Check Out My Bookshelf

Fanfic

This seems like the category that Tumblr will likely be most interested in generally, so it's going first. Please be sure to CHECK THE TAGS before reading any of these fics. Be safe and take care with your reading!

I Could Have Told You 'Bout the Long Nights - A Polin fix-it fic that focuses on a different way for the Lady Whistledown reveal to go down. (Complete)

Of Fire and Featheringtons - The second work in the Polin Fic 'Verse, this fic focuses on Penelope's attempts to work with Queen Charlotte as part of the Bridgerton family. (Complete)

Lady Whistledown Returns - The third and final Polin Fic 'Verse work, and it focuses on Penelope reclaiming her voice as Lady Whistledown. (Complete)

The Polin Shifter Romance - A Polin shifter AU in which Penelope and Colin have to work together to overcome prejudice--and the Lord Provost Marshal--to end up together. (In progress)

The Canadian Mafia Job - A Leverage fic that focuses on a second-chance romance for Eliot and an OC, and some shenanagins with the Guelph Mafia, RCMP, and Interpol. (Complete)

What Happened Those Nights - A one-shot Romanov fic. Everyone dies at the end. (Complete)

Academic Writing

My dark past is as an academic. There are some publications in it. Unfortunately, the books are paywalled (I don't have any control over that, the publishers do), but they're here if anyone is interested. The articles are not paywalled, so enjoy!

Shakespearean Drama, Disability, and the Filmic Stare - An academic monograph that explores disability and the filmic stare in film adaptations of Shakespeare plays.

"Isolation, Overcoming, and the Filmic Stare in the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s Iron Man Films" in Disability and the Superhero: Essays on Ableism and Representation in Comic Media - An essay on disability in the MCU's Iron Man films.

The Evolution of the Patient Woman: Examining Patient Griselda as a Source for William Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale - An article that explores the Patient Griselda influences and sources in Shakespeare.

Street Cred: Economies of Shame and Homosociality in Much Ado about Nothing - A critical reading of homosociality in Much Ado About Nothing.

Original Works (Various Genres)

Writing stuff often comes up at weird times, so here are the oddball writing projects throughout the years.

Infusion - A play written for the Quarantine Playwrighting Bake Off that explores themes of medicine, illness, and anxiety.

"Shakespeare's Zombie" - A sonnet in the vein of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

When All Else Fails - A modern retelling of the Patient Griselda folklore.

What does it mean to be good? When I was a child, I thought I knew. It was easy then. I knew nothing of my birth or heritage. My childhood was spent in the Sanctuary of Elua, where I was a ward. My days were spent in work like play: scrambling the mountainsides and tending goats with the other children of the Sanctuary, climbing trees and swimming in the swift stream while our charges grazed.

-- Kushiel's Scion

By the time I was eighteen years of age--almost nineteen--I'd been many things. I'd been an orphan, a goatherd, and a slave. I'd been a missing prince, lost and found. I'd been a traitor's son and a heroine's. I'd been a scholar, a love, and a soldier. All of these were true, more or less.

-- Kushiel's Justice

There are people in my country who have never travelled beyond the boundaries of Terre d'Ange. Indeed, there are many who have never left the province in which they were born; contented crofters tilling the land, tending orchards, or raising sheep, never venturing farther than the nearest market. Betimes, I envy them.

Blessed Elua has one central precept: Love as thou wilt.

If Phedre's trilogy and the first book of Imriel's were about pushing the boundaries and definitions of that precept, then this book full-assedly asks the question, "What if we didn't do that?" And the answer, apparently, is BAD THINGS. So many bad things. Coercive magical bindings separating you from parts of yourself. A giant bear magician murdering your full-term pregnant wife and the baby she's carrying. You almost dying because said bear magician flayed you like a fish. A long chase through fantasy Russia in winter (Ask Napoleon how that turns out). A super heartbreaking vengeance murder. That time you got caught with the heir to Terre d'Ange and the queen list her absolute shit. Everyone in the family knowing you married someone while head over heels for Sidonie.

