Exclusive Cover Reveal + Excerpt: Cozy Fantasy An Ancient Witch’s Guide to Modern Dating

Exclusive Cover Reveal + Excerpt: Cozy Fantasy An Ancient Witch’s Guide to Modern Dating

Given the state of…well…everything, we probably all need a little more cozy fantasy in our lives right now. Warm, heartfelt stories with low stakes and a dash of romance thrown on top can feel like a much-needed hug, offering a necessary escape from the daily reminders of all that’s wrong with the world at the moment. (Not to mention a necessary affirmation that things really will turn out okay in the end.) And upcoming cozy fantasy An Ancient Witch’s Guide to Modern Dating promises to blend everyone’s favorite tropes from this popular new subgenre into a positively delightful brew.

The first novel for adults from Cecelia Edward, the pen name of popular children’s author and illustrator Remy Lai, the story follows Thorn Scarhart, a loveless, nearly 40-year-old 17th-century witch who’s never been particularly lucky when it comes to finding love. (Even the matchmaker seems to have given up on her.) But when she accidentally launches herself 350 years in the future, she discovers that modern technology hasn’t made sussing out her perfect match any easier no matter how many convenient lifestyle perks it might offer.

Here’s how the publisher describes the story. 

Meet Thorn Scarhart, a thirty-nine-year-old witch who’s having trouble finding love in the 17th century. Despite the local matchmaker’s efforts and Thorn’s arsenal of powerful love potions, she has yet to fall in love. After the disappearance of her sister and the loss of her mother, Thorn was too caught up in…well, life, to focus on dating. Now, she fears she may have missed her chance.

But, when one of her potion brews backfires spectacularly, Thorn is hurled 350 years into the future, landing in a bustling city where her once-isolated cottage is now a historical museum. While this unexpected leap through time may seem daunting, modern life does have its perks: indoor plumbing, electric kettles, and the world of online dating. At thirty-nine, the odds may not be perfect, but at least they’re not impossible.

With the help of the museum’s new curator—and her charming veterinarian brother—Thorn dives headfirst into the 21st-century dating scene. And as she searches for romance, she might also find herself along the way.

An Ancient Witch’s Guide to Modern Dating won’t be released until August 5th, but we’ve got an exclusive first look at its colorful cover for you right now, as well as a sneak peek at the story itself.

An Ancient Witch's Guide to Modern Dating

The first edition of An Ancient Witches Guide to Modern Dating will also feature pink sprayed edges. 

An Ancient Witch's Guide to Modern Dating cover edges

“I love you,” the man would soon say. And he would be forever hers.

He was a blacksmith. Forty-three years old. Widowed. Grown children. Once forged the nails that held together a duke’s chariot. Very much a gentleman. A generous lover.

Those attributes were listed on the blacksmith’s résumé in the matchmaker’s Big Book of Marriageable Ladies and Gentlemen. How the matchmaker had discovered that last point was fodder for gossip among the womenfolk washing linen by the creek.

“This garden is breathtaking,” the blacksmith said as he strolled along a thicket blooming with little white flowers. He knew he was in trouble. He had always thought this town he had lived in all his life was too ordinary, but today, the shrubs had never been this lush, the clouds never this fluffy, and his steps never this peppy. He was in love. And the object of his affection was Thorn Scarhart.

The blacksmith and Thorn’s relationship almost never was. When Thorn had approached the matchmaker to help her find a husband, Madam Maude hemmed and hawed. There had not been a client quite as unsuitable as Thorn.

Among all of Thorn’s unsuitable attributes, the most glaring one was her age. It was as huge a problem as it was a number.

Most of the gentlemen in Madam Maude’s big book wanted progeny. While it was possible to feign a pregnancy through the use of pillows, it was something else to conjure up the illusion of an offspring who would have to grow in size and personality over many years.

The butcher’s wife had recently conceived at forty-six, but even though she was at such an age, she was also an old hand at procreation. This was her fifteenth child. Meanwhile, the closest experience Thorn had to childbearing was when there was an especially good harvest of turnips, and she was hardly the only one in town that spring that suffered from windy colic. Still, Thorn was younger than the butcher’s wife, even if not by much. It had seemed nothing short of miraculous when Madam Maude found a possible match for Thorn in the blacksmith.

And now the blacksmith and Thorn were on their first courtship meeting, and he was gazing at her with dreamy eyes. “But nothing is as breathtaking as you, Thorn Scarhart.”

He was looking at the woman of his dreams. She was carefree but wise and experienced. Her eyes were mesmerizingly enigmatic. He was so lost in them he didn’t even notice the horse cart pulling up outside the tavern behind him, nor the women deploying their handkerchiefs and the men deploying many expletives in response to the equine.

