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 cut 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

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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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