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Blurb:

Disgraced defence lawyer Harry Redwood doesn’t believe in magic, but when he arrives in the charming and sleepy little town of Bishops Pippleton, it’s clear that the residents do. There’s a curse upon Dark House, they say, and the Dark sisters all have otherworldly Gifts, but it’s also the only place that has rooms available in the dead of winter and so Harry has no choice but to go there to stay.

As he settles in to try and mend the broken pieces of his life, he uncovers a grave wrong in the town, one that has been left to fester for more than six centuries, and Harry just won’t stand for it, not when it affects the sisters Dark, whom he has come to form a deep affection for.

He might not believe in magic and he may not have special Gifts, but there’s one thing Harry Redwood does know better than almost anyone around him, and that’s his way around a courtroom.

In this long awaited sequel to Summer Loving, let Bishops Pippleton and its residents draw you in to a tale of righting wrongs, forgiveness and learning how to love again.

Excerpt:

 “May we see a menu?”

“Oh, no need.” Kestrel smiled. “Take a seat and someone will bring your order over.”

“But we didn’t-…”

“Come on, Harry.” Esme tugged his arm. “Things happen in a specific way around here. You’ll get used to it.” With a final smile at Kestrel, she tugged the bemused Harry to an 

empty table and settled herself in with all the grandeur of royalty. Harry could tell, despite his confusion, that she was enjoying herself immensely and couldn’t help but feel a little swept up in her contagious joy. Everything else in his day had gone to pot, but it was still worth it just to experience this moment, swallowed whole out of the cold, December night by the spirit of hygge with this tiny colourful lady as a companion.

Their table had been decorated with a tiny wooden carousel that spun softly as people walked by, caught in the wake of their passing. The delicate figurines were beautiful and he leaned in to get a closer look, mesmerised by the spinning forest scene of a troupe of girls leading deer and rabbits through the trees in an infinite cycle.

“It’s more than a hundred years old,” Esme informed him. “Some of Willow Dark’s finest work. She made most of the pieces in here.”

“Willow Dark?” It was such an unusual name that he had to ask.

“Kestrel’s great-great-um-possibly another great-aunt.” Esme’s nose wrinkled as she frowned. “I get confused. Let me see…there were the trees, then the flowers, then the

spices, then the herbs and then this lot. So counting back, that’s…,” she trailed off, her eyes going distant for a moment, “only two greats. Great-great-aunt. I think. Is there such a thing as a grandaunt? Anyway, Dark House was full of her pieces, so when Kestrel opened the coffee shop she started putting them on display here.”

“Risky.” Harry wasn’t sure if he approved. “Don’t people damage them?”

Esme actually looked affronted at the question. “Most certainly not! Generations of the Dark sisters have been greatly respected in this town.”

“I see.” He didn’t see at all, but the feeling of having been deposited in an alternate reality was growing stronger by the moment and there was nothing to do except roll along with it.

Esme was about to say something else when a waitress arrived at their table and placed a cup of thick, steaming golden liquid and a cupcake in front of him, leaving a mug and a tart for Esme too.

“I’m so confused,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but Esme heard.

“In this café you don’t get the cake you want; you get the cake you need,” she told him, sinking her fork into the frangipane and fruit tart before her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“All the Dark sisters have gifts, but this is Kestrel’s.” She waved her fork to encompass the dishes in front of them. “She takes one look at you and knows exactly the cake you need.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s absurd.” Harry’s good humour had abruptly burnt out and he suddenly felt lost and sad and far from home. All of which happened to be true on one level or another, both literally and figuratively.

“Harry, with the greatest of respect, try the damn cake.” Her eyes were still twinkling so he knew she wasn’t really angry, but nevertheless he obediently picked up his fork and speared off a section of the cupcake.

The moment it touched his taste-buds, the whole world fell away into a moment of silence before the taste and fragrance of pistachio and the lightest kiss of rose water catapulted him straight back into his last good memory of

his grandmother before the cancer had taken her. She’d been standing in her kitchen, stirring a pot of syrup for her famous baklava, and he had been sat at the table, troubled over his first big case. The client had been accused of killing

his wife and Harry had come under fire from friends and strangers alike for agreeing to defend him.

“Every man deserves the right to a fair trial, Harry,” she had said. “It’s the cornerstone upon which the law is founded. It doesn’t matter whether he did it or not; if you do right by the law, you do right by both the victim and the defendant.”

She’d paused in her stirring to turn to him, her eyes shining with fierce pride. “And you must never forget that being prepared to do the right thing, when it’s the most difficult of all the paths your feet could take you on, and when all

around you are telling you to turn back, is what makes you a good man.” Her smile softened. “And you are a good man, Harry. Your grandad, rest his soul, would have been so proud.”

The memory faded and Harry opened his eyes, only then realising that his face was wet and people were very carefully not staring at him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Esme’s smile was as soft as his grandmother’s had been and he swallowed the razor sharp ache it sliced in his throat.

“Not really,” was the honest answer.

“Was it what you needed?” she asked, and he wanted to say no, really wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. In all the hurt and bewilderment and unbelonging of the last week, he had desperately needed that reminder that his family would always love him, no matter what, and that he carried a piece of home with him in his heart, however nebulous, everywhere he went.

“Yes, I think it was.” The admission stunned him, the sense of disassociation with reality strengthening. There was every possibility that it was just coincidence, wishful thinking and some kind of bizarre placebo effect, but he

couldn’t shake the feeling that Esme was telling the truth.

I hope you enjoyed the excerpt of Winter’s Edge by Rivka Spicer ! Please make sure to check out the links above for more information and to get your copy! Happy reading!

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