Of Mages and Makers by Rel Carroll is a gaslamp romantic fantasy set in a vibrant world with magic, manners, witty banter, some lighthearted thievery, and a swoon-worthy scarlet pimpernel!
Mr. Art Keays has one goal in life: to appear as useless as possible. But when his sister unveils a dangerous invention at the Maker Exhibitions and her blueprints are stolen, Art must intervene or lose everything he pretends not to care about. With an unwelcome mage looking over his shoulder and a deadline to recover the plans, all clues point to a suspicious carriageâand a delightful obstacle.
Miss Audrey Clune longs to be Robin Renegade, the fearless heroine from adventure stories. Before accepting a proposal from the man of her grandmotherâs choosing, she sets out on one last journey. But when her carriage is ambushed by highwaymen, sheâs swept into a world of industry and magic with far more adventure than she imagined.
As both Audrey and Art playact different roles in society, the âhonest truthâ is a precious commodity, especially when dangerous secrets come to light and power has terrible consequences.
âA delightful debut... just the right touch of sweet romance.â â Jacquelyn Benson, Empire of Shadows
Of Mages and Makers by Rel Carroll is a gaslamp romantic fantasy set in a vibrant world with magic, manners, witty banter, some lighthearted thievery, and a swoon-worthy scarlet pimpernel!
Mr. Art Keays has one goal in life: to appear as useless as possible. But when his sister unveils a dangerous invention at the Maker Exhibitions and her blueprints are stolen, Art must intervene or lose everything he pretends not to care about. With an unwelcome mage looking over his shoulder and a deadline to recover the plans, all clues point to a suspicious carriageâand a delightful obstacle.
Miss Audrey Clune longs to be Robin Renegade, the fearless heroine from adventure stories. Before accepting a proposal from the man of her grandmotherâs choosing, she sets out on one last journey. But when her carriage is ambushed by highwaymen, sheâs swept into a world of industry and magic with far more adventure than she imagined.
As both Audrey and Art playact different roles in society, the âhonest truthâ is a precious commodity, especially when dangerous secrets come to light and power has terrible consequences.
âA delightful debut... just the right touch of sweet romance.â â Jacquelyn Benson, Empire of Shadows
They seek her near, they seek her far;
Over sea and under star,
They seal the gate and barricades
To try to catch the Renegade.
They say she sails from Parure skies;
As the Robin flies, the mage survives.
And with this hope, the sinner prayed
For Maker to send the Renegade.
They seek her far, they seek her wide;
Through vale and over mountainside.
Eâen so the mages have mislaid
Each trap made for the Renegade.
The people hail and praise her name
While the evil search for who to blame.
Yet with each sly disguise arrayed,
They cannot find the Renegade.
They seek her thither, they seek her yon;
She flies at dusk and sails at dawn,
Every snare she will evade
Our fearless Robin Renegade.
- Excerpt from The Renegade
I had one goal in life: to be as useless as possible.
It was my personal philosophy, my creed, and I had too much money and too little responsibility to behave otherwise.
My father, Mr. Arthur Keays, Sr., had cultivated a vast fortune amongst the working-class merchant cogs, and in consequence, I possessed an unseemly liberal allowance (which enabled me to live near the upper echelons of society), while at the same time an apparent ineptitude (which conveniently allowed me to avoid the appearance of a permanent profession).
On the first morning of the Maker Exhibitions, I needed to be especially careful to avoid the appearance of usefulness.
I arrived at the family townhouse on the fashionable side of Beryl Drive well after breakfast. My modish suitâan emerald and beige bespoke of which I was particularly fondâwas rumpled from having spent a good portion of the night in a Gallia gaming hall. I hadnât imbibed . . . much. But the smell of cigars and cheap spirits still overwhelmed my exclusive cologne. I loitered at the back door and flipped through the morning edition of The Diamond Dailyânoting the published list of missing persons, most of whom were suspected to have conducted magicâbefore tucking it under my arm.
Quite theatrically, I tripped over the threshold of the servantâs entrance and stumbled into the lower hall, accidentally startling one of the housemaids.
She squeaked in surprise. âSir! Itâs you! Forgive me, I mean . . . I-I wasnât expecting . . .â
The young girl stammered a bit before I finally took pity on her. âGood morning, er . . . what is your name, again?â
âMartha, sir.â
I monitored everyone who entered the household from servants to the members of my motherâs various well-to-do-good societies. Martha was the sole caretaker of her younger sister and had come to work for the family just after her fifteenth birthday. I admired her dedication to her work and loyalty to my mum. She would never learn that of course.
