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Read an Excerpt From The Changeling Queen by Kimberly Bea
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Read an Excerpt From The Changeling Queen by Kimberly Bea
A lyrical, sensual, feminist retelling of the Scottish “Ballad of Tam Lin,” combining folklore, desire, sacrifice, and nature’s wonder…
By Kimberly Bea
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Published on October 23, 2025
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We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Changeling Queen by Kimberly Bea, a retelling of the Ballad of Tam Lin, out from Erewhon Books on October 28.
On Samhain in medieval Scotland, pregnant Janet rescues her lover Tam Lin from being sacrificed by the Wild Hunt—but the callous Faery Queen is not finished with them yet. Over the span of a single night, the Queen and Janet spar over Tam Lin’s fate. The Queen aims to win, knowing how fickle mortals can be. Long before she was royalty, she was simply Bess, the changeling daughter of a midwife.Born with magical and mortal blood, Bess feared there was no true place for her on either side of the veil. She found refuge in the arms of the charming Thomas Shepherd, the bastard son of a local noble. While villagers viewed her as a scandal, Bess’s cunning knowledge and secret dark gifts attracted the attention of the elf lord Amadan. Wily and silver-tongued, Amadan led Bess into Faery’s realm of decadence, where her heart warred against her destiny. She fought to keep both—but at what cost?
Samhain, Carterhaugh
I should have taken away the lordling’s heart.
With my nails sharp as talons, I should have pierced his breast, carved out a cavity inside him, and ripped out the pulsing organ with one hand. Let the soil of Faery feast upon his essence, as he and I once had on honey and nectar. There was a time I could have done so, and he would have thanked me for the pain.
Instead, I garbed him as any other of my knights, and hid him among our company.
Tonight, we make our Samhain rade.
His steed is white as milk, and he rides closest to the town, the sole acknowledgment that he, among all these riders, Aos Sith and Sluagh, pixies and elfin knights, does not belong. He alone is mortal, and the time of his death is nigh.
It must come at my hands, though once he was my lover. Our history makes no difference at all.
From out of the hedges creeps a mortal woman, scarce more than a girl. Her plaited hair is yellow, her skirts kilted above her knees.
And she goes great with child.
My heart seems to still within my breast. I did not see her there. How did I, queen of all the canny fae, fail to notice this mortal girl? For now, the scent of her mortality surrounds me, blood and bone turning to dust, flesh eaten by worms and decaying into the loam to feed the earth. Sharp sweat rises from her, more than such a mirk and chilly night should warrant. I sense she is nervous. Good. Mortals should be nervous when caught out on All Hallows’ Eve, while faery folk do ride.
Yet somehow, those nerves failed to stop her. I could almost be impressed.
The girl is hard to look at, even while she stumbles into our path and lumbers alongside the procession of trooping fae.
Then I see it. Her mantle—she has turned it inside out.
Clever girl, knowing how to beguile the senses of the fae.
I am not impressed for long.
The girl is not graceful, heavily as she carries the child within her, and she walks with determination, rather than speed. But we too do not rush; this is a somber ritual, full of pomp and ceremony, and there has never been any need to before.
No mortal would dare interrupt the faery rade.
She has caught up to the white steed and, ungainly as the girl is, grips its rider. With an enormous grunt of effort, she pulls Tam Lin off his horse. He falls, dazed, to the forest floor.
The rade stops by instinct, not at my command. The horses still, by no order from their riders. The nighttime forest around us goes unearthly quiet.
My breath catches, and I sit rigid, clutching tight to my horse’s reins.
“My queen.” My seneschal Lyel, riding beside me on a horse of dapple grey, tersely shakes his head. “This is not the time for intervention. Wait.”
This is a game we play, with rules we invented and never deigned to share. This girl, though; somehow, she knows exactly what to do.
On the other side of the Veil, something withers and dies. I can sense it in my bones. Mayhap a single flower, a cowslip from my garden, or the eglantine that blooms against my palace walls. It does not bode well. My skin grows tight, and a hunger pierces my belly, one that will not be sated by food. I am immortal, ageless, but I feel the heaviness of my years upon me, as if I were a mortal woman, with all the fragility and weakness that entails.
No. I am no mortal. I have left behind all that is not powerful, fae, and pure.
