Dear Bartleby, page 27
And to my incredible readers, thank you for continuing to read my stories. This book marks the halfway point of this series and I’m so delighted that my stories have found their audience.
Editor: Mackenzie Walton
Proofreader: Ashley Scout
Sensitivity Reader: Salt & Sage Books
Historical Consultant: Alexis Howard
Front cover photo by Tim Cooper via Unsplash
Back cover photo by Aleksandra Boguslawska via Unsplash
Author photos by Toni Tillman
About the Author
Sarah Wallace lives in Florida with their cat, more books than she has time to read, a large collection of classic movies, and an apartment full of plants that are surviving against all odds. They only read books that end happily.
Also by Sarah Wallace
Letters to Half Moon Street
Start from the beginning with the first book in the Meddle & Mend: Regency Fantasy series!
* * *
I must have been drunker than I realized because all I remember is how well he tied his cravat and how perfectly his coat fit him…
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London, 1815: where magic can be purchased at convenience, and the fashionable and wealthy descend for the start of the social Season. But 25-year-old Gavin Hartford finds the city intimidating when he arrives, alone, to his family’s townhouse. The only company he seeks is in his beloved books and weekly letters to his sister, Gerry.
* * *
Then dashing man-about-town Charles Kentworthy gallantly rescues Gavin from a foolish drunken mishap and turns his life upside-down. With Mr. Kentworthy, Gavin finds himself discussing poetry and magic, confessing his fears about marriage, expanding his social circle to shocking proportions — and far outside his comfort zone.
* * *
When family responsibility comes knocking, Gavin’s future looms over him, filled with uncertainty. As he grapples with growing feelings for his new friend, Gavin will need to be honest with Mr. Kentworthy — but he’ll need the courage to be honest with himself first.
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This epistolary Regency romance is the first in a historical fantasy series, Meddle & Mend.
One Good Turn - Book 2 in Meddle & Mend
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The Education of Pip - Book 3 in Meddle & Mend
The Spellmaster of Tutting-on-Cress - Book 5 in Meddle & Mend, releases June 28, 2024
Want to find out what happens to Gerry? Preorder now!
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The Glamour Spell of Rose Talbot - Meddle & Mend Prequel
Free to all newsletter subscribers!
Fae & Human Relations: A Regency Fantasy Series by Sarah Wallace & S.O. Callahan
Breeze Spells and Bridegrooms - A new series by cozy fantasy authors Wallace and Callahan - Read a sneak peek now!
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Newsletter subscribers are the first to see book covers, receive the first chapter of new releases a month before release date, get sneak peeks at preorder campaign art, and a free novelette! I’ve also been known to send deleted scenes or scenes in alternate POV and I plan to do more of that!
Preview for Breeze Spells and Bridegrooms
Torquil’s Tribune
13 September 1813
* * *
Greetings fair folk and haphazard humans,
For those just now returning to London, welcome back.
Did you miss me?
The summer months are always horrifically dull for this humble writer. So little gossip to share. So little havoc to wreak. We are excessively relieved to see people return to the city. Whose lives shall be changed this Season? Who will fall in love? Who will flirt with scandal? We are, as ever, eager to find out.
It would appear that the Council for Fae & Human Magical Relations is preparing to convene soon, a whole month before the Season begins. To what do we owe the pleasure of a group of blustery and generally useless politicians to our fair city?
Well, the trend of human children receiving low scores on their Hastings Exam has started to reach a crisis point. Low scores have always been a potential result of the magical testing process, but high scores are becoming increasingly rare. As more and more humans with low Hastings scores reach adulthood, we are seeing the strain on society.
This strain is not caused by those with low scores but rather the way the world treats them. We are seeing more humans rejected for employment opportunities, or reaching the age of majority without a single marriage proposal. As human children are increasingly less likely to receive the desired score, this presents a troublesome insight into our future.
Will the Council find a solution? This writer considers it unlikely. But who knows? Perhaps a hero will emerge from the midst. It hasn’t happened since King Arthur’s reign but, as they say, nothing is impossible where magic is concerned.
Your esteemed editor,
Torquil Pimpernel-Smith
Roger
Roger Barnes attempted to surreptitiously dab at the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. The Council’s chambers were notoriously hot, even in the waiting area. Some blamed it on the heated debates between councilmembers, but Roger privately believed it had more to do with the placement of the wing. It really did get the most atrocious amount of sunlight. Convening in late summer did not help. Roger had a brief wistfulness for his family’s country estate, wind gliding over the pond as he read by a tree. He shook his head and reined in his thoughts. Now was not the time for wistfulness.
He took his notes out of his pocket, reading them for what felt like the hundredth time. The paper was crumpled from so much handling. He didn’t need to read the notes; they were memorized already. But he tended to get flustered when he was nervous, agitated, or generally upset. Quite frankly, flustered was practically Roger’s natural state. He folded the paper, his hands shaking. He put it back in his pocket, decided he ought to have it handy just in case, and pulled it out again. He tapped the paper against his thigh, decided that wasn’t doing the crumpled state any favors, put it back in his pocket, and clenched his hands together.
