"The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs" by Katherine Howe

EXCERPT and GIVEAWAY

The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs
(The Physick Book 2)

by Katherine Howe

The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs is the second book in The Physick series by Katherine Howe. Also available: The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane.

The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs is currently on tour with Great Escapes Virtual Book Tours. The tour stops here today for an excerpt and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

Description

New York Times bestselling author Katherine Howe returns to the world of The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane with a bewitching story of a New England history professor who must race against time to free her family from a curse.

Connie Goodwin is an expert on America’s fractured past with witchcraft. A young, tenure-track professor in Boston, she’s earned career success by studying the history of magic in colonial America - especially women’s home recipes and medicines - and by exposing society’s threats against women fluent in those skills. But beyond her studies, Connie harbors a secret: She is the direct descendant of a woman tried as a witch in Salem, an ancestor whose abilities were far more magical than the historical record shows.

When a hint from her mother and clues from her research lead Connie to the shocking realization that her partner’s life is in danger, she must race to solve the mystery behind a hundreds’-years-long deadly curse.

Flashing back through American history to the lives of certain supernaturally gifted women, The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs affectingly reveals not only the special bond that unites one particular matriarchal line, but also explores the many challenges to women’s survival across the decades - and the risks some women are forced to take to protect what they love most.

Excerpt

Cambridge, Massachusetts
Early February 2000

“It would appear that we are nearly out of time,” Janine Silva said, eying her vintage Spiro Agnew wristwatch, and Connie Goodwin’s vision blurred with a surreal sense of déjà vu.

For six years, every major event of her graduate student life had taken place in this room. The new student welcome reception was held here—Connie had worn flip-flops, of course, which was appalling, but true. Her reading seminars were taught here. Her oral exams—the longest four hours of her life, so stressful that she had basically blocked them out the moment they were over. That was here too. Her practice job talk, before a panel of fellow doctoral candidates each wanting to ask a question more probing and picayune than the next, also here. And the dreadful, stultifying holiday parties, year after year, which she’d attended mainly so that she and her roommate Liz Dowers—Liz of the half-dimple smile and ability to actually lecture in medieval Latin—could make off with the cheese platter at the end. Years and years she had spent trapped in this room, like Theseus in the Labyrinth, an endless vista of sameness around this one conference table. And then, all at once, never again. Not since her final defense. In, what? 1995. Five years. A long time. And not a long time at all.

The room itself was essentially the same as she remembered. Pitted conference table, with a few fresh pairs of initials here and there, tattooed into the wood with ballpoint pen. The same stained blackboard, now hidden behind a freestanding whiteboard with an announcement for an undergrad study break next week—free pizza!—in blue dry-erase marker. The same white-whiskered portrait of an anonymous old man, gazing boringly out at his own receding importance. The same grimy window, with the same shutters, now pinned open to catch what remained of the thin winter light. Four in the afternoon, and already almost dark. February was the cruelest month in New England.

Janine Silva, chair of the newly renamed Committee on Degrees in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies, folded her hands in front of her and smiled at the faces assembled around the table.

“I believe we have time for one more question,” Professor Silva said. “Who would like to do the honors?”

Janine looked expectantly into each face in turn. To Janine’s left, Marcus Hayden, specialist in African American history, newly lured from Dartmouth with tenure and, it was rumored, a house in Belmont for him and his wife and four (four!) children. Marcus was a superstar. He’d gotten the Bancroft history prize with his first book (first!), and he appeared regularly as a commentator on cable news networks. He was the kind of guy Connie found herself thinking about in parenthetical interjections (a Bancroft!). If he had any shortcoming at all, it was that Marcus knew he was a superstar. He’d barely acknowledged Connie when she came into the room. He was cordial to Janine, but in an aloof, superstarish way. He had no notes in front of him, and was also looking at his watch—an expensive one. Well-cut sport coat and no tie. Too handsome for a tie. He had already moved on from this otherwise unmemorable afternoon. No way would the last question come from him.

To Janine’s right, Professor Harold Beaumont leaned back in his library chair, eyelids heavy, fingers knitted over his sweatered belly. Professor Beaumont had published a thousand-page Civil War monograph twenty-one years ago, with a university press that listed it for sale in hardcover at a cost of eighty-nine dollars (all but guaranteeing it would never be adopted for any course), and then he’d settled into tenure with comfortable indifference. Connie doubted he remembered having been on her own orals committee. Or if he did, he didn’t much care. He passed his days teaching one seminar a year, generally consisting of no more than four students at a time (they all had to buy his book), writing a regular column for the National Review, and going on cable news shows, though not the same channels as Professor Hayden. He had notes between his hands, the selfsame typewritten ones that he took to every examination like this one, but Connie was reasonably certain that he was about to fall asleep.

