Popular self-help author Olivia Furie has discovered her life has been a big fat lie. Recently widowed, homeless, and destitute, she’s in dire need of an extreme life makeover. She never expected it to be supernatural …
Olivia and her beloved cat Magnus head to Cornwall hopeful that once there, life will return to normal.
As if.
Once in Rowanswood, they meet a colourful cast of characters, including demanding elemental Crones, mythical creatures, and talking animals. But who is the gorgeous man who keeps popping up everywhere she turns? And what does he want?
Olivia is looking at normal in the rear-view mirror when she learns of the terrible danger posed by the High Fae. With guidance from the Rowanswood elemental Crones, Olivia must master her magic before she leaves a trail of ashes in her wake.
Can the woman who wouldn’t stand up to her husband step up to protect the mortal realm from the High Fae? And what about this third realm that’s trying to muscle in?
Can Olivia master her magic before she leaves a trail of ashes in her wake? No self-help book prepared her for this.
Popular self-help author Olivia Furie has discovered her life has been a big fat lie. Recently widowed, homeless, and destitute, she’s in dire need of an extreme life makeover. She never expected it to be supernatural …
Olivia and her beloved cat Magnus head to Cornwall hopeful that once there, life will return to normal.
As if.
Once in Rowanswood, they meet a colourful cast of characters, including demanding elemental Crones, mythical creatures, and talking animals. But who is the gorgeous man who keeps popping up everywhere she turns? And what does he want?
Olivia is looking at normal in the rear-view mirror when she learns of the terrible danger posed by the High Fae. With guidance from the Rowanswood elemental Crones, Olivia must master her magic before she leaves a trail of ashes in her wake.
Can the woman who wouldn’t stand up to her husband step up to protect the mortal realm from the High Fae? And what about this third realm that’s trying to muscle in?
Can Olivia master her magic before she leaves a trail of ashes in her wake? No self-help book prepared her for this.
It began with a death.
Olivia stopped at the foot of the open grave in Highgate Cemetery. She’d arrived first for which she was grateful. Here, surrounded by trees and shrubbery, it felt like a forest oasis in the heart of London. In the summer, there would be wildflowers and birdsong. But now it was the worn-out end of January, and the birds were nowhere to be seen.
The escape from the medieval church and the other mourners gave her a few blessed moments to compose herself, thanks to the thoughtful man at the funeral home who had arranged a special car to pick her up right at the church. The rest of the funeral attendees would have to wend their way from the church, down the hill to the parking lot, then drive to the cemetery and find a place to park. She clutched her coat dress in tight fingers, wishing she’d worn something warmer, hoping the paracetamol she’d just taken would ease the headache that intensified by the minute. How long had the afternoon lasted so far? Two, three years? All perception of time had long since fled, taking with it a large proportion of her own will to live.
Weak rays of winter sunlight slanted into the raw hole before her. The grave attendants, cheeks ruddy in the winter chill, began to lower the coffin on its black ropes into the grave. It hit the bottom with a muffled thud. One of the attendants uttered a muffled oath. The spray of red roses on the top quivered, then stilled, their delicate scent overwhelmed by that of raw earth. Olivia regarded the last resting place of the mortal remains of her husband through gritty, swollen eyelids. She still reeled with the speed of events. From the policeman’s knock at the front door to this.
The distant hum of London traffic with the occasional wail of a siren sounded in the background, a reminder of the bustling city just beyond the church walls. A patch of snowdrops bloomed defiantly along the path between sombre gravestones, their white petals a stark contrast to the dark soil under the sullen January sky. Olivia, vividly aware now just how unexpectedly a life could be snuffed out, hoped no thoughtless boot would tread on them.
It started to drizzle. Ice cold rain mingled with the hot tears on her cheeks. Grief pressed down on her chest like a lead weight. It was hard to imagine life without her husband. Nigel had been so close to retirement, so close to having the time and energy to travel abroad. Plans had been made to move out of London—to a village where they’d have room, quiet streets, and could enjoy a big garden.