He could hardly believe he was doing this again. Was he really foolish enough to approach the Council for a third time? When an aide appeared at the door and beckoned him in, he concluded that, apparently, he was foolish enough to do just that.
He felt six pairs of eyes follow his progress into the room. He had always believed that an even number of members was an absurd way to assemble a council responsible for big decisions, but no one cared much about his opinions on the subject. In this case, his reasons for approaching were so important that Roger felt overwhelmed by it all. He walked up to the little stand and placed his wrinkled notes down, smoothing out the edges. He looked up and found his father sitting at the end of the table, the lowest-ranking human councilmember, and the only person in the group that did not thoroughly intimidate Roger.
“Well, Mr. Barnes,” Councilmember Williams said, his gruff voice making Roger feel even smaller, “to what do we owe the pleasure this time?”
He tried to hide his wince. He glanced at his father, who gave him an encouraging smile. He cleared his throat, “Thank you, sir. I am grateful for the opportunity to approach this august company again.” He could tell his voice sounded monotone as he read out the words, but monotone was preferable to stuttering, so he kept going. “I understand that the Council is working to find a solution to the…Hastings score…situation and I-I would like to offer a suggestion.”
Councilmember Cricket glanced at Roger’s father. “Yes,” she mused. “I suppose you would have opinions about that.”
“I hope it is different from your last suggestion,” Councilmember Gibbs sniffed. “Your last one left much to be desired.”
His last suggestion—to raise the testing age to eighteen—had been squashed in record time. It was a pity. He’d really believed in that one. However, he had been significantly less prepared when he’d approached the Council before. His reasoning behind changing the testing age had not been well argued. Perhaps now that the situation was more dire, the Council would be more willing to hear his solution—particularly when his notes were better organized.
“To be fair,” Councilmember Applewood put in, “the previous suggestion was not a bad one. But I’m still concerned about keeping families in suspense about inheritance for so long. It would be very taxing, particularly for the children involved.”
“Not to mention, valuable time would be wasted that could be spent training heirs in what they need to know,” Councilmember Williams added.
“There is little need to go over the subject again,” Councilmember Wrenwhistle said coolly. “I take it Mr. Barnes has a different solution in mind this time.”
“Y-yes,” he stammered. “My proposal is to move away from the Hastings Examination rubric altogether.”
There was, predictably, a small clamor at that, mostly from the human side, although there were a couple of fae members who were chattering too. He thought they seemed approving. Councilmember Applewood was looking at him pensively, a smile playing upon her lips. Roger felt a small bit of hope at that expression.
Councilmember Wrenwhistle raised her hand to silence the rest. “That is certainly a bold suggestion. I am curious to hear your reasons and what you suggest as an alternative.”
“Well,” he said. “My reasons are fairly simple, I think. As you know, the success rate for the Hastings Exams are extremely low. Some families see children with no passing rates at all, even from powerful bloodlines. My belief is that the exam is too narrow in its observations to be properly conclusive. My proposal…” he shifted his notes so the second page was on top, “is to have a more nuanced approach to testing. We only test human children on one spell. If we were to broaden the scope of the examination, we could test multiple strengths at once. I do not have a new model fully drafted yet, but I believe testing for…er…spell force, as we currently do, but also control, attention to detail, and…creativity, would be beneficial.”
Councilmember Williams scoffed. “Creativity? What, are we going to have students offer up poems to their examiners?”
“N-no, sir. But it would be good to see students apply principles of basic theory to multiple spells. Sort of a theoretical examination on top of a practical one.”
“Roger,” his father said, his tone mild, “what do you propose for the fae examinations? I agree that the Hastings Exam may be out of date, but it is the most standard form of testing we have and has the benefit of being the most closely aligned to the fae test, the Sciurus Exam. Both rubrics must be comparable.”
“I admit, sir, that I do not have sufficient expertise on fae magic,” Roger said. “I would cede to the Council on that part, although I do agree that it is an important part of the issue.”
“It hardly matters what the testing rubrics are,” Councilmember Cricket sneered. “We do not treat our children like outcasts when they don’t do well. I think that is the most critical issue at hand.”
His father looked like he wanted to agree but Gibbs was quick to say that the fae had issues of their own, thank you very much. Then Cricket argued that whatever issues the fae had, they at least protected their own, which could not be said for humankind.
Roger felt himself wilt a little. This was more or less what happened the first time. He had made a proposal that started a debate, then he had been unceremoniously sent out. It wasn’t quite as bad as the second time, when he suggested the testing age be altered. That time he had practically been laughed out of the room. He supposed if he had to choose, watching the Council descend into its usual chaos was somewhat preferable.
