Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Time of Witches by Madeline Martin, which releases on September 1st 2026.

Lilith Legare’s life is unraveling. Since her mother’s death, strange things have been happening – plants turn toward her touch, animals linger in her path, and the birthmark on her arm has started tingling. Worse still is her recurring nightmare of being burned alive at the stake.

Her search for answers brings her from Savannah to England, to the decaying Brackenmere Manor where the past blurs with the present. There, Lilith discovers a legacy she never asked for and along with it, the threat of peril. History must be rewritten, or she too will die.

In 1645 Suffolk, Sybil Brantham stands accused as a witch. An educated, wealthy widow, she is branded a threat by men who fear her independence. As arrests begin and suspicion abounds, Sybil must protect her younger sister, even as betrayal takes root within her household.

Across centuries, Lilith and Sybil are bound by blood and by danger. To save themselves, and each other, they must confront the silence that has stolen women’s power for generations—and dare to claim their voices before it’s too late.

Excerpted from A Time of Witches, by Madeline Martin. Hanover Square Press, 2026. Reprinted with permission.

Lilith

Present Day

Savannah, Georgia

Every night, Lilith Legare burned alive at the stake. The recurring dream was inevitable, unstoppable, and she was powerless before its fury.

Each time, she braced for the assault as she was dragged under: smoke choking her lungs, splintered wood biting her bare feet, the rough rope rasping over raw wrists. And the flames. Blistering hot, licking at exposed flesh.

The dream tossed her into a landscape she’d never seen, yet somehow remembered. A preternatural storm roiled above stretches of green hills, a town at her back, a horizon of slate-roofed homes. Eighteen figures swayed by their necks from a beam of wood, tainting the smoky air with the stink of death.

A crowd churned before the woman, spitting accusations, seething with bloodlust.

Witch.

The dream tonight, however, was different. This time, Lilith was not the woman tied to the stake, but a spectator.

A teenager at the front stood apart from the mob with gleaming red-­gold hair that hung in a heavy braid down her back.

The air crackled with tension, a charged energy that drew the throng closer, pushing Lilith forward. A man wearing black robes strode toward the woman on the pyre—­the woman who had taken Lilith’s place. Wind snapped at her plain white shift, revealing the harsh lines of her emaciated body. Her eyes were bright with fear. With hate.

The man gripped a torch in his fist which he unceremoniously flung onto the pyre. A moment of collective awe silenced the crowd. A sputter followed, a whisper of hope that the fire would not catch.

But Lilith knew it would. She knew.

Horror gripped her throat as light glowed within the kindling. All at once, the embers erupted into a blaze of demons. The flames clawed toward the woman, clambering over the shift’s hem and up thin, dry fabric.

Lilith relived every sensation the woman experienced. How quickly that linen shift singed away, the agony of those white-hot flames, the effort of dragging burning air into starved lungs. Even now, Lilith found herself sucking in a hard inhale, ash gritty in her mouth.

And yet she could not look away.

Her gaze locked on the woman as the intense heat warped her vision. But the woman did not scream as Lilith had in her dreams.

The sky blackened with rage and lightning speared through the clouds. Rain spat fat, angry drops on the earth and the woman lifted her face as if to savor the cool splash against her skin.

Suddenly, the teenager with red-­gold hair turned, her eyes narrowed as they locked on Lilith with fierce determination.

Her lips moved and Lilith caught the words as they were torn away by the wind.

“Help her.”

Lilith wrenched her gaze back to the woman standing on the pyre as the conflagration whipped around her. And that’s when Lilith saw it, branded on the flesh in the crook of the woman’s right arm: the shape of a crescent moon.

The exact replica of Lilith’s own birthmark.

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Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Madeline Martin’s The Secret Book Society, which releases on August 26th 2025.

You are cordially invited to the Secret Book Society…

London, 1895: Trapped by oppressive marriages and societal expectations, three women receive a mysterious invitation to an afternoon tea at the home of the reclusive Lady Duxbury. Beneath the genteel facade of the gathering lies a secret book club—a sanctuary where they can discover freedom, sisterhood, and the courage to rewrite their stories.