Literally, Imriel would have been better off locked in his bedroom. However, instead he got his whole ass mixed up in the above, and it actually turned into a really interesting series of treatises on faith, love, and vengeance, and how the three clash and meld depending on circumstance. What I really want to focus on here are Imriel's relationship with Dorelai and his execution of Berlik, because those are where the really interesting conversations happen.

So...Dorelai. There are a LOT of reasons to forego a love match in favor of a marriage of state to secure the inheritances of two kingdoms, especially when you're Imriel, who is a prince of the blood and also happens to be the son of the two biggest traitors Terre d'Ange has ever seen. His entire political life is atoning for his mother doing and evading the consequences of treason. Plus, Imri and Sidonie are like 17 and 19 when this all goes down. They know they're at least in lust; whether or not they're actually in love is a question in both their minds, and like...fair enough. There is the spice of the forbidden in that relationship, a little bit enemies to lovers and ugly ducking vibes, and also they're TEENAGERS. Teenagers fall in and out of love like it's going out of fashion. There is a logical reason to wonder if these feelings will last, and the political context makes caution seem wise. The PROBLEM here is that they aren't following Blessed Elua's precept, and that bites Imriel in the ass PRETTY GODDAMN FAST. Like, he's miserable from making the decision. He can't stop thinking about Sidonie, even on his wedding night.

And then we come to the single most regrettable masturbation session ever. Like, Imri jerking it this one time ends up having a body count in the double digits in multiple countries. This is also where we meet the Maghuin Donn, or the bear witches. A random bear witch collected Imri's seed from the sacred ground on which he ejaculated and made it into an amulet with which she bound his desires. This is a bit ambiguous in terms of actual meaning, but the practical reality of it means that she can basically puppet Imri, which is BAD. So to get around THAT, someone else protects Imri by binding his desire away from himself. It's...it's not great. And everyone from minute one is like, "this feels like a crime against Elua." But we go ahead and do the binding anyway, and the thing is...this is what allows Imri to stop being a horny, bereft, self-centered little dickhead long enough to learn to actually LIKE his wife.

Dorelei deserved better. Like, this poor woman just wanted a nice guy to run Clunderry and have a family with, and she ended up with Imriel de la Courcel no Montreve and all his baggage and bullshit. He doesn't even WANT her. And while he goes out of his way to be kind and learn to like Dorelai and be considerate, she will always be the second most-important woman in his heart. So it's just all the worse when the Maghuin Donn lure Imriel out to a stone circle and then Berlik murders Dorelei and makes sure to also murder the nearly full-term baby in her belly.

It is messed up on so many levels.

We'll circle back to Berlik, but the weirdest thing about Imri and Dorelei's relationship is that it literally takes magic that blasphemes against Imri's gods to make it happen. Which is just...so fucky. It's so messy. It's blasphemous. It more or less chemically castrates Imriel's desire for Sidonie specifically. Like, the consequences of not loving as thou wilt are BANANAS in this book. And where Phedre was asked for entirely too much by Elua and Kushiel, Imriel is struggling to do the bare minimum to connect with them. Some of that is leftover trauma from his childhood (which...I read about Darsanga. Valid.), but some of it is also just Imriel actively being politically cowardly and as a result his wife, unborn son, multiple vassals, and some random fantasy Russians plus Berlik die.

Imriel is rightfully conflicted and guilty as hell about all of this, and it's really interesting to watch him react in real time as what was essentially a crisis of faith and a sheer lack of belief germinate and eventually rot.

Then we come to Berlik. Once he has murdered Imriel's wife and son, Imriel is over here with everyone calling vengeance. The Albans are screaming for Berlik's literal head (to bury it beneath Dorelei's feet, which is fairly metal), and Kushiel's justice pretty much requires Imri to kill Berlik (no specifics from Kushiel about any body parts though, Berlik just has to die). Imri spends almost a year tracking down the bear witch, and when he finally does, the vengeance almost doesn't feel worth it anymore.

