Foreword
Growing up in Wales, it’s difficult not to feel that there is magic in your blood. Despite harkening from a country that boasts waterfalls, mountains, beaches, Arthurian legend, and more castles per square mile than anywhere else in Europe, perhaps the most magical thing we all share is our Celtic heritage. This heritage provided us with our ancient language, our customs, our legends and our folklore.
When I was a child growing up on the ancient Isle of Anglesey (Ynys Môn), fairy folklore was commonplace. I grew up collecting ornaments of fairies gifted to me by my parents and my grandmother, and would often wake up to notes and gifts left for me by the fairies. My personal fairy ended up being called ‘Mum’, however the magic is not lost on me, decades later, that this element of our heritage provided a little healthy dose of magic. Likewise, a trip to the picturesque village of Betws-Y-Coed, nestled in the Snowdonia mountain range, one could find the Fairy Glen, a quiet gorge on the River Conwy and home to rare plants, wildlife, and mythical sprites. We also have an island dedicated to the patron saint of Welsh lovers, Saint Dwynwen; the ruins of her church marked by a Celtic cross, forever synonymous with her sacrifice for the protection of all future lovers. Sounds romantic, right? Some of our culture is, but a lot of it is marked by bloodshed, sacrifice, Anglicization, and deep division. These are not unfortunate circumstances isolated to the Welsh. Our Celtic neighbors in Brittany, Cornwall, Scotland, and Ireland all have similar stories of impassioned resilience. This resilience is as Celtic a trait as red hair.
This heritage, although sometimes difficult to explain to outsiders, has been perfectly captured in Brianna’s debut novel, Disenchanted. Hers tells the story of Lilac Trécesson, a Norman-Breton princess with a supernatural ability that grants her some enemies. On her journey through the enchanted forest of Brocéliande to rid herself of this ability, Brianna demonstrates the Celtic resilience of this strong-willed woman in her quest to rid herself of darkness. No easy feat when Celtic magic naturally courses through your veins! Brianna’s novel is a masterpiece of historical adventure, fantastical revelry, and a true battle of wits as Lilac and Garin embark on their quest to find the mysterious witch of the enchanted forest.
I remember Brianna telling me about her ideas and passion for this project and I was brought to tears. Not just because she gave me the honor of writing the foreword for this incredible book, but because it is rare to see someone give so much of themselves to bring justice to a culture that is often forgotten or misrepresented. Brianna’s passion for this corner of northwest Europe began when she discovered her own Welsh heritage a few years ago. We had been friends for a number of years before the idea for this novel came to fruition. During this time, I’d watched Brianna’s passion for writing transcend to a form of therapy after a tragedy struck her life unexpectedly. The raw emotions she dealt with during this time are masterfully displayed in her immaculate prose. The gift she gives us with this novel is the experience of human emotion repurposed into something we can all relate to – that little bit of darkness that we seek to destroy, but in the meantime we find that it’s the balance of light and dark that makes us who we truly are.
Princess Lilac represents you and me and every other person that pursues the light and has to go through their own enchanted forests to find themselves. We might not always have a Garin with us on our quest, but we have ourselves. And that’s enough.
- Aimee Nicole Jones
The Beginning of the End
Forêt de Brocéliande, 1532
Laurent Beaulieu knew the trees here were accustomed to keeping secrets. He was well aware that even if the rendezvous did not go unnoticed, he had little to fret about. Had a human or creature seen, he’d easily finish them off; lately he preferred to keep violence at a minimum, but he’d do anything necessary to keep others from knowing he had agreed to a conference on human terms. Fortunately, even the most dauntless mortals typically avoided the woods after dusk.
Still, he couldn’t quite shake the apprehension presaging him.
The fog of early twilight had rolled in, nestling among the dense foliage. Laurent pivoted, easily spotting the thin figure slinking toward him. He’d heard and smelled her first—the confidence of a tromping footfall, the dancing aromas of chamomile and roses. It was at her written request that he’d agreed to converge under the cover of dusk, unbeknownst to the sleepy kingdom beyond.
The unlikely pair met at the edge of a hillside glade overlooking a coniferous expanse of green—the sprawling High Forest, the western half of Brocéliande. Behind them, beyond the moors, a blood-red sun spilled duly into the Celtic Sea.
Laurent ran his tongue smoothly over his teeth, careful to keep his distance as the woman began to speak. She’d made no waste of time; his face fell as he listened to her ludicrous proposal, shifting in the shadows to avoid even the faintest rays of dwindling sunset. When she was finished, he could only stare.
“Well?” The woman glowered at him with tight-lipped fury.
“What are you asking me to do?” Thick vulcan brows knitted together above his deep-set eyes. His attempted whisper did little to mute the disbelief fraying his voice. He’d simply misheard her the first time.
He had to have.
“Don’t play stupid with me, Darkling,” she said, eyeing him in disdain. “You heard me.”
A twig crunched suddenly beneath Laurent’s footfall, and he startled.
“My goodness, relax,” she chuckled. “As promised, I’ve come alone.”
Her reassurance only hastened the painful adrenaline pulsing through his dead veins, like carp swimming upstream. As the crisp forest air exited and refilled his lungs in rising panic, he knew she was telling the truth. There was no one around for leagues, no guards concealed in the brush—nobody to come to her rescue, had things gone awry.
To what avail?
In the letter requesting Laurent’s company, Vivien Le Tallec had never revealed what it was she needed to discuss—only that their meeting was urgent. Laurent didn’t know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this, and it certainly wasn’t her. It was a stout, angry human woman he’d had in mind; the one standing before him was statuesque and terrifyingly unafraid. Her too-prominent nose made her resemble an irate swan.
Still, he wasn’t accustomed to feeling so ill-at-ease around humans, and this bothered him deeply. She was duchess after all—privilege-toting wife of the esteemed duke. Her prominence was probably why she dared come alone, the result of typical mortal foolishness Laurent knew well and plain. Social status accounted for nothing in the woods; he was still twice as strong as ten of her husband’s soldiers, and thrice as quick as their steeds. Still, Laurent couldn’t shake the vague feeling that something was… off.
And beneath platinum blonde locks, her neck—her neck, he couldn’t help but notice upon further inspection—was slender and elegant as the rest of her. Laurent absently licked his lips and ignored his growling belly.
Vivien sauntered towards him, daintily lifting the hem of her scarlet lace gown and shrinking the space between them to an arm’s length. Her teardrop earrings glimmered in the evening haze, their crystals casting rainbow freckles onto her plunging neckline