Instead, he’d been driving home from a sales conference in Oxford. According to the young policeman who came to the door, it looked like his cell phone had slipped out of the console and into the passenger side footwell. It appeared that Nigel had leaned over to retrieve it. His other hand must have shifted on the steering wheel, and he’d drifted into the path of a large lorry. It was over in an instant. He’d been very apologetic, that young policeman. Shuffling his feet and rubbing his hands together as though he was washing them in the air, he stuttered out the dreadful news.
She glared at the coffin. Why? What had been so bloody important that he’d had to reach for the phone? She shoved down a scream of fury and frustration. The coffin blurred and her tears dripped as she gazed into the unsparing earth. How could he be so stupid!
It was never meant to be like this. It shouldn’t be like this.
Her palms tingled, the prickling extending to her thumbs. She rubbed her fingers and thumbs together. It reminded her of a line from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’ She put a gloved hand over her mouth to stifle a sound between a laugh and a sob. Nigel had loved their annual trips to Stratford to spend four days gorging on plays.
The other mourners began to trickle toward the graveside. Friends, colleagues, a smattering of neighbours. Neither Nigel nor Olivia had any living relatives. One important person was missing. Olivia glanced around searching, then sighed. Several mourners approached to offer condolences and comfort. Olivia gave them her professional smile. The one that said don’t come any closer. After all, where had they been during the previous ten long, painful days when she’d been dealing with this alone except for Jade? A group of hardy souls kept advancing on her. She stepped back. Olivia didn’t do people. She did person. One person at a time, preferably with an advance appointment.
A flash of red and the brisk tread of boot heels tapping along the pavement distracted both her and the advancing mourners. A petite woman strode down the path on the other side of the grave. She stopped at the headstone, facing Olivia and lifted her chin. It was her, wasn’t it? Nigel’s mistress, Felicia. Olivia didn’t know how she knew; she’d never met her. But it was a rock-solid certainty that settled in a solid lump in the pit of her stomach. Just what she needed now.
Nigel had thought he’d done such a good job of hiding the long-term affair. A snort escaped Olivia. Felicia sure didn’t hide now. Other mourners cast furtive glances at Felicia, clearly wondering about her identity. Olivia couldn’t believe she’d been brazen enough to come out in front of all these other people. So much for everyone keeping the affair quiet all these years. It would be fresh gossip for the foreseeable future. It was probably rude, but Olivia didn’t resist studying the woman. She’d always wondered what Felicia must be like to have kept Nigel’s attention for so long.
His mistress wore a collarless black leather jacket that skimmed her slight frame, a black pencil skirt, and black leather boots. Her only flash of colour came from a brilliant red silk scarf. A black hat with a veil completed her look. Immaculate taste. Very chic, Olivia thought sourly. And she should know. She’d been writing about the subject of chicness for years now.
Why the hell had she come here? This wasn’t her place. She didn’t belong! A few of the other mourners glanced at her with quite open curiosity now. The men with admiration—more than one smoothed his hair or straightened his tie. Women studied her with narrowed eyes. Felicia wore a slight smile. A woman who revelled in the gaze of others. Bitter bile rose in the back of Olivia’s throat.
The snowdrops shone blood red. She blinked. When she looked back at them, they were white again. She shook her head. This was no time to start seeing things. She looked around. No one else seemed to notice the change in the flowers. Her palms prickled madly now. She rubbed them together. It did little to ease the sensation.
She glanced away from the woman and the flowers, distracted by the kettledrums in her head. The whiskey last night had been a bad idea. But the big house felt so empty. Not that Nigel was around all the time. He was often away. He’d tried to fool Olivia that it was on business. Ha! He was on business alright—with his mistress. But he always came home. Eventually. She stared into the grave. At that very finite casket. She’d often imagined him dead, as one does after decades of marriage, and you’ve heard his favourite stories for the umpteenth time. But she’d never gone further than that. She’d never imagined what would happen after he died. Now that it was real, she wondered what she would do with the rest of her life. Somehow, she hadn’t factored in rattling around the empty house feeling rudderless.