Eleanor Clarke, a devoted mother suffocating under the tyranny of her husband. Rose Wharton, a transplanted American dollar princess struggling to fit the mold of an aristocratic wife. Lavinia Cavendish, an artistic young woman haunted by a dangerous family secret. All are drawn to the enigmatic Lady Duxbury, a thrice-widowed countess whose husbands’ untimely deaths have sparked whispers of murder.

As the women form deep, heartwarming friendships, they uncover secrets about their marriages, their pasts, and the risks they face. Their courage is their only weapon in the oppressive world that has kept them silent, but when secrets are deadly, one misstep could cost them everything.

ROSE WHARTON WAS SHOWN INTO THE drawing room at Duxbury Place, a lovely townhouse three doors down from her own in the fashionable area of Grosvenor Square. Potted plants clustered becomingly throughout the room, their leaves extended toward the windows, straining for the weak light.

The sun was one of the things Rose missed most about America, where it seemed to shine in endless abundance. And while England was lovely with its old-world elegance, she craved the brilliant splash of light and warmth.

Lady Duxbury rose from where she sat in a great sage-green armchair. “Ah, Mrs. Wharton, it is so good of you to come. Please do have a seat.”

Rose settled into a plush velvet chair beside a potted hellebore, the leathery petals blossoming in shades of deep burgundy and milky white. Small painted birds adorned the green wallpaper, their feathers artistically rendered with such care, the iridescent blue-green sweep of their wings caught the meager light.

Accepting Lady Duxbury’s invitation was no doubt a mistake, another opportunity to be ostracized at a social gathering. In that way, London wasn’t much different from Manhattan, where even women of Rose’s own American nationality had put their backs to her, their heads tucked together as they whispered waspishly about the stink of new money.

However, there didn’t appear to be any malice in the countess’s smile.

She seemed too young to have already lost three husbands. Her rich raven-black hair was piled ornately atop her head, affixed with jet-black combs, her skin smooth over her high cheek- bones. The delicate lilac of her gown indicated she remained in half-mourning for Lord Duxbury, who had been dead a full two years.

There was a difference to her countenance now, a self- assuredness she hadn’t possessed upon Rose’s first meeting with her. They’d been at a ball, one of the first in London Rose had attended after her marriage to Theodore. None of the other women had spoken to Rose and she had sequestered herself in the powder room with a book. Lady Duxbury entered some moments later, her narrow shoulders pinched together.

“Looks like you could use a moment alone as well.” Rose had given her a conspiratorial grin.

A note of sadness had shone in the countess’s large violet- blue eyes when they settled on the book propped in Rose’s hands. “What are you reading?” Longing filled the countess’s voice.

“A Masque of Poets. It’s part of the no-name series, where authors are anonymous, so their work is judged on true merit rather than notoriety.” Rose closed the book and extended it to Lady Duxbury.

The countess had flicked an anxious glance toward the door before accepting it, her touch a reverent caress on the black- and-red cover. Rose hadn’t missed the way Lord Duxbury watched his wife with a predatory protectiveness. Some men were like that, controlling, restricting.

“Take it,” Rose offered.

Lady Duxbury had stiffened, her brows furrowing together. “I can’t.”

“I’ll have my maid find your maid to deliver it,” Rose said. “I can always buy another.”

That wasn’t true, of course. The price of books was dear and funds were needed for items far dearer: marble, the contractors to lay the costly material and all the other bits and pieces necessary to reassemble a crumbling residence into one of admirable stature.

Still, she’d held out her hand, a smile of promise on her lips.

Lady Duxbury cradled the book to her heart before relinquishing it. “I shall never forget this kindness, Mrs. Wharton.” Rose had straightened a little taller then. Someone of note in

that cold, unwelcoming Society remembered her name. Such consideration had been well worth the cost of the book.

