Excerpts fantasy Read an Excerpt From Thistlemarsh by Moorea Corrigan Faeries disappeared over one hundred years ago, as suddenly as slipping through a doorway… By Moorea Corrigan | Published on March 24, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Thistlemarsh by Moorea Corrigan, a debut fantasy publishing with Berkley on April 21st. In the wake of The Great War, the world is a decidedly unmagical place for Mouse Dunne. She once dreamed of becoming a Faerie anthropologist, but with one telegram, her world shattered. At the Battle of the Somme, her cousin’s body disappeared into the mud, and her brother was left with debilitating shell shock. It was time, she knew, to put aside childish dreams.When Mouse receives news that her uncle has left her the Faerie-blessed Thistlemarsh Hall, a dilapidated manor in the English countryside, she must leave her brother’s side and return to her childhood home to claim her birthright. But there is a catch in her uncle’s offer: If Mouse does not rehabilitate the crumbling house in one month’s time, she will forfeit her inheritance and any hope of caring for her brother.It quickly becomes clear it’s impossible to repair the manor in the allotted time, until a mysterious Faerie appears with a proposition. He offers to restore Thistlemarsh…for a price. Mouse knows better than to trust a Faerie—especially one so insufferably handsome and arrogant—but she is out of options. There are dark and magical forces at work in the house, and Mouse must confront the ghosts of her past and the secrets of her heart or lose Thistlemarsh, and herself, in the process. There was still plenty of light by the time Mouse regained her composure and ventured into the woods again to visit John and collect the bike. Dante’s statue was not in its usual place. Unsettled, Mouse pressed on. Her attention caught on an overgrown fork in the path. Sunlight slid across the earth in a strange way, and a golden memory flooded her senses, her father smiling at her over his shoulder as he led her to a blooming meadow at the end of this exact path. The sun was still up. She had time, and the longer walk would help her decompress, she decided. Stones jutted across the path, forcing her to weave in and out of its borders. A few statues lined the track, arms outstretched like Dante’s, but time had worn them down to faceless, featureless forms. Summer foliage coated them in ghoulish mantles. A patch of flowers caught her eye beyond the trees, and she quickened her pace toward the comforting burst of color. She was almost at the end of the path, feet away from a carpet of flowers, when a shape loomed out of the shadows. Mouse jolted back. A rock snagged at her heel, and she tumbled down. Half dazed, she gazed up at the shape. Dante was there, reaching out to her. “You scared me half to death,” Mouse croaked. She scanned the tree line for a sign of mischief‑makers. Her heart thundered in her ears. “Come out, children. You’ve had your fun.” No one answered. In the dimming light, a sparkle near Dante’s eye caught her attention. She tensed. Surely, she was imagining things, but it struck her that the stone was not of the natural world. She steadied her breath, tightening her hold on her heartbeat. Nonsense, she admonished herself. You’vefacedbloodandgore,andhereyouareterrifiedby a practical joke. She forced herself up and forward, taking in Dante’s form. Beneath the moss growing across the stone, there were a few marks she’d never noticed before. Under the foliage there was a white line across his exposed eye, like a scar. His stone torso split in the middle of his chest, creating a gap between the two sides of his rib cage. The hole was covered in moss and vines, but Mouse could make out a shape behind it. She worked her fingers through the greenery. They met with something cool and smooth. Her fingertips tingled. There were words written around the hole in his chest. Although Mouse was not fluent in the Faerie language, she could recognize enough of it to roughly translate the passage. Speak, and unbind me, it read. She sounded out the letters, the Faerie words airy as they passed her lips. In an instant, mist rose around Mouse, and the statue nearly vanished from view, even though her fingers were still pressed against its chest. At first, she thought of smoke, of fires from bombs or artillery. Then, her rational mind caught up to where she was. The village children must still be playing a trick on her. The air did not smell of anything but musky forest. “That’s enough,” she called out again, squinting through the haze. “If you put the statues back and swear to never do something so pea‑ brained again, I won’t tell Reverend John Martin about this.” “Sorry if I gave you a fright,” said a low voice from the mist, its droll tone not sorry at all. It was not a child’s voice. Mouse blinked. She could see Dante’s form better, but there was something about the shape that stopped her short. Where before he had only one whole arm, now his outline had two. Her mind stuttered. “Dante, did you just… speak?” Mouse asked meekly. “Yes,” he said, as logically and calmly as though statues spoke to humans as often as people passing in the street. For a moment, Mouse did not know what to think. Perhaps she’d hit her head? She prodded the back of her skull, but