On the opposite side of the table, eyes wide, buttoned into an ill-fitting navy blue blazer that had the look of being borrowed from a friend, radiating the vibrating crackles of panic that perhaps Connie alone around the table could remember having felt, sat the reason for this gathering—a young, curly-headed graduate student named Esperanza Molina. Zazi, to her friends. Enduring the longest four hours of her entire life up to this point. Five pounds skinnier from months of studying. Light-headed, desperate for escape. Hands tightly folded, thumbs crossed as if in prayer. Her eyes met Connie’s and begged, Please let this be over.

“I’ll do it,” Connie said.

Janine beamed. “Professor Goodwin? By all means. Go ahead.”

“Miss Molina.” Connie leaned her elbows on the table and looked pointedly at the young woman—girl, really. Grad students looked younger to Connie every year. “Would you kindly provide the committee with a concise but complete history of witchcraft in North America?”

The second hand ticked on Connie’s watch. And kept ticking. It ticked long enough that Connie noticed it ticking. Her question was meant to be a lob. An easy tossup that Zazi could smash into the corner of the court—Connie had never actually played tennis, but same difference—and go out of her oral qualifying exam with a bang. This was a gimme question. Zazi’s eyes were open so wide that Connie could almost see the whites around her irises. What was happening in there? Was Zazi hunting through all her mental index cards—she probably didn’t use index cards, none of the grad students did anymore—shuffling through drawer after drawer, looking for the answer and finding them empty? What would Connie do if Zazi couldn’t answer? She would have to throw her a life preserver. Give her a hint or something.

Connie glanced at the other professors around the table, weighing how a life-preserver hint would go down, and what it might mean for Zazi passing the exam. Janine would probably let it slide. Maybe. Depending on how she felt about Zazi’s writing. Harold? Oh, he wouldn’t care, would he? Unless he felt like causing a problem just because he could. Connie wouldn’t put it past him. Plenty of professors—more than she’d like to acknowledge—took more pleasure from exercising their power over their students than they did in seeing their students succeed. She glared at him as she thought this, but he didn’t notice. And what about Marcus? His lips pressed together, flattening his mouth. Dammit. No way would he give Zazi a pass. No freaking way.

Zazi straightened in her chair, drawing her shoulders back and lifting her chin. She looked from one professor’s face to another, settling at last on Connie.

“Northeast, South, or Southwest?” Zazi said.

Image created using MockupShots. Get started for FREE here.

Praise for the Book

“The story is full of academic research and family history but is never dull. It is a wonderful story of family and love, with a little magic thrown in.” ~ The Book’s the Thing

“Compelling in a more scholarly way, The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs tells an interesting tale of witchcraft and one family’s fight to survive.” ~ Cozy Up With Kathy

“The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs has a fatal curse, a concealed spell, an antique skeleton key, a spellbinding tome, a magical lineage, and daring witches.” ~ The Avid Reader

“The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs combines exacting historical research with compelling, imaginative storytelling. There is real magic at work in this book, which illuminates, like a candle in the dark, the enduring courage, wisdom, and searing power of women, passed down through countless generations.” ~ Kathleen Kent, New York Times bestselling author of The Heretic's Daughter

“Katherine Howe invites us into a richly imagined, intricate world of family curses and secrets waiting to be unlocked. Elegant, twisty, and timely, The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs has it all.” ~ Matthew Pearl, New York Times bestselling author of The Dante Chamber and The Dante Club

About the Author

Katherine Howe is the author of the New York Times bestsellers The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane and The House of Velvet and Glass, as well as the young adult novels Conversion and The Appearance of Annie van Sinderen. She served as editor of The Penguin Book of Witches and her fiction has been translated into over twenty languages. Descended from three women who were tried for witchcraft in Salem, she and her family live in New England and New York City, where she is at work on her next novel.

Giveaway

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win a print copy of The Daughters of Temperance Hobbs by Katherine Howe (US only).

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Links

Add to Goodreads

Amazon

Apple

Barnes & Noble

GooglePlay

IndieBound

Kobo

BookBub

Facebook

Goodreads

Instagram @katherinebhowe

LinkedIn

Pinterest

Twitter @katherinebhowe

Website

Featured in this post:

"Witch of the Cards" by Catherine Stine

GUEST POST and GIVEAWAY

Witch of the Cards

by Catherine Stine

Witch of the Cards by Catherine Stine is currently on tour with Bewitching Book Tours. The tour stops here today for my review, a guest post by the author, an excerpt, and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

For more books by this author, please check out my blog post on Dorianna and my blog post on Heart in a Box.

