BOOK 03: Of Circuses and Teddy Bears
For eighty years, Soullier's Traveling Spectacular and Extravaganza crossed the polycosmos — three hundred cars, eight hundred impossible beasts, an alligator-skin man, a zombie rhinoplatypus, and one perfectly ordinary-looking passenger wagon that happened to be a door between worlds. Then an enormous falcon-vulture with a migraine took exception to the noise, and the greatest circus in all the realms was left stranded in a valley to die.
The wagon changed hands a good many times after that. Murder. Theft. Loan. Accident. Cards.
It comes at last to Victoria Lynn Weatherby — archaeologist, realm-chronicler, and wife to a man who walked out of one world and never walked back into it. She has visited twenty-six realms looking for him. Her daughter Emmeline is ten, has never had a friend her own age, and has made do instead with a battered teddy bear called Fuzzles, who is missing both button eyes and has a very great deal to say for himself.
Realm twenty-seven does not go well. The wagon crashes, the steering staff snaps, and mother and daughter find themselves stranded in a town called Vanover — in the spring of 1852.
There they meet a gentleman. He was, by every account, a perfectly pleasant man.
He is courteous. He is well-read. He carries a swordcane with a cat's head carved in ivory. He buried his wife some years ago and has not once stopped looking for her since, because he is certain — perfectly certain, in the way only a scientific man can be — that she is waiting for him in a place called Ber'Ebrin, and that anything real can be found by anyone willing to be thorough.
Victoria knows precisely what happens to people who get too near Ber'Ebrin. Realm-jumpers even have a name for the condition. What she does not yet understand is that she has just handed the sickness to a man with the patience to see it all the way through.
Ahead of them wait a valley of stone giants with rubies for hearts, a jewel-encrusted knome king who very much enjoys plucking those hearts out, and a kingdom made entirely of sweets, ruled by a monarch who cannot be reasoned with on account of having sold his conscience years ago and never once missed it.
And somewhere out ahead of all of them, a hooded man with a cane and no shadow is walking the road first, quietly switching things on.
Book Three of The Chronicles of Ber'Ebrin — a prequel in two parts. Every monster was somebody's grieving husband first.
Release Date: January 2, 2026. Pre-order now.
“Hold on, this is going to be a little bumpy,” Victoria warned, as she manipulated three brass levers in the old circus‑wagon passenger car. Pots and books tumbled from the shelves as the car rocked. She could hear the wood strain and squeak as the wagon listed to the left, then slowly righted itself.
“I understand, Mother,” replied Emmeline, clutching her worn, eyeless teddy bear. “I’m holding the pole.” The young girl was not in the least frightened. This had happened before on their journeys, and such turbulence no longer troubled her, so long as her battered teddy was within sight.
The wagon jolted once more, leaning several degrees to the other side. “Fuzzles!” Emmeline cried as her teddy flew from her grasp.
“I’ve almost got it steady,” her mother called back, still frantically working the levers. Sweat was beading on her brow. Something was keeping her from bringing the wagon fully under control, but she did not wish to trouble her daughter with that knowledge.
Thump! Thump! Thump! The sound of branches and leaves striking the outside of the wagon made Emmeline blink as she stretched for Fuzzles. “Come on. Just stay still!” she muttered to herself, as her fingers almost brushed the bear. Her other hand gripped the strap so tightly that her knuckles shone white. The bear teetered on the edge of a pile of books, just inches beyond her reach.
Bang! The wagon struck a mound and sprang into the air. For a brief moment, it was strangely quiet, as Victoria glanced back at her daughter, both of them floating, hovering like a dandelion seed on the wind. It was one of those queer instants that seem to last an eternity, when time moves in slow procession, and one may see and consider everything, yet is quite powerless to act. “Emmy!” Victoria cried, bracing herself for the inevitable.
CRAAAAASH! The wagon came down with a wrenching jolt, tipped onto its side, and skidded. Eventually, it slid to a grinding halt. Books, pots, jars, satchels, maps—every loose thing—came hurtling down in a heap upon the side of the wagon (which was now the floor). Emmeline struck the boards hard, banging her head on the wooden slats. Victoria landed on her back with a small bounce, and several heavy tomes descended upon her in rapid succession.
It was silent, save for the slow whir of two wagon wheels spinning to a stop outside, and the faint patter of dirt sifting down. Neither Victoria nor her daughter moved.
Victoria had some difficulty opening her eyes. Where was she? Why did her head ache so dreadfully? Why was she lying on the floor? Had she been dreaming? Then it dawned on her. She had been piloting a portal‑engine in a circus passenger car. Yes, that was it. She and her daughter had been exploring—hopping between alternate worlds that overlapped in the same place and at the same time. Little by little, everything returned to her.
Their portal device was a fully furnished mid-19th-century-style passenger wagon from Soullier’s Traveling Spectacular and Extravaganza circus. Right, she thought. She had run into some sort of ethereal turbulence. And then? Then, the wagon had gone out of control.
But where was she now? Where had they landed? That was anyone’s guess. She must have taken quite a lump on the head.
But wait! Her heart leapt into her throat in sudden panic. Her daughter!
“Emmeline!” Victoria cried, sitting up and pushing books and a small chest off her as she peered around the cramped compartment. “Emmy! Emmy! Are you injured?”
Emmeline lay face down at the back of the passenger wagon, her small hand gripping Fuzzles, the eyeless teddy. A fierce purple bump had risen on her forehead, and she was quite still. “Emmy, baby!” Victoria called again, racing to her daughter’s side. She brushed a lock of chestnut hair away and slipped a hand beneath the girl’s head to feel if she was breathing. “Dear Emmy, wake up!”
Emmeline slowly blinked. Thank the good heavens above, Victoria thought with a great, shuddering sigh, as she gathered her daughter against her bosom.
“Mother?” Emmeline murmured, opening her eyes.
“Yes, dear?” Victoria said, drawing back just enough to smile into her face.
“Did we make it?” Emmeline asked, tears of fright shining in her eyes.
Her mother sobbed aloud with relief. “I think so. I think so. How do you feel?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just bumped my head, I think.” Emmeline’s lower lip began to tremble now that the danger had passed, and she flung her arms about her mother’s neck for a proper cry, her earlier bravery quite forgotten.
“Let me see, darling,” Victoria murmured, gently parting her daughter’s hair to inspect the swelling. She pressed a soft kiss to the bump. “It will go down quickly. We’ve nothing cold for it here, but you’ll be quite yourself again in no time.”
Victoria helped her daughter to her feet and brushed the dust from her dress. “Thank the Almighty! I was worried sick about you.”
“I’m fine, Mother,” Emmeline repeated.
“Well, I only hope there’s no serious damage to our transport,” Victoria said, casting a rueful eye over the chaos around them.
“Fuzzles?” Emmeline whispered. “Are you all right?” She drew the frayed teddy bear to her chest and clutched him tightly. “I was worried about you.” For as long as she could remember, there had always been Fuzzles when there could not be Father, and the remembrance of losing him made her stomach twist.
Her mother smiled. “I think your stuffed animal will survive. Now, let’s take a peek outside and see where we are. We can put everything to rights later.”