Welcome to my brand-new novel, A Tale of Star-Crossed Hearts! I’m posting these first two chapters as a sneak peek.
If you like them and want more, I’m launching a Kickstarter campaign tomorrow at 9AM EST (Tuesday, March 4th, 2025) for a super early access to a brand-new Special Edition hardback and trade paperback. (Ebooks, and regular paperbacks and hardbacks will also be available, along with a bunch of other cool things.)
Hope you enjoy this sneak peek!
A Tale of Star-Crossed Hearts
Chapter 1
The day Raphael Franco Alvarez met the girl who would become the love of his life dawned no differently than any other day since his father had recalled him to Yves three weeks earlier. It was a fine clear morning for late summer, refreshingly cool, though Raphael knew it would be much warmer by mid-afternoon. A fresh breeze from the Wild Sea blew through the port city, invigorating the men, women, and children already filling the cobblestoned streets despite the early hour.
Whistling under his breath, Raphael strolled through the Market District in the direction of his favorite bakery. The only trouble with slipping out of the house before anyone else was up was that it tended to cause one to miss breakfast. His stomach grumbled loudly, reminding him that all he had consumed to break his fast that morning was an apple and a hearty slice of cheddar cheese he had swiped from the kitchen on his way out.
Both had been gone long before he reached the edge of the Market District.
Raphael breathed deeply, tipping his face up to the sky and taking in the multitude of puffball clouds scudding across its deep blue expanse. What a glorious morning. He’d missed Yves, with its stately hustle and bustle that came from being one of the largest port cities in Selendria.
The Market District lay between the wealthy financial heart of Yves and the Port District. It was an eclectic blend of cobblestoned streets full of shops built from brick and native gray stone and open-air wooden stalls full of all sorts of wares—everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to spices, jewelry, and more. Given Yves’s year-round mild weather, the stalls were permanent.
Raphael breathed in again, enjoying the fresh air. Unlike other port cities he had visited, both in his native country of Selendria and beyond, the air in Yves always smelled faintly of flowers, never fish.
With his next breath, he caught the scent of fresh-baked pastry. His stomach rumbled again and he hastened his steps down the cobblestoned street. His favorite bakery lay just around the next corner.
For all his father’s various—and many—remonstrances about his general lack of character, lack of motivation, and lack of family pride, Raphael could stir himself when the moment called for it. If the choice was to awaken before dawn and thus escape being cooped up in his father’s office all day handling meetings and paperwork or stay abed to get a little more sleep and end up trapped, Raphael would rise early any day of the week. His father, one of the wealthiest textile store merchants in Selendria, had already ensured his youngest son had a daily workload ahead of him.
Being trapped indoors all day was just petty punishment on Mr. Avarez’s part.
A month before, Raphael had gotten himself wrapped up with an Elpine merchant’s daughter while he was supposed to be overseeing his father’s store in Selendria’s capital. He had failed to do his inspection and inventory in a timely fashion, which had annoyed his father. If it had been his first offense, Mr. Avarez might have let him off with a warning, but Raphael never failed to find beautiful women to charm wherever he went.
His father had therefore ordered him home to work in Yves under supervision.
The loss of freedom was irritating, but Raphael still could not quite bring himself to care. Narissa was a lovely girl and had provided a lovely distraction for a few days. She was not ultimately the one for him, but they had parted on good terms. At least he thought they had. And he would have handled everything his father had entrusted him to manage.
Eventually.
Turning the corner, Raphael spotted the bakery. He smiled, already anticipating breakfast. Apart from being renowned throughout Yves and beyond for its bread, this bakery also sold amazing pastries and pies.
Raphael ducked inside long enough to purchase two of his favorite hand pies—flaky pastry with spinach, ham, and melted feta cheese oozing inside them wrapped in paper—before continuing on his way. His first bite was heaven, and his second was not far behind.
Munching contentedly, Raphael strolled deeper into the Market District. Though he took umbrage with his father’s idea of all that terribly boring paperwork, he could—and would—stop in and check on the store. But first, he would make his usual morning rounds through the open-air stalls.