There was no meekness cowing the countess now. There was only confidence, evident in the tilt of her chin, the squaring of her shoulders, her stature one of powerful wealth with a blatant disregard for the gossip hissed behind her back.

And with three dead husbands—two being young and virile until their deaths—there was gossip aplenty.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Rose replied, aware as always of her American accent. Some found it charming; others found it grating. She was uncertain of Lady Duxbury’s opinion, though her pleasant expression remained unchanged as she extended a hand to the other woman sitting on a stuffed chair the color of spring grass.

“You know Mrs. Clarke, I presume.”
Mrs. Clarke.
Of course Rose knew her. The perfect Englishwoman if ever there was one. And not simply for her beauty alone—though she was indeed beautiful, with her heart-shaped face, golden blond hair piled like a crown on her head and a fine figure in a perfectly fitted silk dress. She was the embodiment of poise and grace.

Their acquaintance had been made at a picnic months ago. Whereas Rose had looked like she’d been tossed about in the wind like a fish in violent sea at low tide, Mrs. Clarke had been immaculate, occasionally sweeping aside any loose locks of hair with graceful fingers. As if the move had been practiced to elegant perfection.

Mrs. Clarke always did the right thing, said the right thing and was exactly the right thing. No doubt even the lapis color of her gown was meant to enhance the brilliance of her lovely wide blue eyes.

If Rose was like her, she and Theodore would still be happy. Mrs. Clarke had no idea how lucky she was. “We have met.” Mrs. Clarke offered a smile that was not too large as to be overeager, nor too small as to be unwelcoming. The perfect smile on the perfect Englishwoman.

“Lovely to see you again,” Rose replied cordially. “I simply adore your necklace.”
Mrs. Clarke touched the strand of fat sapphires at her neck, as if one could forget having put on such an expensive bauble. “Thank you. I suppose it’s a bit much for tea.” A pretty blush blossomed over her cheeks.

“You know us Americans. We love a good string of jewels,” Rose offered jovially.

The two women maintained polite expressions as the joke rolled over them like a square wheel. Rose always forgot English humor was different than that of Americans, that mention of wealth—even in jest—was vulgar.

But Rose did love jewels. Gorgeous sets of them—bracelets, earrings, necklaces, combs, brooches, rings, anything that could be set in gold to glitter and sparkle in a wash of unadulterated sunlight. Daddy had spoiled her with them when she’d been in Manhattan. Not that a vault of jewelry ever won over any Vanderbilt or awed any Astor. But they’d made her happy.

There weren’t any new jewels now. Instead, the Wharton family townhouse on Grosvenor Square had been elevated to a presentable stature, no longer the tired, disintegrating shell it’d been upon her arrival. In that regard, at least her father’s wealth was being applied to good effect.

And she had been genuinely happy with Theodore. At least in those early days.

Mother would have preferred Rose marry an earl rather than an earl’s younger brother, to elevate their American wealth with an English title. But Theodore had been irresistible. From the charming way his mouth hitched higher on the right when he smiled to how he made her feel like she belonged with someone for the first time in her life.

Before that now-familiar ache in her heart could return, the butler entered once more through the open entryway. She realized suddenly that the door had never been closed behind her when she entered.

How strange.

Apparently, Lady Duxbury had the utmost faith in her staff to allow them to hear what was spoken in her drawing room.

The butler was a stocky fellow whose arms were thick as Christmas hams beneath the sleeves of his wide-shouldered jacket. His nose took up half his face and leaned hard to the right, as if it’d been broken a good half dozen times. Rather fitting given his past, or at least what Rose’s maid had unearthed on Lady Duxbury’s servants.

The butler was once notorious in the underground boxing circuit and—if word on the street could be believed—a few knocks shy of mortal retirement. Her maids were also pulled from a questionable past, having worked in one of those factories that puffed ghastly amounts of black smog into London’s air.

The countess had an affinity for hiring from the base proletariat class.

Mother would have been shocked into an early grave at having such rustic laborers in her employ. Rose was of a more progressive generation, however. Not scandalized, but indeed fascinated.

