J.S. Fields has a new lesfic fantasy (lesbian/non-binary) out: Foxfire in the Snow. And there’s a giveaway!
Born the heir of a master woodcutter in a queendom defined by guilds and matrilineal inheritance, nonbinary Sorin canât quite seem to find their place. At seventeen, an opportunity to attend an alchemical guild fair and secure an apprenticeship with the queenâs alchemist is just within reach. But on the day of the fair, Sorinâs mother goes missing, along with the Queen and hundreds of guild masters, forcing Sorin into a woodcutting inheritance they never wanted.
With guild legacy at stake, Sorin puts apprentice dreams on hold to embark on a journey with the royal daughter to find their mothers and stop the hemorrhaging of guild masters. Princess Magda, an estranged childhood friend, tests Sorinâs patienceâand boundaries. But itâs not just a princess that stands between Sorin and their goals. To save the country of Sorpsi, Sorin must define their place between magic and alchemy or risk losing Sorpsi to rising industrialization and a dark magic that will destroy Sorinâs chance to choose their own future.
Warnings: gore, body dysphoria
Publisher | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Audiobook
Giveaway
J.S. is giving away a signed paperback copy of âArdulum First Donâ OR âArdulum Second Don (winnerâs choice), mailed anywhere in the world:
a Rafflecopter giveawayDirect Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47193/?
Excerpt
The short guard stepped to the doorframe, bit back a grimace, and tried to restart the conversation. âApologies for the hour. Weâre looking forââ
âSheâs not here.â I cut him off, hoping to forestall awkward questions I couldnât answer. âShe left under the last full moon, for professional obligations. It is unknown when she will return. I apologize.â
âAre you her daughter then?â the short one asked.
My stomach twisted. I was no oneâs daughter, and that word would stick in my chest for days. It would squirm there, under bindings and layers of clothes, and make me second-guess myself at the fair with every introduction and every awkward stare at my body. In that moment, I hated them, these two men, so sure of their position despite the mud and the hour. Daughter. No. I had never been one and had no intention of starting now.
âSorin theâŚâ
âThe alchemist,â I finished for him.
âI am her heir,â I said through gritted teeth when neither responded. âI have the queenâs last commission. Will you be taking it tonight?â
The men exchanged a glance, but neither answered. The second man sneezed, sending a spray of water across the threshold. I rubbed my palm on my forehead. If they were going to get the house dirty just by being outside, it made no sense for them to stay there. Bones were one thing; mud was just unprofessional. I stepped back and gestured to the small brown oak dining tableâthe one with the white streak down it where Iâd first discovered what the refined, clear parts of bone oil could do to fungal pigmentsâand grabbed my cloak from the wall.
âSit,â I said as I fastened the oblong buttons at the neck of the cloak. The men moved in with heavy steps, which grew increasingly hesitant as the fish smell concentrated. They sat and stared at me with disgusted, pained expressions as mud dripped from their boots onto that stupid handmade floor. Iâd have to refinish it now.
I didnât bother speaking again.
Daughter.
Let them sit in the bone oil stink, pooled in their own mud. I turned and left the house, heading to Motherâs woodshop. My feet crunched along the woodchip path, the ground cover damp but still springy. I tried to let the smells of the forestâespecially the earthen smell of fungal decayâtake my mind away from the word I so hated.
The men had parked their cart, and their ox, near the door to the longhouse Mother used for her shop, but I could still maneuver around it. The sun had already set, but moonlight streaked through the needled canopy of conifers and across my path. Ten short steps brought me to the double doors made from cedar plank. I stripped the padlock from the right door, the one that had been fastened since Motherâs departure, and entered.
Iâd not been inside the shop for a month, and the smell of cedar and wood rot reminded me why. Here were my motherâs heart and legacy, as her fatherâs before her, and her grandmotherâs before that. The whole place felt tattered and used and smelled worse than the bone oil.
In the back, near an old leather chair, was where her mother had been born some eighty years ago. To my right, just in front of a treadle lathe, was where my grandfather had died.
Mother had birthed her children here tooâmyself and the son she gave to another guild for an apprenticeship, and taken none of their children in return.
The whole building was familiar, like an old wool blanket, but scratchy just the same. This was a legacy of guild woodcutting, and the queenâs mandate of matrilineal inheritance, and I didnât belong here. A woodcutter was not who I was, a daughter was not who I was, and while the former hurt less than the latter, both made me want to pull at my skin and scream.
Author Bio
J.S. Fields is a scientist who has perhaps spent too much time around organic solvents. They enjoy roller derby, woodturning, making chainmail by hand, and cultivating fungi in the backs of minivans.
Author Website: http://www.jsfieldsbooks.com
Author Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/galactoglucoman