She is mortal. The girl who now would claim Tam Lin.
She helps him to his feet. He stumbles and murmurs her name—Janet—before falling into her arms. She catches him, though he towers over her and, while lanky, is heavier than he appears. I have known the weight of Tam Lin atop me, beneath and beside me: this baron’s boy is a fit specimen indeed.
He trembles like a blade of grass in the wind.
His Janet holds him up and she holds on, clinging as if she loves him. Needs him. No doubt even thinks she needs him more than we do.
She thinks wrong.
My belly roils and my mouth tastes of wormwood. I cannot stomach this blatant theft of what was mine alone, what I claimed years ago when Tam Lin fell from his horse while hunting. I saved his life then. Ever since, he has been living on borrowed time.
“Hold him, will you?” I say, my voice like thunder in the silent forest. Lightning burns beneath my skin, and I hold my arm aloft, pointing. “Let us see how you enjoy this embrace.”
Tam Lin stretches and grows, taller, wider, heavier. Thick fur sprouts across his body; his ears grow round, hands become paws, his nails thick claws. He roars, in pain, in horror, or simply to release the beast within.
Tam Lin has become a bear.
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The Changeling Queen
Kimberly Bea
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The Changeling Queen
Kimberly Bea
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He claws at Janet’s back, tearing through her kirtle and marking the skin. Drooling and frothing at the mouth, he holds her so tight he might squeeze the life out of her. Still, she holds him, heedless of the noise he makes, how he claws at her, and the blood he spills.
From the distance, far across the expanse of the Veil, comes the crack of a dead tree, falling into dust.
Rage is a maelstrom inside me.
I will not give up.
“Viper!” I scream, and so Tam Lin becomes, larger than any natural serpent I have seen, squeezing out Janet’s life in his coils. His fangs are sharp and deadly; venom drips off them onto the lady’s flesh, where it burns.
She cringes, she grimaces, her face goes green as grass. Yet she does not let him go. She will not let him go.
I do not wish to like this girl. Her courage is worse than useless; it is inconvenient, threatening to rob Faery, my Faery, of what it needs.
What we call the Teind.
I reach deep inside myself for a part of me I thought long banished. What is most toxic to the fae, what is most common among the mortals. I pull this vile substance from Tam Lin himself, the metal flowing through the blood in his veins, from every door hinge and lock he has ever passed, every knife and sword he has held, from armor and buckles and the shoes his horses wear.
Iron. I make Tam Lin into what I despise the most, what I most fear, even more than church bells and crosses, holy water, and prayer, for those harm us only so far as the belief in them. Iron is eternal, and so Tam Lin becomes.
Then I set him on fire.
Janet screams, and her cries rend the silent air of the forest around us. In her hands now is that which is too hot to hold, a burning brand. She cannot keep it too long in either hand; she’s blistered and burned enough as it is.
Yet, she never completely lets go.
Instead, she breaks into a run.
A galumphing run, with how unbalanced the state of her body has left her. I am startled, if only for a moment.
I cry out to the procession of trooping fae: “After her!”
“Your Majesty,” my pretty seneschal says, to keep me within the rules of our game. He does not need to finish. I know what he would say.
We are not to intervene.
“After her—slowly,” I grit out. As if so many fae, of all shapes, natures, and sizes, acting in accord, could move with any great speed. The brownies are short of leg; the lamiae must slither along as snakes do, and the fachan, for one, has only the single foot.
The Teind is getting away. I will not call it panic, the sensation rising now in my breast, but it is as close as the Queen of Faery can come.
What part of our land is now becoming desert? Where does the Underhill now recede further away from mortal realms? We need that connection to survive.
We need sacrifice, the gift of a soul, to survive.
At the moment, it does not appear Tam Lin will provide it.
I will not let him go.
We follow Janet to the well, the very place she must have met her young man, for it has long been a popular trysting place for the fae and the fae-they-seem. Among the ferns and gorse, the well is now grown about with roses that bloom the dark crimson of my hair. Janet trips over them; they catch at her skirts and the thorns tear at her ankles. I smile, for the roses are an extension of me.
Janet does not stop until she throws the burning brand into the well.
A sizzling rises from within, and I feel it in my flesh, as though some deep and treasured part of me has burnt to ash.
It is not over yet.