At the intersection where the stone shops gave way to wooden stalls, Raphael glimpsed a familiar figure seated on the cobblestones in a shady corner. Old Man Hoake had once been a soldier in the King’s army, but at some point along the way he had lost an eye and his left arm from the elbow down. He spent his days sitting crosslegged on a dusty rug, a chipped mug set out on the uneven cobblestones before him.
There were many beggars in Selendria, particularly in the Market District, and Raphael had good reason to suspect not all of them were as poor as they seemed. Indeed, the city overseers kept a sharp watch on the beggars, to separate the truly poor from the grifters.
Old Man Hoake, however, was as genuine—and as poor—as they came. His saving grace was that despite his body’s failures, his mind remained as sharp as ever. He occupied this corner every day, and he used his good eye to watch everything that went on around him.
If there was any trouble in this section of the Market District, old Hoake knew who was responsible—and he did not shy away from sharing his information with the vendors and shopkeepers here. As a result, thieves of all ages knew that they could not get by with much in Old Man Hoake’s territory.
The vendors repaid the old man by giving him little gifts here and there. An extra coin. A sandwich or piece of fruit. A bar of soap.
Over the years, Raphael had started his own tradition involving the old man when he was home in Yves.
As he passed Old Man Hoake, he casually set the second of his wrapped hand pies down by Hoake’s knee and dropped a few silver coins into his cup, with no more than a cheerful, “Good morning.”
“Master Avarez,” the old man called after him. “Thank you, sir.”
Raphael just shot him a grin over his shoulder without breaking stride. He would have given the old man more, but Hoake had his pride, and Raphael did not wish to make him a target.
He darted another quick glance over his shoulder. Doubtless the old man had no idea just how extensive Raphael’s knowledge was, but Master Avarez, as Hoake called him, knew that a large portion of the old man’s begging for the day always went to provide for small children who would otherwise go hungry. Yves, like any other city in the world, was not without its share of widows, orphans, and otherwise neglected and forgotten individuals.
Raphael had the means to ease a little of the burden, and so he did. Quietly, and without any fanfare. His father would no doubt disapprove of his method.
Lighthearted, Raphael strode on, past wooden stalls displaying glass mirrors and wooden stalls displaying colorful shawls with beaded fringes. Fine porcelain and beautiful wooden carvings soon gave way to stalls containing fruits, vegetables, and other things. He had once asked an apple vendor if she would not rather display her wares in a shop, and she had replied that the open air made foods such as these so much more appealing to customers.
After a moment’s consideration, he had concluded she was not wrong.
He cast a casual eye over the stalls as he passed, taking in the earthy browns of potatoes, oranges and yellows of onions and other root vegetables before they gave way to fresher, more colorful vegetables and fruits. A display of peaches, plums, and pears lured him in and he paused long enough to purchase a ripe, golden pear.
As Raphael turned away from the stall, raising the pear to his mouth for his first luscious bite, he caught sight of a young woman in a green dress holding an animated conversation with the owner of a stall that sold various spices. He was not entirely sure what the young woman was purchasing, but her face, beneath her prim little green hat, was smiling and animated.
Unlike other women Raphael had passed along his way through the Market District this morning, this young woman did not carry a parasol. Instead, a shopping basket hung on one arm. Her fair, creamy skin and several red curls escaping from beneath her hat marked her as a foreigner and not a native Selendrian. Varangian, probably, he surmised, or possibly Elpine.
Captivated, Raphael watched her interact with the spice vendor. The vendor—a woman maybe a few years older than Raphael himself—said something and the young woman threw back her head and laughed. Even from here, Raphael could tell it was a real laugh and not that polite, false laugh women sometimes gave when they thought they ought to laugh at a someone’s joke but did not genuinely find it humorous.
He drifted closer, his pear temporarily forgotten. Who was this beauty? He would swear he had never seen her before—and he would have remembered her.