I regarded her red-splotched cheeks and tightly braided hair. âAre you new?â I asked.
âNo, sir. Iâve worked for the family near five years.â At my silence, she clarified, âI am here most mornings, sir.â
âAh, that would explain it. I hate sunshine. Right then. Carry on!â I ascended the stairs to the ground floor.
Martha called up to me, sounding uncomfortable, âSir, you might not want to disturb the Missus.â
Daweson, the family butler, met me nose-to-nose at the landing. âWhatâs all this? Ah, Mister Arthur . . . sir. This is a surprise.â
âMorning, Daweson,â I said cheerfully.
âHence the surprise.â The old fellowâs disdain for me was as cold as the morning rain trickling down the back of my collar. âYou certainly do love to keep the staff on our toes, sir.â
I handed over the wrinkled newspaper along with my cane and bowler.
Daweson gave the hat a tight-lipped inspection. âThis one is new.â
âWon that off a posh gem after only two rounds of cards. But donât let me disturb you. I can show myself to the tea room.â
âThe Missus does not wish to be disturbedââ
âYes, yes. So I heard.â I could practically feel the old fellowâs scowl as I waved my arm and sauntered through the tea room doors . . .
And stopped short.
The largest chair was stuffed with a most unusual live specimen: my mother, in a rather primitive state.
Mrs. Hatima Keays (Hattie to her friends) was well-known and well-liked in nearly every social circle from working class cogs to highbred gems. Her influence allowed me to move freely in society, conveniently abetting my reputation as an idle and useless dandy.
In preference to her private boudoir, sheâd apparently ensconced herself in the family tea room. Her plump frame was propped sideways with her legs dangling over the chair arm, and her manicured toes peeked past the hem of an oversized dressing gownâa bright patchwork of sari silk. Pink curling rags threaded her dark hair, and a thick mask of something sticky and amber-colored was slathered over her face.
An equally plump pug (who answered to the unfortunate name of Sweetpea-wee) was curled into her lap, snoring loudly.
The tea room itself was bedecked with enough flowers to make even the queenâs gardeners jealous. Despite my frequent objections to the design, pansy-patterned fabric attacked every inch of the sofa, and an additional horde of pastel blooms clawed their way up the floor-length window curtains. Carved vines strangled the table legs, and paper of pink and yellow rosebushes suffocated the walls.
I stole a biscuit from the sideboard, cut a path through the rainforested furniture, and plopped into a chair shaded by a painted screen of pink camellias.
Sweetpea startled awake with a snort. The pug stretched, teetered to a standing position, and licked at the sticky substance on Mumâs face.
She didnât appear to notice. She sighed over the printed pages of her latest romantic novel, and I squinted to read the title.
Robin Renegade: La Belle au bois dormant.
I popped a biscuit into my mouth and spoke through the crumbs. âGood morning, Mum. You are an absolute vision in . . . whatever youâre wearing.â
She slanted a look at me over the top of her novel then at the standing clock in the far corner and sprang upright like a surprise toy in a box. âArt! Why are you here so early? The Exhibitions arenât for another few hours.â
Sweetpea tipped gracelessly from her lap and landed face first into the cushion beside her. The pug gave a muffled snort and, after several seconds of pawing at the cushions, eventually righted his balance.