One of the norms of books in the last...eh, five to ten years?...is that protagonists on vengeance quests often find ways to not kill the person, or redeem them, or oops accidental death that the protagonist didn't directly or indirectly cause. Sometimes we get to the edge of vengeance and get the whole, "it's not worth it!" thing. Uh...we don't get that here. Imriel straight up kills Berlik in cold blood. After the two have a conversation about faith and whether they would make their respective decisions if given a second chance. Hell, Imriel doesn't even direct this conversation, it's all Berlik, and Berlik is the one who finally suggests that they should just get this over with. And Imriel does.

This was so genuinely fascinating. Like, there was time, space, and the emotional calm to make any decision. There was rational, thoughtful discussion. Everyone came to the table with, to borrow Berlik's words, humble hearts. Yet it still ended in murder, and Imri is going to have to carry that, just as he carries Darsanga, Lucca, and all the shit in Alba. This man just keeps piling trauma on trauma, and it's always got at least a little bit of social and religious influence. In this specific case, both the Alban and Terre d'Ange gods require this death. But by the time Imriel is facing it down, it doesn't feel worth it. It's another scar on his soul, and he has too many already. He doesn't even want to do it. But everyone--INCLUDING BERLIK--expects it. This whole thing was fascinating to watch.

The one thing Imri is spared is having to boil Berlik's head down to a skull. A reluctant ally does that for him, because Jesus Horatio Christ, Imriel has already done too much, he isn't doing this too. That was quiet good.

1813 – England

Dressed in widow’s weeds and walking slowly behind two caskets drawn between two lines of soldiers with black mourning bands around the sleeves of their scarlet jackets, Penelope looked the picture of the English peerage grieving.

And she was wracking her brain for a way to disrupt that image.

Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope kept catching glimpses of Colin and Mr. Swift keeping pace with her, but they had been barred behind the honor guard. Nobody had warned them of the belated procession before they landed in England, and Mr. Swift had not anticipated something so public so soon after they arrived—the honor guard had met them at the ship. Not that Penelope needed Mr. Swift’s now-familiar voice in her head to tell her that silently going along with this public spectacle would make things more difficult moving forward.

“You said you would be less acquainted with the law,” her owl abruptly piped up. “Shift.”

It was certainly an intriguing idea. Her status as a shifter was no secret, and as Mr. Swift had repeatedly explained, there was no legal precedent for her now. Shifters in England either stayed hidden their entire lives on pain of death or were caught and executed—slowly or significantly less slowly, but either way they ended up dead. The law did not know what to do with a live shifter who everyone knew about.

Shifting was as easy as breathing, but a lifetime of fear of being seen shifting and admonishment not to shift rose up to choke Penelope. She truly believed that it would be easier to remove her clothing and walk naked through the streets than it would be to shift with so many eyes on her.

“Owls are always naked, so in this case, you have your cake and eat it,” her owl said, primly.   

The burst of laughter transformed into the triumphant cry of a barn owl halfway through as Penelope shifted. She circled the caskets twice, both to stretch her wings and make sure that everyone saw her and then gracefully landed on the head of Mowbray’s casket. She and her owl basked in the joy and pride radiating from the sense of Colin in their minds. A glance toward Mr. Swift showed a neutral mask firmly in place that didn’t cover the pleased glint in his eye.

Colin’s and Mr. Swift’s reactions were nearly enough to take the sting out of the ripple of affront and outrage that ran through the honor guards and Mowbray’s officer comrades who guided the horses pulling the caskets. The looks they sent Penelope’s way were positively murderous. Either out of respect for the fallen, a sense of propriety, orders, or a combination thereof, the procession continued and nobody made a move toward Penelope.

