Geography professors in a failed marriage of convenience inconveniently reconnect for an emergency mission in this swoony historical-fantasy rom-com.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from India Holton’s The Geographer’s Map to Romance, which is out April 8th 2025.
Professor Elodie Tarrant is an expert in magic disasters. Nothing fazes her—except her own personal disaster, that is: Professor Gabriel Tarrant, the grumpy, unfriendly man she married for convenience a year ago, whom she secretly loves.
Gabriel is also an expert in magic disasters. And nothing fazes him either—except the walking, talking tornado that is his wife. They’ve been estranged since shortly after their wedding day, but that hasn’t stopped him from stoically pining for her.
When magic erupts in a small Welsh village, threatening catastrophe for the rest of Britain, Elodie and Gabriel are accidentally both assigned to the case. With the fate of the country in their hands, they must come together as a team in the face of perilous conditions like explosions, domesticated goats, and only one bed. But this is easier said than done. After all, there’s no navigational guide for the geography of the heart.
“T-ticket, ma’am,” he said, holding it out in a trembling hand. Elodie took it from him, her hair tumbling down again.
“Much obliged.”
But Motthers had not done with trembling. “There’s, um, a small problem.”
“Oh?” Elodie asked, not really listening as she inspected the ticket. It provisioned her with a second class seat from Oxford to Aberystwyth, after which she and Motthers would take a hired carriage to Dôlylleaud. This was altogether a journey of several long, dull hours, but Elodie didn’t mind, feeling that tedium was best described as an opportunity for imagination.
“Just a very small problem,” Motthers persisted. “Which is to say, quite large actually, and-and-problematic.”
“Uh-huh.” Elodie experienced so many problems in her profession that they had to be literal disasters before she started worrying. Motthers, however, was only a master’s degree student, and had not yet been caught in a raging flood, let alone outrun fiery boulders that chased him uphill. He needed several more catastrophes under his belt before he developed perspective. As a result, his voice tried to hide behind his tonsils when next he spoke.
“You recall how the telegram yesterday requested aid from Professor Tarrant?”
“Sure,” Elodie said, barely listening. Suitcase in hand, she began striding through the station building toward the platform, the heels of her sturdy half boots knocking against the ground as if to announce to other travelers that a professional heroine had arrived-although apparently this was not clear enough for Professor Palgrave, who was forced to leap aside, muttering about “sinful blindness.”
“Um,” Motthers said, scurrying to keep pace despite his legs being several inches longer than Elodie’s (which prompted him to wonder if he should mention the knotted-up skirt, but his courage failed). “It’s just, well, it seems a copy was made of the telegram, and someone who shall go unnamed [Ralph Salterling] delivered it to a second office.”
“Oh?” Elodie stopped near the edge of the platform and shielded her eyes with her free hand from the limpid morning sun as she peered along the tracks for a glimpse of a train. Incredibly, she had managed to arrive early.
“To be fair,” Motthers continued, “we’re not exactly sure who the message was meant for in the first place, you or . . . the other Professor Tarrant.”
Elodie continued gazing out beneath her hand at the horizon, mainly because she had frozen. Then, very slowly, she turned to look at the small crowd on the platform.
And there he was.
“You,” she muttered with such ferocity, it must be cause for amazement that the gentleman did not spontaneously combust. He did not even so much as flinch, however. Indeed, he might have been a statue erected in honor of Elodie’s worst memory. All the familiar details were present: tidy black hair, almost-black eyes, olive skin, suit so immaculate he could have worn it to meet the pope, were he not an agnostic. Absent was any human warmth. Behind him, a graduate student fussed with their emergency response kit, but he ignored them, ignored the entire world, staring instead at a small, oblong wooden block in his hand with an expression so stern it made a rock seem like quivering jelly.
Yet Elodie knew that he’d seen her, without a doubt. He saw everything.
Gabriel.
Professor Tyrant to his students (and several members of the faculty when they thought no one could hear them).
Her husband.
Elodie’s face blazed. She thrust the suitcase at Motthers without looking, turned on a heel, and began striding back toward the velocipede.
“P-Professor!” Motthers cried out, but Elodie ignored him. She had to get away . . . even while her mind ran headlong into the pit of memory.
She’d married Gabriel on a Monday afternoon in September, almost exactly one year ago. It had been an accident.
Excerpted from The Geographer’s Map to Romance by India Holton Copyright © 2025 by India Holton. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved.
