The Wellspring flows. Magic Awakens. The past returns.
From the rolling hills of the English countryside to the windswept cliffs of Tintagel Castle, a millennia-old mystery unfolds, leading Frances, Madeleine, and Éléonore on a perilous quest for truth and survival.
A very particular windowsill at Tintagel Castle holds clues to the origins of the Dark Ages, the destruction of magic, and a powerful artifact capable of rewriting history. But as they delve deeper, they realize the stakes are higher than they ever imagined. The fate of magic itself hangs in the balance, and the forces arrayed against them are formidable.
Can they decipher the ancient texts, unlock magic’s power, and defeat the darkness that threatens to consume them all?
Join a cast of unforgettable characters on a journey that will challenge your perceptions of history, magic, and the very nature of reality. This page-turner blends historical intrigue with a captivating narrative that explores the enduring power of belief, the consequences of unchecked ambition, and the bonds of friendship that can transcend time and space.
— I don’t know what just happened, but I do know that when I woke up, it was not me who did. I was awake, but I wasn’t me, and there was a book on my face. Her name was… Frances? Our name? It felt like it was both of our names, but at the same time, it was not mine. I was Frances, but at the same time, I was Madeleine. Madeleine Catherina-Marie Maycott, to be exact.
We pulled ourselves to our feet, it didn’t feel like me. They didn’t feel like my feet. My hands did not look like my hands and pulled the book off my face. When I swung my arms forward, they weren’t my arms, and when I stood up, I didn’t stand as tall as I remember standing. When I stepped forward, I didn’t. When I didn’t step forward, I did. I was still in control of my body, but nothing my body did happened. I could look all about me, but nothing else did a lick of anything.
READ MOREIt was like sleep paralysis, except my body was still moving. It just wasn’t me moving it, and it wasn’t really my body. I could feel what she felt, and these feet did not have my preferred level of arch support.
Her name was Frances. Frances Maycott.
As we stepped outside a bright red little number into the hot, morning sun, I saw the carriage were we on had worn gold wheels and an oak tree on the front door. Frances tapped at the wheel break as she stepped outside, that offending book in one hand, and a handful of a wine-red gown in the other. Frances was not used to walking around in dresses nice enough to have a fur lining — I was not used to wearing one at all.
We parked by the river that carved around the alder and birch trees, right outside a swaddling of small monastic buildings that also served as a small rest house for a group of Durham monks to our right, and to our right we headed.