The queen and the Prince Regent waited, both stone-faced, at the end of the double line of soldiers. They were dressed somberly, but not in any sort of formal mourning—soldiers died. Penelope suddenly remembered one of Mowbray’s officers saying so at a ball in tones so light that they couldn’t have been understood as saying anything but the heaviest censure. The crown couldn’t formally mourn for each soldier, not even for each officer, the fellow had said, while wearing a black band around is bicep for a lost brother-in-arms. And lord knew that this brouhaha wasn’t for Colonel Cole and Lord Mowbray, fallen soldier. The political theatre was simply the opening gambit of a war that was smaller, pettier, and closer to home than the conflict against Bonaparte.

Penelope’s throat tightened. Someone ought to recognize that people had died, and not simply Mowbray and Cole. She didn’t even know how many shifters’ deaths the two men had been responsible for—certainly too many to count. Yet, even guarding their bones in the skin of her owl, she had seen and done too much to simply accept that the monsters were dead.

The shuddering halt of the gun carriage before the queen and Prince Regent sent Penelope into flight again, chest full to bursting. Gliding in tight circles above Mowbray’s coffin, Pen threw her head back and screamed, the call of the barn owl echoing across the sky and off the sides of buildings. Again, again, and once again Penelope cried. For the loss of her monster, her husband, and every shifter who had been a victim of the people and systems built into their lives. For things she lacked the language to articulate, her owl called. Rather than a triumph of visibility, this was a recognition of a moment that meant many complex things to everyone it touched, and the crown could not—would not—be allowed to dictate what it would mean.

The winding tension snapped with the crack of a musket, followed by shouts. Penelope looked down to see a very young soldier having his musket wrested from his grip by a superior officer who then scruffed the young man—boy, really, he was fifteen if he was a day—and dragged him away. Philip had a hand locked on Colin’s shoulder, and Colin’s face was red with fear and fury, but both men were still, eyes locked on her still-flying form.

Penelope drifted down until she was before the queen and Prince Regent, then shifted back to her human form and dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty, your highness,” she greeted the monarch and her son, holding the curtsy despite the odd wobble in her balance.

“Lady Mowbray.” The queen’s tone was curt, but her voice projected to be heard halfway down the lane. “It is with great sorrow and consternation that we acknowledge your return to England.”

Prince George took a half step forward to come nearly even with his mother before picking up the thread of the greeting. “While we wish we could offer you the solace of mourning, questions of law and propriety demand answers. It is the crown’s pleasure to ensure that our fallen gentlemen are laid to rest…and that responsibility for their loss is appropriately apportioned.”

The sense of Colin in Penelope’s mind radiated fury and a protective instinct in response to the prince’s not-so-veiled threat. Her curtsy wobbled again, but it was from a lack of balance rather than surprise or fear. Bluntly put, Penelope had half expected to be arrested the moment the ship docked. She noted the verbal barbs, but they weren’t worth panicking over.

“We shall expect you in court early on the morrow.” The queen spoke only to Penelope now, not the gathered crowd. “Expect no further considerations from the crown. I would not expect mercy either.”

George offered a wave to the crowd before offering his mother his arm. Monarch and regent disappeared. Penelope finally rose from her curtsy, feeling exposed and uncertain, having been left alone before a crowd of soldiers who certainly had reason to bear her a grudge. Surveying the sea of faces before her, Penelope met expressions ranging from curiosity to hostility, and somehow she had lost track of any friendly faces.

“Penelope,” came a low, feminine voice in her ear. Violet Bridgerton wrapped an arm around Penelope’s shoulders, and then Colin was on her other side, her hand clasped in his. Just as suddenly, they were surrounded by Philip, Anthony, Benedict, and a few men who strongly resembled Philip and Atherton.

“Just a few more steps to the carriages,” said Violet. “You’ll stay with us, just to be safe.”

