The Misadventures of an Amateur Naturalist: Celeste Rossan, #1

By Ceinwen Langley

Aspiring young naturalist Celeste Rossan is determined to live a life of adventure and scientific discovery. But when her father loses everything, Celeste's hopes of ever leaving her home town are dashed… until she sees a narrow opportunity to escape to Paris and attend the 1867 Exposition Universelle.

 

Celeste seizes her chance, but the elements overwhelm her before she can make it five miles. In desperation, she seeks refuge in an abandoned chateau only to find herself trapped inside the den of an unknown species: a predator with an intelligence that rivals any human. 

 

It's the discovery of a lifetime. Or, it will be, if Celeste can earn the beast's trust without losing her nerve – or her heart – to her in the process. 

 

The Misadventures of an Amateur Naturalist is a queer historical fantasy for adventurers of all ages.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Feed the Writer Press.
• Release date: Sep 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780992474072

Book preview

Part One: La Baie DoreeChapter One: An Unknown Species

The tip of my pencil flew across the open notebook balanced on my knee. I didn’t dare glance down, trusting the instincts of my muscles to capture what my eyes were seeing. 

A bluethroat and a stag beetle were locked in battle. The beetle outmatched the bluethroat in length by a good centimetre or two, but the little bird was leagues ahead in terms of agility and violent enthusiasm.

CRACK!

The bluethroat flipped the beetle onto its back, wrenching a leg free and swallowing it down. The beetle’s four remaining legs waved feverishly in the air as it attempted to right itself, but the bird pressed his advantage and dug his needle-sharp beak into the crevice between the beetle’s head and pronotum. Gaining purchase at last, the bluethroat raised the beetle off the ground and slammed it against a rock. 

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I turned a page, pencil moving like lightning as the beetle’s wings unfolded and beat in weak defiance, but the bluethroat struck it against the rock again, again, again. At last, the beetle’s twitching ceased. 

I resisted the urge to applaud the bluethroat’s performance as he gave a deceptively sweet trill of triumph. The distinctive little male with three perfect rings of blue, red, and black at his neck had made his roost in a tree on my regular route into the forest some three months ago, and his likeness was captured throughout my field notes for the season. I had worried he’d chosen too large a prey this time, that today would mark the end of his journey throughout my pages, but I was pleased to be wrong.  

I turned another page, readjusted myself, and set about capturing the gruesome sight of a smaller-than-average bluethroat consuming a larger-than-average stag beetle. 

CRAAACK!

My pencil point snapped as a terrible new sound ripped through the forest, replacing the cheerful cacophony of birdsong with the thunder of hundreds of wings beating to escape danger. I swore loudly as my bluethroat joined them. 

‘A picture of elegance, as always,’ said a wry, familiar voice from somewhere above me. 

Heart still skittering with shock, I put a hand to my battered straw hat and craned my head back to see Étienne grinning down at me. He held a rifle over his shoulder, the barrel a-wisp with smoke. 

‘You chased off my subject,’ I said, returning the world the right way up and looking critically at my sketch. I’d managed, at least, to capture the outline of the bluethroat in his moment of success. It was enough to allow me to fill in the rest of the detail later. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Étienne said, his elbow companionably bumping mine as he took a seat in the dirt beside me. ‘But the lesson attached to that shot was far more valuable than another picture of a sparrow.’ 

I raised an eyebrow. ‘And what lesson was a rifle fired directly above my head supposed to teach me?’

‘That you really ought to pay more attention when you’re wandering the forest alone. I wasn’t exactly quiet as I walked towards you. What if I’d been a wolf? Or a highwayman?’ 

‘Wolves are nocturnal,’ I countered. ‘And we don’t have highwaymen.’

‘An ordinary traveller with nefarious deeds on his mind, then.’ 

I snorted. ‘We must be half a kilometre from the road. How would he see me?’ 