Description

Fiera was born a sea witch with no inkling of her power. And now it might be too late.

Witch of the Cards is historical, supernatural romantic suspense set in 1932 on the Jersey shore. Twenty-two year-old Fiera has recently left the Brooklyn orphanage where she was raised, and works in Manhattan as a nanny. She gets a lucky break when her boss pays for her short vacation in Asbury Park. One evening, Fiera and her new friend Dulcie wander down the boardwalk and into Peter Dune’s Tarot & Séance, where they attend a card reading.

Fiera has always had an unsettling ability to know things before they happen and sense people’s hidden agendas. She longs to either find out the origin of her powers or else banish them because as is, they make her feel crazy. When, during the reading, her energies somehow bond with Peter Dune’s and form an undeniable ethereal force, a chain of revelations and dangerous events begin to unspool. For one, Fiera finds out she is a witch from a powerful sea clan, but that someone is out to stop her blossoming power forever. And though she is falling in love with Peter, he also has a secret side. He’s no card reader, but a private detective working to expose mediums. Despite this terrible betrayal, Fiera must make the choice to save Peter from a tragic Morro Cruise boat fire, or let him perish with his fellow investigators. Told in alternating viewpoints, we hear Fiera and Peter each struggle against their deep attraction. Secrets, lies, even murder, lace this dark fantasy.

Excerpt

Here’s a snippet of a scene when Fiera and her date Peter venture down to the basement speakeasy in the taffy store:

The absinthe put me in a dreamy state. Added to the mix was the sensual comfort of sitting next to Peter, who served as a buffer between Alyse and me.

Somewhere in the room, a chorus of faint voices floated around, high and sweet. Or was the sound merely in my head? How could it be? Peter asked me a question, but it took three repetitions for me to understand him over the low-slung jazz notes infused with the chorus of invisible soprano cherubs singing at me.

“Have you always had a talent for the unseen?” I heard him ask.

“Whatever do you mean? It was you who saw things that weren’t there.” I had to right myself because I found myself swooning so much I nearly fell into Peter’s lap.

“But it was you who eked it out of me.”

“Little old me?” I giggled.

“Yes, you,” Alyse agreed. “I was there, too. You have some strange talent. Can you describe how it works? You must be aware of it.”

Everything was turning light and frothy like a magical cake icing. The barkeep was chatting up the fellows at his counter, the card players exhaled in cheery gusts of laughter, and the waitresses flounced around like so many sunny meadow flowers. I didn’t see the harm. “I do sense things. Always have.”

“What kind of things?” Peter and Alyse asked in tandem. Their unexpected accord matched the soprano voices singing harmoniously in and around my head.

I giggled again. “Do you hear them?”

“Hear what?” Peter looked around, spooked.

“Children, little voices.”

Alyse’s brows creased. “What are they saying?”

“They’re singing.” But the entire mood of the room had changed in an instant. Their radiant energy soured. The children of the ether weren’t singing any more. They were starting to weep, over something very sad.

Over me.

How did I know this? No idea. A hard frost shot through my bones. I took a big gulp of the absinthe. Perhaps it would block out the voices, the wailing of innocents.

“What is it?” Peter took my hand. His concerned touch cut through the horrible, chilling ache and melted me. “What’s the matter, Fiera?” His face paled, and right then, I knew he heard them too. “They’re crying, aren’t they?” he whispered in my ear, tickling my soft lobe. “Crying over you.”

“Yes.” I leaned on him, letting the voices cry for me.

We hugged and I swear I felt his sudden, hot tears melt through the shoulder fabric of my dress. It was infinitely sad, infinitely tender.

The invisible cherubs whirring inside my head took translucent form and slipped out of me. They soared around the room like hardscrabble angels, flitting past Dulcie as she danced; sliding, their soft baby feet gliding over the long bar counter, and right through the man with the hookah. He glanced up for a moment as if he, too, felt the supernatural breeze. Then he bowed his head back down and took a pensive draw on his smoking device. Eyes closed, I saw green paisleys and floating leaves, the rushing of a cold stream bubbling under me, which filled me with terror. I came to with a gasp.

“What is it?” Alyse asked. How could I tell her of this suffering, shot through with spectacular floating objects, and my strange, sudden affinity with Mr. Dune?

“I see children weeping,” I admitted. “They’ve been hurt.”

“How?” Her voice grew anxious.

I silently asked them. “They’re babies. They can’t say.”

When I looked over at Peter, it was obvious he was in the same deep trance he’d been in when we first met. His eyes were glazed as if whatever he was experiencing was far from this basement speakeasy. “What is it? What do you see?” I whispered.