* * *

Walking through the front door of the Old Bailey early the next morning, flanked by Colin and Philip and surrounded by a group of lords that included Anthony, Lord Haverton, and nearly every man who held a seat in the House of Lords and had reason to be supportive of shifters—or at least preventing a close investigation of shifters in noble families—was simple. So was taking her seat beside Philip at the defendant’s table. Even watching the other tables fill with bewigged crown solicitors, a pair of cardinals, and a few uniformed officers didn’t rattle Penelope. She had been here before; this time she had support. The sense of Colin in her mind was warm and supportive, without any specific emotion attached to it. He believed they would triumph, and his belief bolstered hers.

“The queen and the Prince Regent have taken their seats,” Philip whispered in Penelope’s ear. “It won’t be long now.”

It was, in fact, not even a full minute before the door behind the judge’s bench opened and the judge emerged from his chambers. On getting a clear look at his face, Penelope’s breath caught. It was the same judge who had presided over her trial and who had married her off to Mowbray.

“Breathe, Lady Mowbray,” whispered Philip. “This is a good thing. Judge Stanhope knows intimately the peculiarities, complexities, and particulars of this case, and I’ve heard that he is, privately, sympathetic to you. Apparently he thought your previous case was poorly done.”

“How on earth could you know that?” Penelope eyed the judge as he fussed in his seat, adjusting his robes.

“Among themselves, lawyers and judges like nothing more than a good glass of scotch and gossiping about their cases, past and present. Being in those rooms is, I believe, critical to effective case preparation, and I have spent my career cultivating invitations to such rooms.”

The resounding bang of a gavel interrupted Philip and the room fell utterly silent.

“This case,” began Judge Stanhope, speaking clearly and deliberately, “is complex. It addresses the highly contentious area of shifter law, as well as the highly litigated areas of inheritance and marriage law. There are also interests in ecclesiastical and military law. The utter plethora of interested parties includes not only the widowed Lady Mowbray, the Collins family, and the Crown but also parliament, the Church and ecclesiastical courts, and the military and their courts martial. Further complicating matters, this case is itself not a single case, but an amalgam of related cases, with multiple defendants and plaintiffs. Suits have been filed against Lady Mowbray by the Crown, Mr. Collins, and the Provost Marshalls. Suits have been filed against the Crown by the Church, Lady Mowbray, and parliament. Finally, parliament and Lady Mowbray have filed in favor of striking down the Statute of Shifter Treason, and the ecclesiastical courts have indicated support for this motion.” Judge Stanhope splayed his hands on the bench before him. “Separate suits have also been filed by all parties challenging various aspects of the decisions made in relation to Lady Mowbray’s trial when she was simply Miss Featherington.”

Penelope’s head was swimming. Philip had done his best to explain everything to her, beginning in France and on the ship, but to hear the judge lay out the multi-faceted nature of the case shook whatever preparation she thought she had made. It was more complex than she had understood.

“These overlapping cases,” continued Judge Stanhope, “reflect social, cultural, legal, and personal grievances across every facet of life. The connecting thread is the Statute of Shifter Treason. Therefore, to create a logical order of operations for this case, on my authority and my judgement, the first and most key question standing before the court today is this: Is the Statute of Shifter Treason to stand, or shall it be struck down?”

A susurration circled the courtroom. Penelope heard snatches of angry phrases from the table full of Crown solicitors, and something almost jubilant from behind her, where the members of the House of Lords and Colin were seated. How Philip remained calm and focused beside her Penelope had no notion. The idea that the Statute of Shifter Treason could be struck down and what that would mean simply did not make sense. She couldn’t imagine a world without the law that made her very existence a crime. To live without fear of discovery? Without the fear of being forced to make the shifter’s choice? To live knowing that no more children would be given over to monsters who used them as expendable tools on deadly missions?

Tears filled Penelope’s eyes as she remembered Lord Twombley and James at the grand promenade. If this case were found in her favor and the Statute of Shifter Treason was struck down, no longer would heroism be rewarded with cold-blooded, public murder. Success would mean that everything changed. For the first time, Penelope understood why hope was the most terrifying thing that escaped Pandora’s box. That promise, the world it would usher in, was terrifying in its fragility.