Before he could reach her, the young woman bid the spice vendor farewell and moved down the line of stalls. Heart quickening in his chest, Raphael followed. He did not have a far to go—she stopped at a citrus stall.
Raphael halted too, in front of a stall displaying ripe dates and figs. Juice from his forgotten pear ran down his finger as he stood there, for once in his life uncertain of his next move.
Chapter 2
The Market District was much more crowded than Elena Mountebank was accustomed to dealing with in the mornings. She did not usually deal with the early crowd—a mass of housewives, cooks, and others who seemed to be grimly determined to get the best pick of the fresh produce, fresh fish, and everything else. Instead, she tended to fall in with the crowd who were perhaps more inclined to value their sleep than the absolute best for their gastronomical purposes.
Elena shook her head at herself as she wandered along a row of wooden open-air stalls displaying gorgeous arrays of colorful fruits and vegetables. That assessment was, perhaps, too harsh. After all, the reason she herself tended to shop later was not because she preferred lingering in bed to rising and conquering the day.
No, what usually kept her from joining the early crowd was the bustling routine of getting her father off to his studies at the University for the day. A fond smile curved Elena’s lips as she thought about her father. He must have tea and breakfast, complete with a discussion of Elena’s aims for the day before he set foot outside the house.
Today had been an exception, due to an abnormally early staff meeting called by the dean of the University where her father had recently been hired to teach science and also tutor upperclass students learning Varangian.
Part of Elena’s duties involved keeping the little house they had been provided by the University to live in during her father’s time teaching and studying in Selendria. Some days it was more work than other days, but that was all right—Elena was still settling into a new routine here in Yves. Her father employed a charwoman to come and clean several days a week, and also a woman to do the cooking, but Elena prepared menus and did the grocery shopping.
She also kept the baking for herself. She enjoyed baking. Particularly if it involved trying new methods or new recipes.
Elena had been pleased to find that food was as much an integral part of life here in Selendria as it was in her native kingdom of Varangia. And such variety!
Humming under her breath, Elena reached into the wicker basket looped over one arm and consulted the list she’d written out the night before. She’d spent the past several weeks they’d been in Selendria so far learning about the local cuisine and consulting Madame Garza about the best recipes to try. She had also been experimenting with new baking recipes.
The only trouble was affording to procure some of the spices and other ingredients she wanted. It seemed spices were expensive, no matter where they came from. She would have thought that the turmeric, cumin, and other spices that grew best here in Selendria would, well, cost less than they did at home.
A rueful smile curved Elena’s pretty lips. It was a good thing her father liked to expand his palette. She was not quite sure what she would have done if denied the ability to explore different parts of the culinary world.
A fresh breeze ruffled a couple of tiny red curls that had escaped her modest bun beneath the little green hat perched jauntily atop her head. Though late summer, the weather here was delightfully cool. In Varangia, it would already be humid and quite hot by this time of the day, necessitating the lightest of Elena’s skirts and shirtwaists.
Here, however, her light summer clothes—today a pale green shirtwaist over a darker green skirt she had been told more than once brought out the green in her eyes—were almost too light for mornings such as this. Thankfully, her brisk walk to the Market District served to get her blood pumping and warm her up. She shifted her basket on her arm, glad she’d opted to leave her parasol at home.
Well, that was only practical. Elena sniffed delicately. What lady in her right mind thought she could manage a basket and a parasol?
Excitement mixed with anticipation rose in her chest as she strode deeper into the Market District, making her hazel eyes sparkle. Hopefully today would be the day she finally managed to get her hands on a baking ingredient that had so far proved quite elusive: cream of tartar.
Though she had only lived in Yves for a few weeks, Elena had thus far explored the Market District enough that she had a fairly good grasp of its layout. As a result, she wound her way through the maze of open-air stalls with the confidence of someone who had spent months, if not years, living in Yves. Her fair skin and red hair marked her as a foreigner, which meant she occasionally drew stares, but she was slowly growing used to that. For the most part, people were courteous.