âWere you out all night? Of course you were. And Maker only knows where youâve beenâairship racing and gambling and tall glass drinks. I can smell you from here. You couldâve at least gone home to change first.â
I picked at the edge of an embroidered floret doily draped over the arm of my chair. âTechnically, Iâm late from when Cecily asked me to arrive. I made sure of it. Iâve also ordered my new suit to be sent here with scarcely enough time so Iâll be fashionably late for the Exhibitions, too.â
She marked her page and lowered the novel to rest on Sweetpeaâs wrinkled head. âMy dear, itâs still morning. Early. You have never in your life gotten an early start to anything. You were weeks overdue for your own birth. And if you were a sleep-spelled prince and Robin Renegade came to kiss you awake, you would still roll over and ask for ten more minutes! Donât pick at that.â
I dropped the doily. âA reference to your latest novel, I assume?â
She sighed and hugged the book to her chest. âRobin is searching for Prince Handsome, but he is under a sleeping spell. Nothing has happened since that scandalous scene alone in the woods together, and I do wish she would get on with the rescuing because he isnât getting any younger! Although . . . I suppose because of the spell, he isnât getting any older either.â She pointed an accusatory finger at me, suddenly sour. âDonât distract me. Explain yourself! And it had better be important for you to interrupt my cleanse.â
âIs that what this is?â
âI intend to look my best for the Exhibitions,â she said. âAnd I only have four more days to prepare for the Makerâs Gala this weekend. You should clean up, too, if you want any pretty partners to dance with you.â
âDonât be ridiculous. I always look stunning.â
âAlas, we all have our burdens to bear. We are in the height of the season. You will, of course, accompany me to the Tackletonsâ garden party on Thursday?â
âIâm afraid I wonât be able to clean up in time.â
âDonât be cheeky.â She reached for a bone porcelain teacup and took a sip. A large drop of the thick amber mask dripped off her face and plopped against the cup. I wasnât convinced that any partner would want to dance with someone whose face was dripping into her teacup, even someone as eccentric as my own father.
âMum . . . what have you put on your face?â
âHoney.â
âGlad weâve cleared that up, then.â
âIt sweetens the complexion.â She set down her cup and daintily patted her chin with a serviette. Sweetpea lunged for the sticky cup but, once again, tipped face first into the seat cushion. âIf you wonât tell me where youâve been all night, you can read me the list of ladies already on your dance cardââ
âYou know very well I wonât dance. Although I have promised to steal a glass of champagne for Cecily.â
âWhere is that girl? I havenât seen her all morning. Do you know she set the curtains on fire? Again. Last week. Iâll never understand what Maker was thinking when He sent me the two of you. A good man who, for some unknown reason, misapplies sense for sarcasm. And a brilliant girl who spends the whole of her allowance on nuts and bolts and forgets to order a ballgown for the Makerâs Gala. And before you ask, Iâve already ordered the new batiste from Madame LaMonde on her behalf.â
âArt, is that you?â As if summoned, my sister leaned halfway into the doorframe at an awkward angle.
Technically, Cecily was my cousin. Sheâd come to live with our family as a ward. But almost immediately, Iâd adopted her as my little sister. We even looked like siblings with similar chestnut hair and golden-brown skin, although her bright eyes were wide as hazelnuts while mine were more oval-shaped like almonds.
Even with her standing half-hidden by the doorframe, I caught sight of a frayed and blackened burn across the hip of her striped afternoon dress. Her hair had already escaped any attempts at captivity, and loose curls rose like a wave behind a pair of magnifying goggles strapped to her head like a band. She held a small object between an overly large pair of leather work gloves.
I mightâve become dependent on fashion, but Cecily couldnât care less. Iâd long since stopped teasing about her bas bleu appearance. The game lost appeal when my target gave absolutely no reaction.
âI thought I heard your voice. Youâre early!â
âWhy does everyone insist Iâm early? IâmââI checked the standing clockââat least half an hour late! You did say half past ten, and itâs after eleven.â
âYes,â she said. âBut, you see, I knew you would be late. So I invited you here two hours early.â
âTwoâ A whole two hours? Well, that wasnât very sporting of you.â I nibbled at the edge of my biscuit and sulked.
âNever mind that. I still need to clean the balance and tighten the escape wheel. Oh, and my satchel is probably on the bench in the back garden. Or the icebox. At least I donât need to worry about the blueprintsâIâve already turned those in. See you there?â She dashed away.
âWhere, dear?â Mum called, but Cecily was already worlds away. âThat girl is as scattered as a lost set of jacks. Do you know where sheâs gone?â
âShe failed to mention that part, but I think we can safely guess.â
âYou donât think . . . sheâs not going to the Maker Exhibitions. Not dressed like that!â
âIâm afraid itâs probably worse than that. I suspect Cecily has submitted blueprints for an invention and will publicly present her dissertation today. Sheâs brilliant. I have no doubt sheâll be awarded a title as maker . . . even dressed like that.â
The Maker Exhibitions were a yearly trade fair held at Diadem University. Aspiring makers submitted blueprints before being selected to address a panel of judges with hope of receiving a makership from the queen and access to private funding. Anyone could present an invention. Thus, in theory, anyone could receive the coveted title of maker. Even my eighteen-year-old savant of a sister.