A clump of wet earth fell away from the side of the grave, crushing one of the flowers on top of the casket.
When Jade had called last night to suggest a drink, Olivia had jumped at the idea. She hadn’t wanted another evening to brood and worry about what she was going to do. Alone as she’d never been before.
The surprising thing was that she hadn’t expected feeling so lost now that she no longer had the safety of her marriage. That safety was relative, of course. Everything was smooth as long as she kept her focus on minding her own business and never, ever questioning Nigel about his. Things could get very dark then, so she’d backpedal. She needed to belong. She couldn’t face feeling unwanted again.
One drink had turned into multiple shots, as happened so often with her literary agent. So here she was, hungover at her husband’s funeral. Maybe she needed grief counselling.
The priest arrived at the head of the grave, cassock billowing in the breeze, a large leather-bound book tucked under his arm. He gave Nigel’s mistress a meaningful look. She stepped aside, gaze cast down demurely. She’s well aware of the attention she’s getting, Olivia thought.
The sounds of rustling coats and sniffles mixed with the occasional cough or throat clearing quieted as the priest opened the book. His slightly nasal voice droned on like a distant buzz saw, grating on Olivia’s raw nerves.
A figure approached from the left and Olivia’s heart lifted. There she was. Finally. The tall woman swathed in a voluminous black cloak with hair like rusty steel wool was identifiable as her literary agent, Jade Featherstone-Hough. They’d met twenty-three years ago at a networking event for agents, and hopeful authors. Jade was vibrant, self-assured, well-groomed, and running a thriving literary agency. They’d clicked immediately. Olivia had pitched her idea for a series for women who wanted to be more than they were. To reinvent themselves into their best, most authentic life. A life where they were closer to reaching their potential, living the life they wanted to live. A chic, elegant life. Jade had been intrigued and The Chic Woman series was born. Later, they’d bonded in the gloomy bar over margaritas and their shared love of chocolate and historical mysteries.
Jade lifted a gloved hand in greeting as she glided to a halt beside her. “Sorry, love. Stoppage on the tube,” she said in her penetrating voice, her vowels as sharp as cut glass.
The priest tutted. Jade made a zipping motion across her mouth.
Olivia managed to smile and shifted her feet. Heels had been a bad idea. The ground was still soft enough for them to sink into, her unstable posture echoing her unstable life. Her gaze kept returning to Felicia. A sodden white handkerchief disappeared repeatedly beneath the black veil she wore. How much was Felicia’s life going to change now without Nigel? Quite a bit, Olivia imagined. As far as she knew, the affair had been going on for at least half of her marriage. She wondered if Felicia knew she’d never been the only one he’d been unfaithful with. She had been the only one with that kind of staying power, but all those years, he’d still been a serial seducer.
A yawning pit opened in Olivia’s stomach. She placed two black gloved fingers against her lips to disguise their trembling, praying for this to be over soon. The freshening breeze snapped her black coat dress around her knees.
The priest beckoned her closer to the edge of the grave and nodded.
Jade squeezed her shoulder and mouthed ‘you can do it‘.
Olivia took one black glove off before she bent and tossed a handful of earth into the grave. It landed on the coffin with a final wet thud that only aggravated the cymbals that had joined the kettledrums in her head.
There, it was over now. Her remaining years stretched out ahead of her. Empty. Because except for the inability to be faithful—and that was a pretty big except—they’d had a good relationship when he was around. He was charming, clever, and always ready to try something new. They had fun together. He was an intellectual challenge. Over the past few days, she’d come to understand that while he wasn’t an ideal husband, he’d been a good friend—well most of the time. More often than not.
“Here,” Jade said gruffly, handing her a fresh handkerchief. “That was godawful, but you handled it like a champ.”