“There are,” said Judge Stanhope, raising his voice in a mild warning over the whispers, “also matters I am dismissing today. First, I dismiss the case against Lady Mowbray for murder, brought by the Provost Marshalls.”

Penelope’s heart stuttered in her chest. “You failed to mention that,” she muttered to Philip.

“It was spurious on its merits,” he replied. “It was always going to be dismissed out of hand because you did not kill Lord Mowbray or Colonel Cole. I didn’t want you to be distracted with misplaced guilt more than you already are. Now hush and listen.”

“The events of Lord Mowbray’s and Colonel Cole’s deaths in Spain were corroborated by trusted sources. While the loss of officers and gentlemen is always a tragedy, men die in war. To blame this loss on Lady Mowbray is patently ridiculous. Lady Mowbray shall not be given into the custody of the Provost Marshalls, nor shall she be given into the custody of a court martial. This matter is closed.”

A stifled exclamation of outrage came from somewhere behind Penelope. Following Philip’s advice in their sessions preparing for this, she didn’t turn to see who had spoken. However, something familiar about the voice turned her stomach acidic, making her queasy for reasons she couldn’t name.

The judge banged his gavel, calling for quiet. When he had it, he continued: “We shall proceed on the morrow with the question of upholding or striking down the Statute of Shifter Treason. How that question is answered shall be the guiding star for the rest of the questions at hand. What I shall expect are arguments from the Crown, the Church, parliament—on both sides of the issue—and Lady Mowbray’s representation.” Judge Stanhope looked to Philip then.

“Mr. Swift, I shall also expect a filing from you on your client’s behalf as to whether she wishes to join the Church in contending that her marriage to Lord Mowbray violated ecclesiastical laws and norms and that as such, it ought to be annulled.”

Philip nodded, expression neutral as he made notes for himself.

The judge met and held Penelope’s eyes. “It is atypical for a judge to directly address a defendant, but I shall make an exception in this case, Lady Mowbray. Please understand that my wish is not to impugn Mr. Swift, but rather to assure myself that you are fully aware of the possible consequences of your decision in this particular matter.” He paused, apparently awaiting a response.

Penelope did not entirely trust her voice, so she simply nodded an acknowledgement. In return she received a smile that, in any other context, she would have called reassuring. She did not feel reassured.

“Should you wish to have the marriage annulled, and the case is successful in obtaining an annulment,” said Judge Stanhope, “you would lose all the inheritance rights that the late Lord Mowbray saw fit to bestow on you. You would have no claim to a widow’s third. You would have no claim to the title you currently hold. You would have no claim on any of the lands, household goods, or chattels of the Mowbray estate. Understand, madame: You would be left with nothing.

“I also understand from my counterparts in the ecclesiastical courts that for them to continue this case at all, regardless of whether you wish to join it, you will need to prove a lack of consummation of the marriage. Such proof would require an examination by a court-appointed physician and a court-appointed cleric, with witnesses present to represent both parties and yourself.” The judge sat back, tapping his fingers on the bench. After a few moments, he sighed, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “to hell with it,” and sat forward again, hands flat on the bench before him.

“I make no bones about my feelings on your marriage, my lady,” he said. “It was rudely done, and has certainly not had anything like the intended effect. Rather than a precedent for new ways to handle such cases, I think it has served as a terrible warning. But I implore you to think carefully about your future when you make your choice. You may do better with more resources at your disposal than fewer.”

“I object,” called a Crown solicitor. “This is blatant favoritism!”

“Sit down,” snapped Stanhope. “Ensuring that a defendant is informed is not favoritism. Should you wish, I shall advise the Crown on the possible consequences of allowing their solicitors to grandstand on technicalities in my court.”

The solicitor sat, red-faced and with an expression reminiscent of someone sucking on a lemon wedge.

“On that note,” said the judge, “We are finished for today. I trust all parties shall take the rest of the day to prepare. We shall reconvene tomorrow afternoon.” The gavel thudded with finality. “Dismissed.”