From the well emerges a wet and naked Tam Lin. He stoops and shivers, water drips from the ends of his dark hair into his bonny grey eyes.
I wish I had ripped those out. Given him eyes of tree, that he should never have seen this Janet, who even now covers him with her mantle green.
Something breaks inside me. It cannot be my heart.
I am meant to yield now. Janet has won Tam Lin.
I do not remember how to yield. It is a skill I lost long ago.
Faery still needs him. The Teind must be paid.
I let no show of desperation cloud my face, but calmly dismount my horse. My green gossamer skirts settle around me, bedecked with garnets like drops of blood. I raise my arms as I stand before the procession. “My people,” I say. “Our rade is ended. All Hallows is nearly through. Do you now return beyond the Veil.”
A mist rises around the creatures of the fae: riders and walkers, Sluagh and Aos Sith alike.
My seneschal looks at me in confusion, suspicion, concern. My words are his command, but he would act as my conscience and seems reluctant to leave us alone.
A conscience is a luxury I cannot afford.
I smile sweetly, reassuring him. “I will be safe. What danger can they possess, a pregnant woman and a naked man?”
Although I know his worry is not for me.
For Samhain is not over yet. And I am no worthy ruler of Faery if I give up Tam Lin without a fight.
And so, I begin my tale.
Chapter One
Selkirkshire, ScotlandImbolc, seventy-five years before
My mother always wept that I was not her child. This wounded me far less than knowing she was right.
She lost her wits when I was but thirteen years old.
We had just delivered the child of Peggy the Cottar, though ’twas born out of wedlock and Peggy had not the coin to pay. Her family never did. Eamon, Mairi’s husband, frowned upon such acts of charity and upon his wife’s cunning woman skills; at least, after he’d spent time with our parish priest, he did. But Mairi had never paid that any mind.
“Peggy should have come to me long before now,” she confided in me as we walked home together. “The moment she first knew her courses were late. I could have helped her better then.”9
There was no sick person Mairi Grieve would not help. I deeply admired her for that.
“Anyway, Eamon was wrong,” she continued. “Peggy paid us, didn’t she?” And she gestured at the ailing chicken I now carried in my arms.
“Some fee,” I muttered. The bird was like to die any moment now; its feathers were molting and bedraggled; it sat a half-starved bundle in my arms. “We shall have to nurse this one back to health, too.” And by “we” I likely meant “I.” As the youngest of the household, my job it was to look after the chicks.
Mairi laughed and tugged upon one of my plaits. “’Tis good practice for you, my cuckoo!” She always did call me that, the little stranger who had been reared in her nest, like a cuckoo’s egg. Back then, she meant it with affection; had never said it with any malice, only a bit of wistfulness coloring her tone. “Ye were a good help to me today, lass. I was glad to have ye by my side.”
Not so glad as if I were the true Bess, your daughter. I pressed my lips together that the words would not come out.
I did not know why the true Bess Grieve had been taken by the faeries, and I left in her place. The Grieve household was riddled with fae, from the shadows who danced upon the walls to the Cait Sith who curled up before the fire and chased away the occasional mouse. I could sense these fae as none of the household’s mortal members did, but never would they speak to me. Only the brownie Morven acknowledged me, when I stayed up late to watch her scouring the pans and sweeping out the hearth.
“Blood will out,” was the explanation she gave. “I can smell the mortal in ye, lass. I warrant yer blood is tainted, and ye were too sickly to remain in the Faery realm. Consider yerself lucky ye found a home here.”
I did consider myself lucky, in some ways. Eamon was not a warm person, but he was prosperous enough to feed and house me and my siblings—nay, Bess’s, really—a noisy and ungrateful throng. Mairi’s work as a healer was not needed to supplement the household income, nor did Eamon welcome it as his status in the village rose, but she was generous in her healing and teaching and far kinder to me than I deserved. Despite this kindness, inside my head the refrain echoed: Not True Bess. Not wholly fae. You are Mairi Grieve’s cuckoo, and that is all you will ever be.
On days like this one, when the warm sun beat down upon our heads, and we brought new life into the world, when Mairi Grieve herself had said I was a good help to her, it almost felt like enough.
