It’s been nearly eight years to the day since the first inklings of the idea of a primal and sentient forest—that is, the Wyrdwood—came to me. In the time since I made two faltering attempts at trying to write a story about it, including one which was set when Mr. Quent was a young man and Lady Shayde still a girl named Ashaydea, before I came upon the story that would grow into The Magicians and Mrs. Quent.
The House on Durrow Street followed after considerable labor. Happily, The Master of Heathcrest Hall flowed a bit more easily from the pen (or fingertips). I’ve now travelled with Ivy through magickal doors, across the windswept moorland, to make one last visit to Heathcrest Hall, there to uncover the awful secret, lost in the mists of time, that lies at the very foundation of society in Altania. And what does Ivy do with such dreadful and powerful knowledge?
Well, I hope you’re curious to find out. If so, there’s no longer any need to wait and wonder, as The Master of Heathcrest Hall has now arrived on bookshelves, both real and electronic. If you seek out a copy, I hope you’ll let me know what you think. And in the meantime, thank you for coming along with Ivy, and with me, on this illusory journey.
The Wyrdwood 