“They’re fading. They’re dying. They’re being—”

“Snap out of it, Mr. Dune.” Alyse gave him a stern shaking. “You’ve had too much absinthe.”

 “It’s not that!” I insisted.

“Then tell me what it is, Fiera,” she said.

“It’s a vision. Of something real from long ago.”

“How long ago?”

“As long ago as there is a long ago.” I sounded ridiculous. Alyse Bone was right. The absinthe was crazy making. Or was it the taffy? I leaned into Peter’s limp shoulder, reached over and shook him, too, but with more patience than Alyse had.

His eyes fluttered open, and he gazed at me with that same calm as when he awoke after the séance. As before, his expression was clear of emotion, blissfully unaware of what he’d whispered to me minutes ago.

“Well, there you are,” he slurred. “You look positively ravishing. Dance?”

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” I bumbled to my feet.

“You two really drank the coffin varnish.” Alyse gave an unbecoming snort as she rose and drifted away.

Perhaps I was too far-gone, but I didn’t care. Peter and I danced and danced. The speakeasy filled with the overflow from the convention hall dance—young lovers, bootleggers with wide ties and cigars, older women with twinkling earrings and heavy bosoms, even a prostitute or two. They wore too much rouge and sat brazenly up at the bar with the gin rummies.

This time, I couldn’t say whether I stepped on Mr. Dune’s polished wingtips. He probably couldn’t be sure if he knocked his bony legs into mine. We had more nips of absinthe, and I wolfed down another green-swirl taffy. Before I knew it, I was leaning provocatively against Peter and laughing like a wild banshee.

I remember gaping up at him to see his black hair all disheveled and him indistinctly mumbling. And thinking that he was the most gorgeous human being I’d ever seen. I remember Peter and I howling at the crescent moon over the ocean, and the shocked sideways glance of the hotel proprietor as we stumbled in.

I recall pulling out the Tarot, and laying them out on my rug. I recall babbling at him—about a witch and a swindler and a boat. I can still picture his expression of shocked surprise.

And I remember Peter’s lips branding my forehead—how could I ever forget that—while shocks of his lush black hair dangled deliciously on my burning cheeks. The last thing I recall before things went dark was kicking off my shoes.

[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book

"Deftly plotted, Witch of the Cards weaves a spell with magic, tarot cards, exquisitely terrifying underwater scenes, inept detectives, and Fiera’s budding friendships with Dulcie and Opal. It ends surprisingly well, with a hint of sequel. Catherine Stine is a master storyteller above and beyond the constraints of genre." ~ Sheila K. Lewis

"While romance is not my genre, I do love historical fantasy, especially novels featuring real people and events, with the supernatural portrayed as a secret undercurrent or cause. [...] Salvador Dali and Bela Lugosi playing bit parts? Fabulous. The 1930s setting is well-researched and convincing. The bleakness of the Great Depression, and the glittering remnants of the Jazz Age, all come vividly to life. Catherine Stine has a gift for sparkling language and knows how to tell a good story." ~ J. A. Massa

"Witch of the Cards was an interesting story of witches, deceit, secrets, romance and friendship. The storyline was fun and creative. The characters were an interesting cast of personalities. Fiera was a great lead. She was an honorable and dedicated friend. I enjoyed her journey to becoming a witch and embracing her destiny. Opal and Dulcie were also an integral part of Fiera's will to overcome her past, present and make the best of her future. Peter made a great addition and challenge for Fiera. The way the story played out was full of creativity and intriguing scenarios. I enjoyed the 1930's theme. A great add to your tbr list." ~ Denise Gardner

"I thoroughly enjoyed Witch of the Cards. Stine plunks you down on the boardwalk of 1930s Asbury Park, New Jersey, and immerses you in the vivid history of the time. From the Tarot parlors and hidden speakeasies of the shore to the Hooverville in Central Park and the opulence of a Fifth Avenue mansion, you get a wonderful sense of the extremes in which people were living. It’s no wonder they retreated into the metaphysical, and the magic that ensues in this story is riveting. The characters are richly painted, and when they mingle with the likes of Salvador Dali and Bela Lugosi, history and fantasy collide in an terrific explosion." ~ Nancy L. Fish

My Review

By Lynda Dickson

Ivy is a nanny on a summer holiday in Asbury, New Jersey, in 1932. She often has premonitions and feels strangely attracted to the ocean, even though this is her first visit. Ivy knows nothing of the circumstances of her birth, other than her birth name, Fiera. When psychic Peter Dune calls her by that name during a séance and later gives her a deck of Tarot cards, Fiera embarks on a journey to discover her origins and her destiny.

