To C, who fights my battles and makes me laugh—the world is better for having you in it, and I’m so grateful you’re in my life;

To my kind and brilliant sister, who puts up with last-second texts about magic and helps me break through any wall;

To my family and friends, who’ve been my light during the COVID-19 pandemic;

To Victoria, who’s been there for me—and Rory and Arthur—since the beginning;

To my talented translator, Cristina Massaccesi, who goes the extra mile and offers such insightful translations;

To my agent, Laura Zats, for lifting up my self-esteem and bringing down my anxiety, and looking out for me at each new author step I take;

To my editor, Mackenzie Walton, who may or may not be an actual wizard but certainly works magic on my words;

To everyone at Carina Press, Kerri, Stephanie, Ronan, and the art, marketing, and production teams, for helping me bring Arthur and Rory into the world;

And to T, who has left me wonderstruck every day since he was born. I love you bigger than the sun.

About the Author

Allie Therin is a writer and avid reader of sci-fi, fantasy, and romance. She also is, or has been, a bookseller, an attorney, a parks & rec assistant, a boom operator, and a barista for one (embarrassing) day. Allie grew up in a tiny Pacific Northwest town with more bears than people, although the bears sadly would not practice Spanish with her.

Allie loves to hear from readers! Find all the ways to connect with her at her website, allietherin.com.

Excerpt from Best Laid Plaids by Ella Stainton

In 1920s Scotland, even ghosts wear plaid. Welcome to a sexy, spooky new paranormal historical series from debut author Ella Stainton.

Keep reading for an excerpt from Best Laid Plaids

Chapter One

Joachim

Fifeshire, Scotland, 1928

Joachim kept a brisk pace up the interminably long path to Rosethorne House, no matter that his ankle might give out before he got there. The steel tip of his walking stick twanged, punctuating each step in the way he’d grown accustomed in the ten years since the end of the Great War. Gravel drives like this were the worst; bloody slippery underfoot and hard to catch purchase. He mopped his brow once he stopped on the wide sandstone steps that led to a front door of oak that could have graced a medieval castle.

Rosethorne House, my arse.

It was an estate and a rather formidable one. Sixteenth-century foundation, though a storybook facade had been added sometime in the past two hundred years. Ivy and some sort of flowering vine trailed between small diamond-paned windows, which glittered in the sunshine.