The chicken pecked me, and I tried to get my arms more comfortably around it, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something pass beside Mairi’s face. Long fingers stroking her cheek. I breathed in the scent of musk and loam and green things gone to rot.
The world seemed to go still, a heaviness filling the air. Wicked laughter hovered around me, turning to birdsong when I listened close.
Then Mairi stumbled, fell to her knees upon the dirt path, dropping her basket of simples and herbs.
“Goodwife Mairi!” I cried out, addressing her as my mistress since calling her “Mother” would have been a lie. The chicken leapt out of my arms. I let it wander free as I dropped down beside her, my kirtle dragging in the dust.
Mairi’s face drooped on the right side; her eyes were staring and wild. She murmured words I could not understand, interrupted with the occasional word I could. “The queen… the babe!” she cried out. “Where is the babe? Where is my little Bess, my child?”
She is right here, I longed to say, but the words caught in my throat.
We of Faery cannot lie.
“Raise your arms,” I said instead, as I had heard Mairi herself command her apoplectic patients. “Can ye show me a smile?”
Mairi’s left arm rose to her shoulders; the right hung limp and weak. She bared her teeth, but her lip hung down on one side, and she drooled. The shadowy goblins that danced across our walls appeared comely in comparison. Oh, Mairi.
She was stricken. Faery-struck, they call it, though neither Mairi nor I much liked the term. And yet—
And yet there had been that peculiar green scent. Heavy. Intoxicating. The overly long fingers that touched the side of her face… then vanished. I shook these memories away, as I could not understand what they meant.
Instead, with great care, like she was naught but dust and skeleton leaves, I helped Mairi to her feet, let her lean upon me as I walked her home to bed.
And not once did she leave it for the next five years.
Samhain
You are telling us a story?” Janet says incredulously. “The hour is late; the night is cold. We wish to go home.”
Only three of us stand now in Carterhaugh, by the ancient well, where the roses grow wild and the ferns do droop: Janet and I, and Tam Lin, who was my favored knight and consort. Once I held his heart like a pebble in my hand. Now she does.
I do not think Janet will want him, once I am through.
I hold my head high beneath my branched crown, pretending it has no weight at all. “You would take away the bonniest knight in my company. The least you can do is give me a moment of your time.”
“A moment of my time?” Janet pulls her mantle closer around her young lord, then looks me in the eyes. “I have freed Tam Lin. And I have saved his life. I demand you let us go.” There is iron in her spirit, a determined set to her chin. I sense she is not accustomed to being told no.
Neither am I.
I saunter around her like a hawk circling its prey. “Demand, you say? Such foolhardy words to use to the Queen of Faery herself.”
To her credit, Janet drops her gaze. “I am sorry, Your Majesty. But we are nothing to you. Please let us leave.”
I only wish they were nothing to me. Yet somewhere in Faery a tree falls. The ground cracks, opens a fissure where nothing can grow. For want of the Teind, our seven-year sacrifice, the land is dying. It will be on my head if it does.
The land will take me with it when it goes.
I cannot allow them to leave.
I ignore Janet’s pleas, and look down my nose at Tam Lin. With a finger, I push him out of my way. “Do you know, I knew his ancestor? A long, long time ago. And let me tell you, loyalty does not run in the family.” Those grey eyes, though, they do.
I should never have let Tam Lin keep them.
The lordling opens his mouth to protest, but I flick my finger in the air and he grows silent. I am done listening to him. He is only the prize we fight over.
Color rises in Janet’s cheeks, and her spirit burns hot, despite the chill of the autumn night. “I do not care how well you knew his ancestor. Tam Lin is not like him.”
How would she know? I speak of one who died long before Tam Lin was born.
“Nor was Thomas Shepherd like his kin, not at first,” I tell her. “Or, excuse me, you would know him as the baron, Thomas de Lyne.”
Tam Lin makes a strangled noise deep in his throat. I wave my hand and free his lips, but throw him such a dark look he stays silent in any case.
“Let us go home, Your Majesty,” Janet pleads. “It must be close to dawn.” Her teeth chatter, with cold or with fear, it is impossible to say.
“Oh, I shall let you go home,” I tell her, though I give no specifics as to when. “And I shall give him his freedom, assuming you still want it for him after I have told my tale.”
Excerpted from The Changeling Queen, copyright © 2025 by Kimberly Bea.
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