His cheeks dimpled. Étienne never could stay serious for long. ‘The sunlight on your knees might have acted as a beacon.’ 

My skirt and petticoats were, admittedly, bunched around my thighs, leaving my dirt-smeared stockings and pale, downy knees on display. ‘Don’t be absurd,’ I said, yanking the hems of my skirts down. 

‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ Étienne protested, his grey eyes gleaming. ‘It’s a bold look, and dare I say, extremely flattering. I hope all the young ladies about town take it up immediately.’ 

‘They might if you suggested it.’ 

‘Do you think so?’ he asked, all false modesty. He knew full-well that almost every other young lady in town was violently in love with him, each desperate to win his heart before he turned twenty-five — the earliest age his parents had stipulated he could marry. ‘You must tell Geneviève to spread the word immediately.’ 

‘Tell her yourself,’ I said, suppressing a smile and checking the brass watch hanging at my chest. It read a quarter to two. ‘What are you still doing out here so late, anyway? Your father’s going to disinherit you if you miss an entire day of work.’ 

‘I found something much more interesting than work.’ 

‘I’m flattered.’ 

He grinned. ‘Not you, though stumbling across you is always a distinct pleasure.’

I smiled back. As annoying as his method of announcing himself had been, I was glad to see him. ‘What then?’ 

‘A kill site,’ he said, far too casually. ‘A most peculiar one.’ 

‘What’s peculiar about it?’

‘Would you like to see?’ 

My spine straightened. He’d never invited me to join any aspect of his hunt before, despite nearly a lifetime of pleading. ‘Really?’ 

‘Really. It’s not far from here, and I suppose I do owe you for chasing off your bird.’ 

‘Yes,’ I said, shoving my pencils and notebook into my leather satchel. ‘You do. One moment, please.’ Clambering to my feet, I took a small tin from my pocket and scuttled towards the remains of the stag beetle.’

‘What in God’s name are you going to use that for?’ Étienne asked as I scooped up as many pieces of the beetle’s shell as I could find.  

‘Study,’ I said, sealing the metal casket tight and slipping it back into my pocket. ‘Let’s go.’ 

Étienne’s horse was tied beside my pony mere metres away. He had been right, not that I’d ever admit as much to him. I should have been able to hear him approach, and I would have, if I hadn’t been so absorbed in watching the bluethroat. Our forest might not have been a dangerous place, but one day soon I’d be observing animals in unknown habitats. I’d have to learn to be more careful. 

I ran a fond hand through the pony’s mane as I unhooked his reins from a low branch. The squat, storm-coloured creature was an object of some ridicule amongst some of my peers. I’d heard Madeline De Villiers and Édith Gassion giggling about it once in town, whispering loudly enough within earshot to ensure I’d heard them. 

‘She could have anything in the world, and she chose that queer little thing? It’s practically a mule.’

‘It seems only appropriate. A queer little horse for a queer little girl.’ 

I hitched my skirt, setting a boot in the pony’s stirrup and pulled myself up into the saddle in one easy movement. Madeline had been right. I could have had any horse I wanted, and I had chosen one I could mount without a stool or a stablehand to help me. I had chosen independence, and they had chosen to be insufferable. 

My God, I wish I’d thought to say that at the time. 

‘Ready?’ Étienne asked from atop Flamber, his enormous chestnut roan. The two of them towered over the pony and I like something out of a pantomime. 

‘Lead on,’ I said, ignoring the difference of nearly half a metre between us. 

‘Stay close,’ Étienne said, touching his heels to Flamber’s flanks. I followed suit, urging the pony into a trot. 

The air blossomed with bird and cicada song as the forest recovered from Étienne’s rifle shot. I kept my ear open for my bluethroat, spotting several more in the boughs above, but none with his distinctive archery-target markings. 

‘How are Geneviève and Nicolas?’ Étienne asked, looking over his shoulder. Even at a walk, Flamber easily outpaced the pony. 

