Excerpt from The Otherwhere Post by Emily J. Taylor, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

More lightning cracked across the sky, followed by rain. Maeve tightened her scarf. It was a long trek to the Alewick Inksmithy, a quaint, quiet establishment in the southernmost neighborhood in Gloam. Maeve's eyes watered as she finally entered through the front. The heated shop air was scented with lampblack ink, powdered blotting papers, sealing waxes, and solvents: all the tools one required to pen a letter.

"Is that you, Isla?" Mr. Braithwaite called from the back.

It took Maeve a full second to answer; she still wasn't used to her latest alias. "Yes, I'm here! And drenched, I'm afraid."

His cane knocked against the ­rough-­hewn floorboards as he hobbled into the front. A thick scowl deepened the wrinkle lines in his brown, freckled cheeks. "You're awfully late again."

She wouldn't be surprised if her employer had a ticking pocket watch instead of a heart. "Only twelve minutes."

"Late is late. I thought I would be forced to hunt you down and make you feed Bane."

The old nipping mare had a countenance as charming as her master's. Maeve avoided Bane. She avoided all horses.

Peeling off her gloves, she caught her reflection in the front mirror and frowned. Her damp coat pulled against her wide ­bust—­where the tarnished row of brass buttons almost never remained in their ­holes—­but she was too chilled to shrug it off. The mole above the right corner of her lip stood out like a point on a pallid map. At least with a pinch to her cheeks, she appeared slightly less like a blanched onion.

Maeve came around the counter, pausing at the locked valuables cabinet that had stood empty yesterday.

"Those came in late last night." Mr. Braithwaite gestured to three ­left-­handed quills hanging inside, their fletching dyed exquisite shades of indigo and violet.

The quills were crafted from molted ­right-­wing feathers, which made them enormously expensive. Most feather merchants gathered ­right-­wing feathers for other uses besides ­left-­handed quills, and the few they sold were usually snapped up by university faculty long before they arrived in Alewick.

Maeve ran a finger over the blisters along her ­left-­hand thumb, dearly wishing feathers weren't as costly as train tickets.

Tearing her eyes from the case, she took out her favorite quill knife, a small, rusted blade that got the job done faster than most. She tested it against a fingertip. When a bead of blood welled, she licked it off.

"So?" Mr. Braithwaite said a whole half a minute later. "Why were you late?"

Meddlesome man. "I forgot my hat at home and had to go back for it," Maeve lied, then reached for a box of molted swan feathers.

"Back for a hat?" Mr. Braithwaite said with a disagreeable grunt. He pushed his reading spectacles to his forehead. "Doesn't seem such an important thing to me, but I suppose I can't understand the importance of fashion to a woman." He glanced toward the aged sepiagraph hanging behind the counter, of a pretty young woman, her dark cheeks stained pink. "My Una loved shopping for hats, and I never understood it," he said, then dabbed tears in his eyes.

Maeve fidgeted, uncomfortable at the sight of him weeping.

A job posting brought her here eight months prior. Mr. Braithwaite had been trying to hire a stockist for weeks; his demeanor likely sent all other applicants fleeing in terror. It was the perfect opportunity, until he confessed in a ­gut-­wrenching tone that Una had passed away.

Lonely people were the ones Maeve watched out for, who recognized the loneliness in her and thought it an invitation. She had almost walked out, but then he offered her the job, and she needed the money more than she cared to admit.

Excerpted from The Otherwhere Post by Emily J. Taylor. Copyright © 2025 by Emily J. Taylor. Excerpted by permission of G.P. Putnam's Sons. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.