“Lady Lavinia Cavendish,” the butler announced, his tone bordering on snobbish for a man of indecorous background.

A petite young woman with auburn hair edged slowly into the room, appearing as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Lady Lavinia.” There was a note of surprise to Lady Duxbury’s tone.

“You invited my mother.” Lady Lavinia’s small frame tensed, and she cleared her throat before speaking again. “She thought I would benefit more than she.”

The volume of her soft voice was almost inaudible, and Rose found herself leaning forward in her seat to catch the words.

“We’re pleased to have you.” Lady Duxbury welcomed her to join them and made the proper introductions.

Silence fell upon the small gathering, ripe with unspoken questions. Rose had been hopelessly curious since she’d received the invitation, secreted in the drawer of her vanity by her maid.

Nearly six months had passed since she’d been allowed to read what she wanted. After a lifetime of freedom, she now felt like a bird stuffed into a gilded cage. One she’d paid for.

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Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Madeline Martin’s The Booklover’s Library, which is out September 10th 2024

In Nottingham, England, widow Emma Taylor finds herself in desperate need of a job to provide for herself and her beloved daughter, Olivia. But with the legal restrictions prohibiting widows with children from most employment opportunities, she’s left with only one option: persuading the manageress at Boots’ Booklover’s Library to take a chance on her.

When the threat of war becomes a reality, Olivia must be evacuated to the countryside. In her daughter’s absence, Emma seeks solace in the unlikely friendships she forms with her neighbors and coworkers, as well as the recommendations she provides to the library’s quirky regulars. But the job doesn’t come without its difficulties. Books are mysteriously misshelved and disappearing, and her work forces her to confront the memories of her late father and the bookstore they once owned together before a terrible accident.

As the Blitz intensifies in Nottingham and Emma fights to reunite with her daughter, she must learn to depend on her community and the power of literature more than ever to find hope in the darkest of times.

PROLOGUE

Nottingham, England

April 1931

JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER. Emma lingered in the storage area on the second floor of her father’s bookshop, Tower Bookshop, with Jane Austen’s Emma cradled in her lap. Sadly, not her namesake—her parents had named her Emmaline for an aunt she’d never met, who had died on Emma’s seventh birthday ten years ago.

Still, the book was one of Emma’s favorites.

“Emma.” Papa’s voice rose from somewhere in the bookshop, sharp with irritation.

She frowned. Papa was seldom ever cross with her. Perhaps the smoke from the man who had come in with his cigar earlier still lingered in the shop.

She settled a scrap of paper into the spine of her book.

“Emmaline!” Something to that second cry snapped her to attention, a raw, frantic pitch.

Papa was never panicked.

She leaped up from the seat with such haste, the book dropped to the ground with a whump.

“I’m in the warehouse,” she called out, racing to the door.

The handle was scalding hot. She yelped and drew back. That’s when she saw the smoke, wisps seeping beneath the door, glowing in the stream of sunlight.

Fire.

She put her skirt over her hand and twisted the knob to open the door. Thick plumes of smoke billowed in, black and choking.

She sucked in a breath of surprise, unintentionally inhaling a lungful of burning air. A cough racked her and she stumbled back, her mind reeling as her feet pulled her from the threat.

But to where? This was the only exit from the storeroom, save the second-floor window.

“Papa,” she shouted, terror creeping into her voice.

All at once, he was there, wrapping a blanket around them, the one she kept in the shop for cold mornings before the furnace managed to heat the old building.

“Stay at my side.” Papa’s voice was gravelly beneath the blanket where he’d covered the lower part of his face. Even as he led her away, a great cough shuddered through his lean frame.

Beyond the wall of smoke was a vision straight out of Milton’s Paradise Lost as fire licked and climbed its way up the towering stacks of books, devouring a lifetime of careful curation. Emma screamed, the sound muted by the blanket.