‘Very well,’ I said, straightening in my saddle. ‘Papa’s finally taking us to Paris!’ 

‘It’s about time,’ Étienne said approvingly. ‘When?’ 

‘In the spring. We’re staying with some marchioness friend of Papa’s who lives in the fifth arrondissement. Apparently you can see Notre Dame from her salon window.’ 

‘This wouldn’t be Marchioness Dugard, would it?’ Étienne guessed. 

‘It is. Do you know her?’ 

Étienne chuckled. ‘Everyone who’s anyone knows her. Father took me to one of her salons the last time we were in Paris.’

‘Did you meet anyone interesting?’ 

‘I might have if some English author hadn’t cornered me with the most excruciating small talk for nearly an hour.’

‘It might not have been so excruciating if you’d ever practiced your English.’

‘My English is very well,’ he said slowly, switching to the language in question. His accent was almost unintelligible. ‘The book man was door.’ 

‘You mean dull?’ I asked in what my former tutor had declared to be a very acceptable Oxford accent. 

‘Who cares?’ Étienne said, switching back to French. ‘What’s this trip in honour of? Is Nicolas going to try to romance the Marchioness? I’ve heard she’s monstrously discerning, but if anyone could charm her…’

‘Geneviève thought the exact same thing,’ I said, my tone flatter than I meant it to be. 

Étienne looked down at me, sympathy in his eyes. ‘You don’t approve?’

I took a moment to answer. ‘I’m not opposed to Papa finding love again,’ I said, meaning it for the most part. ‘I just don’t think it’s any of our business to speculate on. Love is a private thing. At least, it ought to be.’ 

‘How romantic,’ Étienne said with amusement in his eyes. 

‘It is romantic,’ I insisted. ‘If anything, it’s more romantic.’ 

‘I’ll have to remember that,’ he said, and mercifully let go of the subject. ‘Geneviève must be excited about the trip.’ 

‘She is,’ I said, pleased that he’d leapt so easily from thinking about romance to thinking about Geneviève. ‘The Marchioness has promised to take her to all the best fashion houses.’

‘And what will you do while they make their pilgrimage? Sketch cats and pigeons? Because that’s all there is by the Seine unless you want to start sketching beggars and drunks.’ 

‘I’ll be attending the Exposition Universelle, of course.’

‘The what?’ Étienne asked, his dark blond eyebrows soaring. He’d never been one for reading the paper or chatting about current events.

‘It’s an exhibition to celebrate achievements in the sciences and arts. The greatest minds from all over the world will be travelling to Paris to put on displays and give lectures. We’re arriving just as it starts.’ 

‘Sounds mind-numbing,’ Étienne said dryly. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.’ 

‘Thank you. I intend to.’ 

‘When did Nicolas tell you this news?’ 

‘About Paris?’ I had to think. ‘About three weeks ago? ’

Étienne sighed. ‘I’m sick of always hearing your news so late. It’s impossible to get near Geneviève at soirees these days, and even harder to find you out here now that Father insists on all this work.’ 

‘Come over and see us, then. It’s not as though we’d tell your parents you’d been.’ 

Étienne gave a resigned laugh. ‘You know Mother would still find out.’ 

I did. Nobody in La Baie Dorée could sneeze without Lucile Lajoie hearing about it and forming an opinion on both the sneezer and the sneeze in question. She and Maman had been as close as sisters before Maman met Papa, a no-name sailor wandering the streets of town. She had married him despite the fervent disapproval of her friend, and though their friendship had survived, our invitations to the Lajoies’ salons, dinners, and soirees had abruptly ceased after Maman’s funeral. We didn’t miss Lucile or Bastien, but the loss of Étienne’s company had been hard on all of us. 

‘We’re almost there,’ Étienne said, sliding his rifle from the holster on his back. 

I surveyed the forest ahead, intrigued by his caution. The trees here were dense, the vegetation largely undisturbed by human feet. But disturbed by something, for the sound of birdsong was quieter here, heard only from a distance. 