there was no pain. Had she gone mad, then? No, she could not accept that Thistle‑ marsh had already driven her to a cracking point. Instead, she focused on the figure. The mist had mostly cleared. Buy the Book Thistlemarsh Moorea Corrigan Buy Book Thistlemarsh Moorea Corrigan Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget In Dante’s place stood a man, a shock of white‑blond hair slicked back on his head. He wore an odd coat of deep green with embroidery on his cuffs. A thin white scar ran across his eye down to his cheek. There was a sharpness to his features. But more than that, he was so handsome it was like looking into the sun. It hurt. And Mouse only knew of one creature with looks that could burn. She forced herself to speak. “Are you… a Faerie?” The creature tilted its head at her. “Yes.” She backed away. Her hands were shaking. “You aren’t dreaming. And it would be damn inconvenient if you ran away.” Instinct finally kicked in, and Mouse screamed. She scrambled down the path, keeping her eyes on the man as she moved. He snorted and held out his hand. A root lifted from the earth and wrapped around her ankle, stopping her in her tracks. The magical vine dragged her back, unbothered by her struggles. “I hoped you would behave like a rational creature about all this. But clearly, I was wrong.” “A rational creature?” Mouse squawked in indignation. “You’re… you’re a High Faerie.” “Obviously,” he said. “And you just attacked me.” “Attacked you? Do not be so dramatic. All I’ve done is detain you. As soon as you have heard what I came to say, you may go. Mortals are so skittish. It took a lot of work to find you here. Moving around as a statue is exhausting. But, because you freed me from my enchantment, I am feeling generous. I will ignore your lapse of judgment.” “Generous?” Mouse echoed. “Indeed.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Let’s get this over with.” The branches twisted behind her to form a low seat. The Faerie raised his eyebrows at her. “Can I trust you to sit? If so, I will remove the vines from around your legs.” Mouse said nothing. The Faerie sighed and clicked his fingers. The vines pulled away. Her legs were free, but the sting of the bark through her trousers remained. He gestured to the stool. She eyed the path, but the vines flicked with authority. Mouse sat. Fear, shock, and anger all battled for dominance in her mind. A Faerie had not been seen in England for over a hundred years. Was it possible that one would appear to her now? What did that mean for the rest of the country? Were there more of them? And how should she act? Mouse longed for the guidance of her mother or even Blakeney’s. One thought in the cacophony rang clear above all others. What could this Faerie possibly want with her? “Wonderful,” the Faerie continued. “Now we can be diplomatic with each other. For the duration of our acquaintance, you may call me Thornwood. May I have your name?” “No, you may not,” Mouse said without hesitation. The corners of Thornwood’s mouth pulled into a flicker of a frown. “You are familiar with one of my kind?” “I am familiar with your customs.” Even without Blakeney’s, Faer‑ ies were part of her upbringing in the same way that gardening had been. Her mother made it clear that you never gave your name to a Faerie. The Faerie tilted his head, smiling sardonically. “I wanted to speak with you about your predicament.” “Which predicament is that?” “News moves fast, even in the forest. You are at the mercy of your uncle’s will, and I can help.” “Why? Because I freed you from an enchantment?” “Precisely. You need my help, and I am happy to offer it.” “For a price, of course,” Mouse said. The Faerie’s smile sharpened. “I do not give out favors, but this can be mutually beneficial.” “And of course, my freeing you does not count toward this price,” Mouse scoffed. “What could I have that is of any interest to you?” “It depends on the size of the task you need me to complete. Rearranging a bookshelf might cost you a fingernail clipping. Killing a man might cost you your heart.” “Charming,” Mouse said with a grimace. “This has been a delightful conversation, but I am exhausted. You’ve miscalculated. You are too late. Once I would have been fascinated by a deal with you, but now I have more pressing matters than Faeries. I will need all my organs to finish my work. Now, either turn me into a snail or let me go.” Her mother would be appalled at the tone she was taking with such a dangerous creature, but she could not find it within herself to care. “I think I would prefer you as a rabbit,” the Faerie said, baring his teeth. Despite herself, Mouse shuddered. “However, I am aware that my offer is unconventional. You need some time to think things over. Meet me in the clearing where we first met tomorrow night when the moon is highest. I will have your answer then.” The wind shook the trees. Everything leaned toward them, and the earth thrummed with desperate energy. It reminded Mouse of the feeling when waiting for a bomb to drop from a zeppelin. “I will be waiting,” Thornwood said. The energy lifted, and he was gone. Excerpted from Thistlemarsh by Moorea Corrigan Copyright © 2026 by Moorea Corrigan. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>Thistlemarsh</i> by Moorea Corrigan appeared first on Reactor.