Wrenwhistle raised her hand again. The arguing died down, primarily because the fae were pointedly respectful to their Head of Council and the humans couldn’t very well argue against silence. When the bickering stopped, she was silent for a long moment before saying, “Your proposal has merit, Mr. Barnes.” Roger felt hope kindle in his chest. “But,” she went on, quickly extinguishing that brief feeling, “a vague idea is not sufficient. We will give you a fortnight to come up with a detailed proposal, a workable testing rubric. I agree that a comparable model for testing fae magic is necessary, although I appreciate your restraint in overstepping beyond your expertise.” Roger thought this was said with some sarcasm but he tried to pretend it wasn’t. “So for now we will give you an opportunity to present to us a real solution. Something we can act upon. If your rubric is accepted, we will assign a fae to work with you on a comparable rubric for fae magic. Are we in agreement, Councilmember Williams?”
Williams gave Roger a long look. Finally, he nodded. “I believe that will suffice.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”
Roger knew a dismissal when he heard one and wasted no time in leaving. Once outside the room, he allowed himself to process his warring emotions. On one hand, they actually listened to him and hadn’t laughed at him outright! That was certainly progress. On the other hand…he had not figured on developing the testing rubric himself. He had ideas, but with his Hastings score, he didn’t have much hope that those ideas would be taken seriously. However, his mind was already starting to churn. He strode down the hall, lost in thought.
Wyn
* * *
At one point in time, Wyn supposed, the grandeur of the Parliament buildings along the Thames had been quite impressive. Countless spires stretched from the rooftops, tall enough to pierce the dreary, unwelcoming clouds that often collected overhead. Inside, the ogive arches helped draw attention to the stained-glass windows and intricate stonework on the walls and high ceilings. It was easy to let your jaw go slack at such a spectacle if you were not accustomed to it.
Wyn had been visiting his grandmother in the Council’s chambers his entire life, effectively numbing him to the beauty of the architecture. Even the meticulously manicured grounds that surrounded him on his brisk walk along the cobbled path had long since faded into familiarity.
He followed his older brother Emrys up the steps, who touched his fingers to the brim of his hat as he greeted the doorkeepers by name.
“Ugh,” Emrys moaned as they passed through the vestibule, quick to voice what both men were thinking. “Could it possibly be any hotter?” Even the echoing of their footsteps in the long hallway seemed muffled by the stifling air inside the building.
Wyn struggled to ignore the way the damp fabric of his cravat was sticking to his neck. His discomfort wasn’t enough to make him regret wearing his thick, wavy hair long enough to reach his shoulders, though. It was a decision he’d made just recently, opting to let it grow out of the more fashionable cut that most men were wearing. His mother could protest many of his decisions, but this would not be one of them.
He took a deep breath and let it out in an impatient sigh.
“I just hope Grandmother makes this quick,” he muttered, still trailing behind Emrys toward the chambers. There was an invitation to the first event of the Season with his name on it sitting atop his dressing table. He would wear something far less stuffy than his high boots and heavy coat. With any luck, the evening would dissolve into a more private situation that required no clothing at all.
“When has she ever been known to do that?” Emrys asked with a faint chuckle. “Although, maybe if I show her the way my new clothes are being ruined with sweat stains, she’ll take pity and grant us leave.”
As they approached the final corner in the maze of window-lit hallways, someone called Emrys’ name. Both men turned to look over their shoulders and discovered the familiar smile of Keelan Cricket, one of Emrys’ closest friends and the son of another councilmember.
“Go ahead, I’ll catch up with you in a moment.” Emrys left no room for argument as he pivoted and took off in the direction they’d just come. Wyn rolled his eyes, knowing that was the exact opposite of the truth, and turned the corner—directly into someone else.
“Watch it,” Wyn hissed, taking a steadying step backward, trying his best to maintain appearances in case his brother or anyone else had seen. Upon realizing who had run into him, his annoyance flared. Of course it would be Barnes getting in his way.
“Apologies,” the shorter man mumbled, his hands doing a ridiculous little dance, as though he couldn’t decide between reaching for the scraps of paper he’d dropped on the floor or fixing his spectacles that had fallen askew after crashing into Wyn’s chest.
Wyn crossed his arms and watched as Roger bent to pick up the papers from where they had fluttered to their feet. His mouth curled into a faint smirk.
“Had to draw yourself a map to find the exit, did you?”
Roger righted himself with a puff of an exhale and quickly folded his papers away into a pocket, fixing his spectacles with an indignant glare. Wyn’s gaze slid down to the man’s shoes and back up again. Barnes had never known how to dress for his plump figure, nor find a suitable color palette to match the light brown of his skin. Such a pity.
“I’ve been here just as many times as you, Wyndham,” Roger said. Wyn bristled instantly at the casual use of his name. “I know my way around—”
“You will call me Mr. Wrenwhistle,” Wyn ground out with a slow emphasis on each word, his jaw tight. The man was a year older than he was, but the fact remained that he wouldn’t tolerate the disrespect of being addressed by his first name in public, especially by the likes of Roger Barnes. They might’ve known each other since they were children, but that did not make them friends.
