Excerpt from Lady Tremaine by Rachel Hochhauser, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Leak's worse," Alice announced placidly.

I turned to our housekeeper—gray eyes and gray hair, pulled into a bun so tight it left her forehead expressionless—and frowned at her. "You always say so on the day after rain."

"And it rains a lot." Alice frowned back, as unflustered as Wenthelen was perturbed. "We made a tidy sum on Rosie's embroidery bits."

"Those pennies are to go to the haberdasher."

She crossed her arms. "Write the thatcher."

"The girls need lace sleeves."

"Lace sleeves." Wenthelen tutted from the edge of the hearth. Seeing the look on my face, she added: "Ma'am."

"Everyone is wearing blond flounces this year." I'd seen the fine needle and bobbin meshwork peeking out of necklines and gathered in diaphanous ruffles at elbows. "And the world is unkind to those who don't follow its rules."

Alice lifted my old cloak from the peg and shook it out, tucking a twist of cloth into one of the pockets. "And yet, you go out each morning dressed like a swineherd."

I snatched at the cloak. "I can hardly hunt in silk."

Alice glanced at the dark windows. "You might have better luck in the afternoon."

"Better luck would be if I were hunting for sport."

Wenthelen stuck the spoon back into the pot and gave its contents a hearty stir. "We could buy meat if you did not insist on buying sugar."

"We could not have guests if I could not serve confections."

Wenthelen only sighed and clucked at my falcon—"Go on, then, Lucy, get us something for supper"—before turning to face Alice: "Try the stew."

"Needs salt—" Alice started to say.

I hurried away.

* * *

According to a map, I own a piece of land. But a map is a symbol. It has no real connection to the soil—it serves as an artifact or an echo. A map is made and then the land changes and the map does not change with it. And yet we respect maps as if they are the law, treating their boundaries as finite, allowing them to determine yours, mine, ours, theirs, his. Rarely hers.

But the map says: I do own some land. An aberration in the system: A man—my husband—died with no male heirs. His became hers. The map now draws a line around what is mine: a property that sits next to, but does not touch, a stream. On paper, it is a snaking blue line, thin and nearly invisible.

Because that snaking blue line does not cross my property, it is not good hunting land. The quail and the grouse and the pheasants stay closer to the streams and rivers that branch and fracture the landscape. So, for the purposes of my morning routine, I often choose to be liberal with the boundaries of the map.

Technically, this is illegal.

* * *

The hunt did not start well. By the time the sun hovered on the horizon, we'd still had no luck. No movement or missed chances. Lucy sat, high on a branch above me, waiting, and I moved slowly beneath her, poking at the brambles with a stick, hoping to flush a pheasant. The ground was soft and sucking. I watched the brambles and Lucy watched it all: the curls of water in the stream, the leaves quivering on the branches, the fog moving like breath along the forest floor.

Peregrines need room to hunt; they start high and dive low. Sky and space and speed are their best tools. Across the stream, the growth thinned, and the forest's canopy gave way to large pockets of sky; the land had the open air that would yield us game. But the crossing of the water was as symbolic as water itself. On one side: dubiously legal hunting. On the other: punishable poaching on royal land.

As if sensing my intentions, Lucy pulled her feathers in tight, her body going slick.

"It's fine," I assured her.

She blinked slowly, hiding her eyes from me for half a moment.

"Quail and grouse do not abide by the rules of a map. Three hops and we'll be back on the right side."

Excerpted from Lady Tremaine by Rachel Hochhauser. Copyright © 2026 by Rachel Hochhauser. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.