Not even the town crier’s honking voice succeeded in diverting the blacksmith’s attention.

“The carpenter will have a special sale on all wares at his stall at this Sunday’s market on August the third!” the town crier yelled. “Which brings me to my next announcement: The wedding of the carpenter to the second daughter of the butcher will be held at the end of this year of 1690.”

Rumor had it that the young carpenter was excellent with his hands and had bedded many beautiful women but proposed to none. That is, until the butcher’s second daughter led two goats to Madam Maude’s house to secure a courtship meeting with the carpenter. That was last month. Madam Maude was that good.

The renowned matchmaker’s skills seemed to be working for Thorn, too, because the blacksmith was now picking a tiny bouquet of little white flowers.

“Flowers for my lady.” He brought the bouquet close to his nose. As he inhaled deeply, his nose scrunched up, while his mouth curved down.

“My love”—Thorn emphasized the word—“let’s get away from prying eyes.” She swiftly jostled the blacksmith toward the creek, upwind of the tavern’s horse. Sometimes spells broke because of the smallest, most unexpected things. And it had been half a day since he’d drunk the potion.

Despite the blacksmith’s adoring gaze and honeyed words, he still had not declared his love. It looked like he needed more time, which she’d have to buy with another dose of potion. As he gently tucked the flowers behind her ear, she shoved her hand under her endless layers of petticoat and into her waist pocket. Her fingers dug past her handkerchief, dagger, hex ball, and the snake skull she’d scavenged this morning, until they wrapped around a small glass vial. Now there was the problem of how to administer the concoction.

Inviting the blacksmith to the tavern for a chance to slip it in his mead risked too many prying eyes. Devising a way to make the potion administrable by vapors might take years Thorn didn’t have to spare. Perhaps she could simply request he drink the vial as proof of his devotion. Gulping down a little mystery liquid wasn’t a big ask when people had dueled to death for love.

Preoccupied with schemes to dispense the next dose, Thorn stepped on her dress. She wasn’t used to such a long gown—nor its omnipresent threat of her spilling out at the top; nor its relentless suffocation around the middle; nor its incessant hoops, layers, and lace at the bottom. She tipped forward and would have kissed the mud if it wasn’t for her suitor catching her by the waist and spinning her around into his embrace. The cumbersome frock was one of Madam Maude’s terms for helping Thorn find a man. And now Thorn was looking into the eyes of a bachelor and feeling his warm breath on her cheeks. Perhaps there was a method to the matchmaker’s madness.

“You are beautiful,” the blacksmith said, brushing an errant hair off Thorn’s face. Those weren’t the three words he needed to say to seal the effects of the potion, but she tamped down her impatience. He was so enamored with her he did not hear the seamstress, not more than ten steps away, drop her basket of mulberries and her jaw.

The young lady picked up only her pace and stormed off, but not before shooting Thorn a glare that would have paired very well with a hex. Thorn didn’t blame her—she was understandably confused that one of the town’s eligible bachelors would choose an old hag over her pert twenty-three-year-old self. Thorn forgave the girl and even felt a little guilty—the only reason the seamstress was more single than herself was that Thorn had magic on her side.

Thorn’s mother used to say, “Magic is like cooking. There are many recipes for chicken soup: they might not all cure colds, but they all soothe colds.” And the True Love potion Thorn had fed the blacksmith was quite an effective one. Earlier this morning, she had visited the blacksmith’s workshop, where he was hard at work forging a sword. Making sure he had his sweaty back to her, she tipped the vial into his water canteen, which was conveniently hung by the open door. She then watched him chug it all down not long after. Once the last drop was finished, she stepped out into the doorway. He looked up, and their eyes locked for only a breath, but it was enough. His heart swelled with passion and affection for her. He abandoned work on the sword and began molding a copper teakettle. Madam Maude had told him that his potential lady loved tea. The kettle was ready in time for their courtship meeting.

All afternoon, Thorn carried the kettle the way other women carried embroidered handbags—by the handle with a bent wrist, and with a pinky finger sticking out.

“Thorn, you’re the most gorgeous thief. You’ve stolen my heart.” The blacksmith’s fingers glided down her crepey neck, then along her bare, freckled shoulder. The next words out of his mouth would surely be the three little words needed to seal the deal.

“My love, if I had, you’d be dead,” Thorn said. “And I don’t steal hearts. At least not from the living.”

The dreamy gaze that had been on him all day started to dissipate like a sailor recovering from a night of mead.

It was only then that she recognized that the allusion to criminal activity was meant to be romantic. “I mean, you’ve stolen my heart, too. We’re both conniving thieves. The constables should have us flogged.”

