there.

What to expect with the change?

Articles on myth and folklore, fiction (the Lucas Letters are coming) and also author news. This is the author news bit, which will be going out about once a month between releases. If you want to subscribe to only a certain type of content, say the fiction and not the folklore, this is possible via Substack.

Happy Easter!

So it’s just a brief one today as you got full news yesterday. But wishing you a wonderful Easter. The lanes around my village, Sennen, are full of primroses, bright against the Cornish granite, so sending you a posy for your Easter weekend.

A sort of cover reveal

And to celebrate my move, here’s the official cover reveal of Folkloric Devilry. Okay, okay, yes, it’s already on Amazon for pre-orders—I had to get it up for the launch of Folkloric Guile, and because that was all so hectic, I didn’t have a chance to do a proper reveal. So here it is. Late, yes, but better late than never! Have to admit, I’m loving the glowing bottle.

Pre-order here

My publication The Cave Under the Mountain is free for all. But if you do want to support my work, you are most welcome, and it is truly appreciated.

support my work...

Gather around the fire as we share conversation, musings and laughter.

It sat there on the shelf, its spine the colour of enchanted forests, its title radiant in gold foil accompanied by a circle of fairfolk in joyous dance below. I’m not sure how it arrived in our house, only that my father was deeply interested in the ancient sites of old Cornwall, and I have a nebulous recollection that it may have come from a friend who sold books to Hay-on-Wye.

I wasn’t yet fifteen turns about the sun, and for all intents and purposes, I should’ve been interested in plenty more than a worn book, but from the moment I opened its ragged, foxed and yellowed pages, I was enchanted, taken with the fairies, transported to another realm. The folklore collected from Hunt’s rather long ‘walk’ around Cornwall was, and still is, utterly intoxicating.

The book in question is Popular Romances of the West of England by Robert Hunt, and from that very moment, Cornwall lived and breathed. Instead of that lonely cove or that barren hill near the village of my birth, there was that place where the little folk dwelt, that cove where mermaids pulled unsuspecting sailors to their doom, that road where a curmudgeonly giant seized hefty tolls. Unseen currents ran strong, colours vivid, raging storms alive.

And that was the beginning. The beginning of my love of contemporary and urban fantasy. The beginning of my love of folklore, my love of books, my love of story. It began there, and it never let up. Its thread led me along winding lanes, over bright moors and through the odd cave, right to this moment.

Because one day, many years later, while browsing through Briggs and some compendiums of folklore in a local bookshop, it occurred to me that Hunt’s complete and evocative tome wasn’t here. I couldn’t understand it. It was only later still, after writing my own novels, that I realised it was all in the title.

Popular Romances of the West of England. What does that tell you? Take ‘Romances’ to begin with. The term today implies stories of people falling in love. It also implies fiction. What it most unequivocally doesn’t suggest is folklore. Then take ‘the West of England’. As far as many are concerned, this implies Bristol, Somerset, Dorset, Devon and Cornwall. In no way is it specific to Cornwall. And ‘England’, well, there are plenty who would argue Cornwall isn’t even part of England at all, and that it stands in its own right as one of the six Celtic nations, but I’m not opening that particular can of worms right now.

So what we have is a title that translates as Love Stories Set in the West of England. I’m sorry, aren’t we talking folklore here? Isn’t this one man’s magnum opus, a collection of tales as old as time? Isn’t this the recounting of giants and demons, of lost lands and Arthurian quests, of saints that most definitely hold an otherworldly air?

Which brings me to the very modern concept of metadata. Today, the title doesn’t work. Enter ‘Cornish Folklore’ into a standard search, and for years this book wouldn’t appear, though with AI, it’s now showing up more. What hits the first page is typically compendiums, many of them having drawn from Hunt. But not this book. Not this complete, supreme, inimitable collection.

If you root about a little harder, using the original title, you may find that thankfully, it’s on Project Gutenberg for posterity. Because of this, it has been reproduced, but I use the term lightly. Facsimiles of the first edition have been jostled into ebooks and print editions that are barely legible. There’s an ebook version on Gutenberg too that’s doing the rounds, but it’s only the second part, and the copies on Amazon have been titled inaccurately, implying they’re the whole thing (Popular Romances was originally published in two series).