Within a few moments, her main destination came into sight: a stall with a crimson awning owned by one of the best spice dealers in Yves. A trio of women clustered in front of the stall, but as Elena approached, they finished their business and dispersed. Excited, she darted forward, her footsteps quick and sure over the uneven cobblestoned street, and stepped up to the wooden counter.
“Good morning, Fenricia,” she said cheerfully, greeting the older woman behind the counter with a smile. Though she spoke fluent Selendrian, her slight Varangian accent also marked her as a foreigner.
“Good morning, miss.” Fenricia returned her smile. She was almost as tiny as Elena herself, scarcely more than five feet tall, with light brown skin and a shock of black hair threaded with silver that she kept tied back in a beautiful braid that fell almost to her waist. A gauzy gold shawl wrapped around her waist, contrasting with the deep red of her skirt and the white of her shirtwaist. As always, her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows.
“Were you able to find it?” asked Elena breathlessly, bouncing up and down a little on her toes like she was a child of six again, unable to wait for promised surprise. Anticipation made even her fingertips tingle.
Fenricia’s dark eyes twinkled. Over the past few weeks, she and Elena had become friends and had exchanged many a conversation about the uses of her wares.
“Yes.” The older woman reached behind her, several gold bangles clinking merrily on her wrist with the movement, and retrieved a small glass phial full of white powder. “Cream of tartar,” she said triumphantly.
“Oh, my.” Elena’s hazel eyes rounded with delight and wonder. Heedless of her basket, she clasped her hands beneath her chin, beaming, and then stretched out a hand for the phial. “This is wonderful.”
“I spoke to the wine makers as you suggested,” continued Fenricia, “and we came to an agreement.” She nodded to the phial Elena cradled in her hand. “I will sell it from now on. You will be able to buy more, should you require it in the future.”
“Thank you.” Elena beamed at the older woman again before tucking the little vial of cream of tartar safely into the depths of her basket. “How much?”
Fenricia named a price and smiled. “A discount, for bringing this to my attention.”
“Thank you.” Elena pulled a small reticle from inside her basket and produced the requisite number of coins. She then cast a practiced eye over the spice baskets fanned out on the smooth wooden surface of the stall’s table. Sticks of cinnamon graced one basket, along with cloves and nutmeg.
Giving into temptation, Elena leaned closer to the basket of cinnamon sticks to inhale the spicy scent. She closed her eyes, remembering the apple pies Cook had made when she was a child. Those pies had been wonderful, the memories themselves full of love. She baked pies herself now, using Cook’s favorite recipe, but no matter what she did, but they did not taste the same. Her father swore otherwise, but Elena knew he was more than a little biased.
“It is a good smell, yes?” Fenricia smiled again, resting one hand on her hip.
“One of the best. I will not buy anymore today, though. I have some at home.” Elena returned her smile, before holding up her basket. “This, I am very excited about.”
“You will have to tell me how your pie turns out.”
“I will.”
Fenricia scrunched her nose. “What was it again?”
“Lemon meringue.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now. Lemons.” Fenricia propped one hand on her hip again. “Yes, I will be very interested to hear how this turns out.”
“I am excited to try it.” Elena bounced a little on her toes. Cream of tartar was a recent development in the baking world, and this was the first time she had ever had any in her possession.
The two woman exchanged farewells, and then Fenricia turned to help another customer who had walked up to her stall and was perusing her array of spices. Elena, meanwhile, walked away from the spice stall with a light step and equally light heart.
Now for the lemons.
A happy smile broke across her face at the thought of the bright yellow fruit. Oh, how she was looking forward to experimenting with a lemon meringue pie! Her father, she knew, would be more than happy to contribute to her experiment by helping to eat the pie.
Elena smothered a giggle. That was, no doubt, for the best. She could hardly eat an entire pie by herself.
She sailed onward through the Market District to the citrus stall, unaware she had a newly-fascinated admirer trailing after her.
~~~~
If you enjoyed this and want to read the rest, you can get a super early ebook or Special Edition paperback/hardback during the Kickstarter. See you there!