But it was too late. For the first time, he noticed that the towering clouds above were dark and swollen with rain. “I apologize. I should have suggested we meet at the tavern. It’s going to pour any second now.”

“I don’t care where I am, as long as I’m with you, my love,” Thorn said again with as much passion as she could muster, hoping to inspire him. “How I love, love, love spending time with you.”

“The tavern would be less itchy, too.”

Thorn gasped at the angry red spots on his forearm. She hooked her elbow around his and pressed her showcased chest to his arm in a desperate attempt to stop the spell from unraveling like a ball of yarn thrown into a pen of kittens.

The flirting worked. He couldn’t help look down her scooped collar, at her boosted décolletage. He noticed her watching him and averted his eyes up, deep into hers. But this time, he didn’t see the mesmerizing enigma behind her eyes. “Your eyes, they’re not mysterious. They’re . . . ”

“Milky.” She fished the vial out of her pocket. “Would you be a dear and drink this?”

He stepped back and gasped as if it were his first time laying eyes on her. Her carefree hair that stuck up in all directions, he now found frizzy and unkempt. The gray streaks now reminded him of how short life was. And the lines on her face he now saw as footprints of the cruel march of time.

“Madam Maude sent me your résumé,” he said. “I thought you were rather interesting. I value your experience, and I have enjoyed our meeting. I don’t know why, but it only just dawned on me that you’re rather . . . you’re too . . . ”

She stuffed the vial back into her pocket. It was over. The fog of love in his mind had cleared. 

She knew the word he was too polite to say. “Old.”

He scratched at his rash. “How did I get this?”

“You thought those little white flowers were pretty.” She let go of the tension she’d been holding in her body. Her shoulders reassumed their usual position of a slight humpback. There was no longer any need to hold the posture of a woman men wanted. “They’re poison ivy.”

He kept bowing. “I apologize, but I have to excuse myself. I’m extremely regretful. I shouldn’t have led you on.”

Madam Maude had gotten that right in her books, at least. The blacksmith was a gentleman. Too bad Thorn would never be able to verify the last attribute on his résumé.

“I simply do not know what came over me,” he said, bowing again.

“Love.” Thorn now muttered the word with the same enthusiasm a cat would have for a bath.

“Madam Maude told me you loved tea. But I do not wish for there to be any misunderstanding between us.” He snatched the newly fashioned kettle from her so fast he nearly amputated her pinky. With that, he scampered off.

As he disappeared into the hustle and bustle of the town, she heard him shout to the tavern keeper, “You have to call the farrier. That stench is unnatural even for a horse.”

Thorn retracted her spasming pinky finger. She hiked up her skirt, revealing her black-and-purple-striped knit hosiery, and stomped toward the creek. The pointy ends of her shoes stabbed in and out of the mud. “I already own a kettle, anyway.”

The gray clouds had emptied out the creek. No women beating linen against the rocks. No children splashing in the water. Thorn stopped under a weeping willow and reached into the bush beneath it—this one wasn’t poison ivy. Not that it mattered, since the plant didn’t affect her as much as other people. She had fallen into them and suffered the itchy boils so many times as a child that her body had grown somewhat resistant to it. Since they could walk, she and her older sister, Rose, had helped their mother gather ingredients for potions. Eye of newt, wool of bat, tooth of dragon. Thorn’s childhood was filled with magic, yet it was anything but magical.

Finally, Thorn got ahold of her hat. Black, wide-brimmed, pointy. Days before, Madam Maude had reminded her not to wear the hat to her meeting with the blacksmith. Thorn knew the drill.

On Sundays, she used this bush under the willow tree to stash her hat before carrying her baskets of potions to the markets.

Magic was like copulation—always a part of life, sometimes good, sometimes bad, and never overtly discussed in public.

She pulled the hat over her head. The apparel wasn’t just for show. Its wide brim provided protection from the rain and sun, its cone was storage for candy, and with a little chant, its tip could spear wild boars. But what she loved most about it was that when she put it on, the world became quieter, calmer, and she didn’t have to think about anything but her familiar world of potions.

The storm clouds rumbled, and the sky opened up. At least something was going right for Thorn today. With almost everyone indoors, she could head home now. No need to wait for the night to cloak her in darkness. She reached into her hiding bush again and fished out her broom.

She plopped down sidesaddle. The long twigs crinkled and crackled. Rising on tiptoes nudged the broom into flight.

Thunder clapped around her, but one thought in her mind was much louder and much more jarring: in ninety days, she would turn forty.

An Ancient Witch’s Guide to Modern Dating will be released on August 5, but you can pre-order it right now


Lacy Baugher Milas is the Books Editor at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter and Bluesky at @LacyMB

 
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