No care. No love. No folklore beneath the skin. No moon-lit, pisky-led, pasty-fuelled passion. No fairy-blindness for anything but the old lore. Just the chance of a quick buck in a cheap wrapper.

To the best of my knowledge, the collection hasn’t been edited since Hunt’s amendments of the third edition in 1881, when it was revised and enlarged, which makes reading a little hard going at times. After all, it’s been a hundred and forty years. And that tugged at the thread—the one that unravelled all that time ago, that wound through my life to include writing and art and editing and publishing, and led me all the way to a very special project today.

Late lamp-lit nights and early sun-spilled mornings, I’m at my desk in deepest West Cornwall, my study window revealing the sweep of fields for the span of a mile before they dip and fold at Penberth Cove. For the first time since its publication, I’m editing Hunt’s tome with reverence.

Hunt’s language itself is not a problem. It’s as remarkable and evocative today as it ever was. But the formatting and typesetting are drowning in Victorian-osity. There was a thing going around TikTok where authors were blacklisted for using em dashes (—), slating their work as AI generated because of them. One look at Popular Romances casts that notion into the flames. Victorian punctuation revelled in them. They were brandished like swords that speared readers’ eyes in every single sentence, and that was after the poor folk were shackled at the wrists and ankles by countless colons and strangled by page-long paragraphs. Though that was the norm for the time, so I doubt there were complaints. But for us today, the remarkable folklore and Hunt’s inimitable voice are obstructed by the usage of its time.

And so my work in progress (at least one of them—my fiction also calls regularly) is preparing a new edition of Popular Romances, retitled Hunt’s Complete Cornish Folklore, so it can be found easily and identified for what it is. This version flows with modern punctuation and formatting, yet completely preserves Hunt’s style and voice. It is comprehensible to modern readers, including those with accessibility needs. It is an edition that will be cherished for years to come, framed within a beautiful, illustrated, foiled hardback (so it glimmers like the original), one that can be enjoyed and gifted and loved.

I’ll be launching it as a special edition on Kickstarter before it’s published in other formats elsewhere, but for now, I’ll be detailing my journey as I delve into old Cornwall and Hunt’s world, dropping extracts and impressions as I grow closer to Hunt with every word.

I’d love for you to join me, so we can continue this journey over the wild moorland down to the storm-lashed sea together.

Cornwall calls you too, my friend.

My publication The Cave Under the Mountain is free for all. But if you do want to support my work, you are most welcome, and it is truly appreciated.

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Welcome to The Cave Under the Mountain…

A space for myth and folklore to breathe and for ancient depth to reflect in the everyday.

Here you’ll find articles on myth and folklore, reflections on books and story, author news and artwork. Everything is rooted in the belief that life is mythic, folkloric and beautiful, and that the old stories still live within us.

It’s also a place for friendship and connection through The Cave chat community.

Come gather around the fire as we share conversation, musings and laughter.

Let me introduce myself…

I’m a writer of folklore-inspired contemporary and urban fantasy where myth is alive and the old tales speak. I endeavour to honour story not only in words but in the artistry of the edition itself. I love making beautiful books.

Living at the far end of West Cornwall with my family, I’m the servant to a hustle of cats (known as The Three Guardians) and can be found at my writing desk overlooking the fields toward Penberth Cove.

From a young age, I was intrigued by the abundant local folklore, which gave lustre to the villages, moors and shoreline about me. A stormy cliff became the infamous birthplace of King Arthur, a hidden dell the haunt of piskies, a remote woodland the entry to the fairy realm itself. Likely, this is the reason I’m drawn to contemporary and urban fantasy. For me, it’s an exploration of enchantment in the ordinary, the threshold between mystery and the commonplace.

You can find out more about me here and about my books here.

Through my work, I attempt to echo the deep patterns of life and that sense of something larger than ourselves, whether it be in articles, novels, artwork or special editions.

I dearly hope you will join me on this exploration.

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The Cave is free for all…

I’m not a fan of paywalls or having to fork out for yet another subscription, so The Cave Under the Mountain is free. But if you do want to support my work, you are most welcome, and it is truly appreciated.

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