The story is told from the points-of-view of both Fiera and Peter. This leads to some repetition, as we sometimes see the same events from both perspectives. This author creates a great sense of atmosphere, capturing the voice and the mood of the nation during the Depression and Jazz Age. She includes historical references to Asbury Park, Hooverville, designer Elsa Schiaparelli, artist Salvador Dali, actress Irene Ware, actor Bela Lugosi, and the Morro Castle cruise liner. And she cleverly weaves supernatural fiction with a real-life tragedy.

While this story is complete, the ending hints at adventures to come.

Warnings: sexual references, mild sex scenes, alcohol consumption, drug use.

Guest Post by the Author

The Allure of Creepy, Ramshackle Beach Towns
as Settings for Dark Fantasy

What is it exactly that makes edgy beach towns the perfect setting for sinister fantasy and historical suspense? I’ve always been attracted to the dark side, and particularly to strange beach towns. So far, I’ve set two novels in them.

When I first moved to New York City after college and a stint out west, you couldn’t tear me away from the dilapidated boardwalks of Coney Island. This was back before the arcade was renovated, back when the sideshow by the sea with its sword swallower and human pincushion were on full display. It was when a hungry, dirty capybara was caged in a box that read: Only $5 To See the Biggest Rat in the World! This poor critter was a plot point in Dorianna, my paranormal twist on Dorian Grey. And no surprise, I set Dorianna in Coney Island, and installed a sexy villain in Wilson Warren. He was an agent of the devil disguised as a videographer who prowled the beaches, making girls into viral Internet sensations for a very high price.

Fast-forward to my new novel Witch of the Cards, set in 1932, about Fiera, a sea witch who has a special talent with Tarot (and not just reading the cards). Of course, I set it in a shady shore town, in this case, Asbury Park, New Jersey. You see, I’ve been coming to this gentrifying coastal town for years and know it well - its sunny moods but also its spooky, moody shades.

Around the turn of the century, and up until around 1945, Asbury Park used to be the stomping grounds of the glitterati. There were grand concerts in the art deco Convention Center, and people dressed to the nines would stroll on the boardwalk at night. Then came the race riots of the 1960s and the economic crash, and the place fell into major disrepair. Its only remaining claim to fame was The Stone Pony, where Bruce Springsteen rocked into the limelight.

About fifteen years ago, when I first ventured into the Asbury convention center, there was a huge hole in its roof that seagulls flew in and out of. And there was only one lonely saltwater taffy store on the boardwalk run by an ancient lady who seemed to have stepped out of a Stephen King novel. In Witch of the Cards the taffy sold in the shop has very odd effects, and I installed an illegal speakeasy in the taffy store basement. I turned the (actual) Paranormal Museum on Cookwell Avenue into a place to hold séances that often went horribly wrong.

In Witch of the Cards, even the ocean hides terrible secrets.

There’s something about the scent of saltwater and hotdogs, the splintered, salt-dried boardwalk and the scream of people hurtling down on the arcade rides that gets my blood charging and my imagination firing. What about you?

Thanks for having me on your blog!
Catherine

About the Author

Catherine Stine’s novels span the range from futuristic to supernatural to contemporary. Her YA sci-fi thrillers Fireseed One and Ruby’s Fire are Amazon bestsellers and indie award winners. Her YA, Dorianna won Best Horror Book in the Kindle Hub Awards. Heart in a Box, her contemporary YA was an Amazon Hot New Release in Teen and Alternative Family for over eight weeks. She also writes romance as Kitsy Clare. Her Art of Love series includes Model Position and Private Internship (read my blog post). Book three, Girl and the Gamer, launches this summer. She suspects her love of dark fantasy came from her father reading Edgar Allan Poe to her as a child, and her love of contemporary fiction comes from being a jubilant realist. To unwind she loves to watch "bad" reality TV and travel to offbeat places.

Giveaway

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win some great prizes: a $40 gift card, two hand-painted heart-boxes (by Catherine) with secret treasure inside (US only), one signed paperback (US only) or ebook (international) of Dorianna by Catherine Stine, one signed paperback (US only) or ebook (international) of Witch of the Cards by Catherine Stine, or one brand new collector Tarot deck along with an envelope full of special swag (US only).

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Links

Add to Goodreads

Amazon US

Amazon UK

BAM

Barnes & Noble

Book Depository

IndieBound

Inktera

iTunes

Kobo

Scribd

Amazon US author page

Amazon UK author page

Blog

Facebook

Goodreads

Google+

LinkedIn

Newsletter

Pinterest

Twitter @crossoverwriter

Website

YouTube