Olivia took it, using it to wipe her cold, wet cheeks and then the mud off her hand. Not so alone. She still had Jade and she was worth her weight in rubies. I’m overreacting. She still had books to write. She could figure the rest out later.
Jade gestured to Nigel’s mistress with a tilt of her head and a raised eyebrow. Olivia nodded. Jade knew all about the other women. Olivia had poured her heart out to her on many occasions.
“Would you like me to tip her in with Nigel?” Jade assumed a gangster whisper and gestured to the grave.
Olivia suppressed a snort of laughter. Here’s to our best friends, she thought. Life and men might let us down, but that’s when our best friends step up big time. What was the expression? A good friend helps you bury the body, a best friend brings a bottle of wine and their own shovel, no questions asked. Jade was a bring-her-own shovel kind of woman.
The group around the graveside stepped back. The dull crunch of a shovel hitting soil began as the gravediggers started to fill in the grave. She looked at the coffin for the last time. Where did people go when they died? Not their body, obviously, but the ineffable something that made them a unique being.
“Olivia.”
She turned to see a heavy-set middle-aged man approach, his still handsome face reddened with the chill and marred with a frown. “We need to read the will in the morning.”
“Good grief, Edward.” She pinched the flesh between her eyebrows. What she needed was a hot bath, another tumbler of whiskey in her hand. Why are people made to go through this? “What’s the rush? Can’t it wait a few days longer?”
“No.” The lines carved around Edward’s mouth deepened.
It was Olivia’s turn to frown. Strange, it should be straightforward. They hadn’t had any children, Nigel hadn’t wanted any, so as far as beneficiaries went, it should be just her and possibly some charities Nigel had supported. What was the almighty rush?
“Fine, I’ll be there. Now I have to say good-bye and thank people for coming.” She waved vaguely at the mourners clustering around behind the family solicitor. He dipped his head in acknowledgment then strode off.
Jade scowled. “Pompous git. You want protection tomorrow?”
Olivia shook her head. “I’ll be fine. How hard can it be? But come around later, I have a new bottle of single malt.” It probably wasn’t a good idea to keep losing herself in peaty amber liquid, but what the hell. After the recent ordeals, she deserved it.
Her friend nodded, turned smartly on her heel, and left.
Olivia stayed until everyone had paid their respects to her—to her relief everyone except Nigel’s mistress. She’d disappeared. At least she’s out of my life now.
She turned, striding away as a few clods of dirt slipped from the mounded raw earth. As she passed them, the snowdrops ignited, flared with a brief hot flame, and subsided into charred stumps.
The Chic Crone showcases a magical world with a unique heroine and the true heart of friendship. While the prose is not always smooth, the story easily draws the reader in with its good nature and sense of humor.
The Chic Crone follows Olivia, an author who achieved success counseling other women on how to be poised and confident. However, following the death of her husband and revelations about his lover and their children, Olivia finds herself anything but poised. As items around her begin to—literally—burst into flames, Olivia is drawn to Rowanswood, the village where her beloved granny used to live. Olivia discovers there is much more to the world than the mundane business of writing and self-help.
Olivia is struggling with the rejections of her past and her fear of the rejections in her future. But the beautiful core of this novel is her slow progress against this fear and the way her fellow witches are able to help her. The author points explicitly to this struggle, explaining Olivia’s emotions in a way that most other novelists leave to the reader’s imagination, but this style makes the novel particularly excellent for a young adult reader, if a little clunky for others. As a middle-aged heroine, Olivia is an amazing role model to readers of all ages, though, clearly demonstrating that it is never too late to change and grow.
There is lots of lore in this novel: high fae, witches, magic drawn from the elements. The magical system is not fully fleshed out, although this presents only a few obstacles for the progression of the story. The elements that are present are delightful: the enchanting magic of the crones’ houses, the snarky personalities of the witches’ familiars. The general good humor of all the witches ensures that the novel doesn’t take itself too seriously, and it thrives because of it.
The Chic Crone is fun, with a beautiful message. It’s a lighthearted introduction to the paranormal world and a breeze to read.