But Papa’s hand was firm at her back, pressing her forward. “We have to run.” Not slowing, he guided her to the winding metal staircase. She used to love clattering down it as a girl, hearing the metal ringing around her.

“It’s hot,” Papa cautioned. “Don’t touch it.”

Emma hugged against his side as they squeezed down the narrow steps that barely fit the two of them together. It swayed beneath their weight, no longer sturdy as it had once been. The blazing heat felt as though it was blistering Emma’s skin. Too hot. Too close. Too much.

And they were plunging deeper into the fiery depths.

The soles of Emma’s shoes stuck to the last two steps as rubber melted against metal.

What had once been rows of bookshelves was now a maze of flames. Even Papa hesitated before the seemingly impassable blaze.

But there was nowhere else to go.

The fire was alive. Cracking and popping and hissing and roaring, roaring, roaring so loud, it seemed like an actual beast.

“Go,” he shouted, and his grip tightened around her, pulling her forward.

Together they ran, between columns of fire that had once been shelves of books. An ear-shattering crack came from above, spurring them to the front as fire and sparks poured down behind them.

Emma ran faster than she ever had before, faster than she knew herself capable. Papa’s arm at her side yanked her this way or that, navigating through the fiery chaos. Until there was nowhere to go.

Papa roared louder than the fire beast and released her, running toward the blazing door. It flew open at the impact, revealing clean sunny daylight outside. He turned toward her even as she rushed after him and grabbed her around the shoulders, hauling her into the street.

Emma gulped in the clean air, reveling in the cool dampness washing into her tortured lungs. A crowd had gathered, staring up at the Tower Bookshop. Some came to Emma and Papa, asking in a frenzy of voices if they were hurt.

In the distance came the scream of emergency sirens. Sirens Emma had heard her entire life, but had never once needed herself.

There was need now. She held on to Papa’s hand and looked behind her at the building that had been in her family for two generations and was meant to become hers someday. Her gaze skimmed over the bookshop to the top two floors where their home had once been.

The fire beast gave a great heaving howl and the top floor

crumpled.

Someone grabbed her from behind, dragging her back as the rest of the structure came down, ripping her hand from her father’s. She didn’t reach for him again, unable to move, unable to think, her eyes fixed on the building as it crashed in on itself in a fiery heap. Their livelihood. Their home.

All the pictures of her mother who had died after Emma was born, all the books she and her father had lovingly selected from bookshops around England on the trips they’d taken together,

everything they’d ever owned.

Gone.

Emma choked on a sob at the realization.

Everything was gone.

“We need a doctor.” A man’s voice broke through her horror, pulling her attention to her father.

He lay on the ground, motionless. Soot streaked his handsome slender face, and his thick gray hair that had once been the same shade of chestnut as hers was now singed in blackened tufts.

“Papa?” She sagged to the ground beside him.

His eyes lifted to her, watery blue and filled with a love that made her heart swell. The breath wheezed from his chest like a kettle’s cry. “You’re safe.”

Once the words left his mouth, his body relaxed, going slack.

“Papa?” Emma cried.

This time his eyes did not meet hers. They looked through her. Sightless and empty. She shuddered at how unnatural he appeared. Like her father, and yet not like her father.

“Papa?”

The wailing sirens were still too far-off.

“I’m a doctor.” A man knelt on the other side of her father. His fingers went to Papa’s blackened neck and the man’s sad brown eyes turned up to her.

“I’m sorry, love. He’s gone.”

Emma stared at the man, refusing to believe her ears even as she saw the truth.

It had always just been Emma and her father, the two of them against the world, as Papa used to say. They read the same books to discuss together, they worked every day at the bookshop together, friends and colleagues as much as they were father and daughter. Once Emma had completed her schooling, she’d even traveled with him, curating books like the first editions they were still waiting on to arrive from Newcastle.

Now that beautiful light that shone in his eyes had dulled.

Lifeless.

It was no longer Papa and her against the world.

He was gone.

Their shop was gone.

Their home was gone.

Everything she knew and loved was gone.

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