As soon as Judge Stanhope had disappeared through the door to his chambers, the room erupted into conversation. For Penelope, who felt strangely wrung out, despite the whole event having taken less than two hours, the din was ear-splitting.

Philip was still writing notes for himself, quill scratching rapidly, when Penelope’s hand was enclosed in two clammy palms.

“Lady Mowbray,” came an unctuous voice.

Penelope turned and found herself uncomfortably close to one of the two Cardinals representing the Church’s interests. Her owl mantled, hissing.

His smile was creamy in a way that made the floor fall from Penelope’s stomach, and before she could respond, he prattled on: “I assure you, my lady, joining our case is certainly in your best interest. I have examined many, many ladies in the course of my duties, and each of them has gone on to find happiness in a proper marriage with her virtue assured by the Church. It is a small thing, and one that can be arranged for later today.” His fingers ever-so-lightly stroked the inside of Penelope’s wrist. She tried to pull away, skin crawling, but he tightened his grip. “I assure you, Lady Mowbray, the choice to join our case is the best one for you to make. Should you wish, I would also be happy to advise you on this matter privately—”

Philip grasped the Cardinal’s wrist, hard enough that Penelope could hear his bones creak. The Cardinal’s grip faltered, and Penelope wrenched free of his grip and her chair, stepping back until she hit the rail separating plaintiffs and defendants from spectators.

“Your offer is noted,” said Philip. “And I’m sure you were about to inform Lady Mowbray that, should she join the case and it is successful, the Mowbray estates shall be the property of the Church.” Philip flung the other man’s hand down. “You shall be appraised of my client’s decision tomorrow.”

The Cardinal slunk away, affronted expression not quite covering the lascivious glance he sent Penelope’s way as Colin vaulted over the railing.

Penelope wanted to simply sink into his arms, but they were in public. She had to settle for letting his presence soothe her as best it could.

Ok, so the absolute best parts of this book are twofold. The first is that Laurie and Briana aren't insta-compatible as fated mates. The second is the landslide and its aftermath. Let's take these one at a time.

Briana wants NOTHING to do with Laurie at the beginning of this book. She knows he's a player and a flake. She has spent two goddamn years avoiding his ass. When he clues into the fact that she IS his mate, she rebuffs his ass. Bluntly. And repeatedly.

You guys...it's great. I love it. Here's the thing: Shifter romances (and particularly the Virtue Shifters books) tend to open on the fated mate reveal, or we get it in like the first two or three chapters at the latest. And for the most part, nobody questions it. It's fated mates at first sight and nobody fights it, the conflict is external. Briana is over here turning that on its head and making it hard for fate. It's great, and it leans into something that I as a reader and an editor tend to say: Don't make it too easy for your characters. Make them work for it. Put barriers up. Make the monkeys dance. And holy cow did we get that. That we got it by way of a Pride and Prejudice homage just makes it even better. Briana over here like, "If you want me, you'll fix your own damn self, it's not my job to raise a manchild" leads to Laurie having multiple crises of self, because...yeah, yeah he's a flaky player who hasn't taken anything seriously in his entire goddamn life. The reasons WHY he did this get a little explored, but they explain it rather than excuse it. Laurie still has to step his ass up.

Which is a great segue to the landslide that wipes out half of the Renaissance Faire that is the tourism lifeline of the town of Renaissance, Colorado. Climate change is real, folks, and it is showing up in our books. Unprecedented weather conditions in the book bring half a mountain down on the heads of everyone at the faire. Thankfully, Laurie and Briana had sent out as much of a warning as they could, so the faire was mostly empty when it happened, but we still get the shifter community doing search-and-rescue in the wake of the landslide, despite the danger it puts them in of being revealed to true humans. That and the recovery from the landslide--both personally and on the community level--were fantastic. Laurie steps up, Briana gets to be softer than oldest daughters who have been parentified to hell and back usually are, and then they agree on Colin Firth Supremacy in the Mr. Darcy competition. It's excellent.