âYou mentioned the Exhibitions before.â
âHm?â I glanced up from twirling the doily on one finger and was startled at the stern look Mum had leveled at me.
âYou already knew,â she said. âHow did you know? Donât pick at that.â
I dropped the doily. âI had my suspicions after Cecily asked me to call round today.â
It wasnât an outright lie, but I wasnât supposed to know details of the Exhibitions. At least . . . not with any certainty. Thanks to the wide circumference of her social circle, Mum was uncommonly well-informed on social matters. But even the great Mrs. Hattie Keays lacked the vast resources at my disposal.
Two days earlier, one of my informants had stolen an early look at the list of maker-candidates and had apprised me of Cecilyâs application. The details were . . . concerning.
Sheâd registered her application without a patron.
It was rare for a gentleman maker-candidate to enter the Exhibitions without the endorsement and continued financial support of at least one patron. It was unheard of for a single cog girl to attempt the same feat of independence.
I couldnât interfere directlyâcouldnât show a deliberate interest. That would be much too useful. I could, however, muster a more indirect show of support.
âFor any outcome,â I said, âwe might as well put in an appearance. Sheâs not without a guardian. But with an outfit like that, the judges might very well assume Cecily is a roving orphan. She should be seen in good company.â
Mum gave me a sudden, serious look. I tried not to squirm, but Iâd been in forceful interrogations that made me less nervous.
âYou are running out of excuses, Arthur. At some point, youâre going to have to admit that you have something to care about. Whatever and whyever you play the careless rake, I know your heart. You care more than you let on.â
I winced as the truth of her words pierced the center of the heart I made every effort to safeguard. Such a soft target was a liability.
âNow then.â She tossed her novel onto the sofa and stood. With a startled snort, Sweetpea tipped off the sofa and waddled onto a flowered cushion near my feet. âHow much time do we have? Oh, dear . . . not nearly enough. When did you say your suit is due to arrive? And have you seen Martha? Oh, never mind. Iâll wind up the house chimes. Make yourself useful, dear, and have a word with Daweson? The steamcar needs to be fueled and watered as soon as possible. Otherwise, weâll certainly be late . . .â
She continued listing instructions as she bustled from the roomâlong, floral robe sweeping behind her. Sweetpea yipped and followed her out as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.
I pinched the floral doily and considered the effort it would take to summon Daweson and âbe usefulâ as Mum had ordered.
I didnât consider long.
Propping my feet on Sweetpeaâs vacant cushion, I leaned deeper into the chair, covered my eyes with the doily, and tipped my head back for a nap.
After all, I had to keep up my useless reputation somehow.
No one knows the real Art Keyes, and he is more than happy to keep it that way. But when his sister shares her new, terribly dangerous creation at the annual Maker Exhibition, he is forced to step in and risk everything to save the person he most cares about.
Audrey Clune is trapped in a life of duty and strict rules, dreading the moment she will have to accept the proposal of a man she dislikes but is being forced to marry. She longs for a life of adventure like that of the famous heroine Robin Renegade, and she may just get her wish when her carriage is attacked by highwaymen during her last journey before the dreaded engagement.
As Art and Audrey have to navigate high society and a thick web of lies, it is hard to know whom to trust when the stakes are so high and the "honest truth" becomes a precious commodity.
Of Mages and Makers is a delightful gaslamp fantasy novel brimming with rich, full characters and adventure at every turn. The book features a slow-burn romance that is an absolute joy to watch unfold. Readers looking for spice will not find it here, but anyone seeking a tender romance based on mutual trust and respect won't be disappointed.
The world is described vividly and built so that, after an initial disorientation due to the complex social structure, it feels easy to understand the politics and (im)balances of power at play. The entire cast is characterised extremely well, with even the secondary characters being easy to love (or despise, depending on the case), feeling essential to the story and entirely unforgettable.
The two main characters of course steal the show. I particularly loved the journey of self-discovery and acceptance that Audrey goes on, and reading in the author's final note that it is inspired by the experience of living with chronic pain made it even more touching. The romance is beautifully constructed, never coming across as forced. Although a few passages felt slightly too repetitive in their attempts to reiterate the characters' emotions or thoughts process, the banter is witty and sharp and the writing flows easily. Any (very minor) flaws are entirely forgiven with that near-perfect epilogue.
Overall, Of Mages and Makers is the perfect novel to kickstart autumn and cosy reading season with a sweet, swashbuckling romance that is never banal.