‘We’ll have to dismount,’ Étienne said, pulling Flamber to a halt. ‘I don’t want to distress the horses.’ 

More intriguing still. Étienne was an avid hunter and his great roan was used to the smell of death. But perhaps he only meant the pony, who had admittedly enjoyed a more sheltered existence. 

‘This way,’ Étienne said once the horses were secured to a birch tree, moving forward on careful feet. I thought I could walk quietly, but Étienne navigated the dense underbrush and fallen debris with a silence and grace I would never have thought possible from anyone, let alone this raucous mountain of a boy. 

Studying him closely, I hitched my skirt in one hand and laid my feet in the same cautious way he did. It worked wonders until my petticoat snagged on a hawthorn twig, snapping it loudly behind me. 

‘Wait,’ Étienne urged from some way ahead. The unfamiliar urgency in his voice made me obey without question. He advanced slowly through the trees, rifle raised. Not so much in aim, but at the ready. 

A terrible hissing noise made me flinch so violently that it took a moment to realise it came from Étienne. A pair of foxes streaked past me a moment later, chittering angrily to each other. 

‘It’s all right,’ Étienne said, lowering his rifle. ‘I don’t think anything larger than that is going to fight us for them.’ 

I gripped the strap of my satchel, silently urging my heart to return itself to a sensible rhythm. ‘Fight us for what?’ I asked. My voice, at least, was calm. Professional, even. 

‘Come and see.’ 

A heavy, overripe smell hit me before I saw anything. Resisting the urge to gag, I tried to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose. A mistake. The smell coated my tongue and caught in the back of my throat. 

I coughed and glanced at Étienne. There was no sign of disgust on his face, only a focus that he never wore in town. Once again, I tried to match him, breathing slowly through my nose without letting the stench curl my lip or flare my nostrils. 

The potency of the smell was explained a dozen feet onwards. The very earth had been stained black by a wide spread of blood. Hundreds of bones were strewn across the ground, mottled white and darkly iridescent as buzzing flies vied for the remaining scraps of flesh. 

‘What were they?’ I asked, my fascination easily winning out over any unease. 

‘Red deer,’ Étienne said, pointing to two shapes on the ground. 

I crept closer, the smell intensifying as the shapes clarified themselves. They were heads. The closest was a hind, from the look of it, for there was no sign of antlers having been torn away. Her sweet face was in repose, strangely untouched amid the carnage. I waved away the flies congregating at the corners of her dark eyes. They seemed to look through me, locked on something long since gone. 

‘You’re taking this well,’ Étienne observed as I unbuckled my satchel and set my notebook on my knee. ‘Pascal vomited just from the smell.’ 

‘It’s only blood,’ I said, finding a pencil and marking the outline of the head. 

‘And two disembodied heads, among other things. Or is this something you see every day and you’ve neglected to tell me about it?’ 

‘A naturalist should be prepared for any sight in nature,’ I replied absently. ‘Even the unpleasant ones. It’s all an opportunity to learn.’ 

‘And what should amateur naturalists be prepared for?’ 

I ignored that. ‘So what makes this kill so peculiar?’ I asked. At Papa’s request, I always kept close to town on my trips into the forest. As a result, the only mammalian remains I’d ever come across had been foxes and the odd marten. ‘The heads?’ 

‘Yes,’ Étienne said. ‘Animals aren’t picky, and they’re not wasteful.’ 

‘Could hunters have done this?’ 

He gave me a look. ‘Did hunters decapitate two deer and then butcher the rest of the meat on the spot?’ 

‘All right,’ I said, assuring myself that asking questions of any quality were the best way to find answers. ‘What do you think did this?’

‘That,’ he said, crouching on the other side of the head, ‘is the interesting thing. I haven’t the slightest idea.’ 

My pencil came to a stop over the rough lines of the hind’s nose. ‘How can that be?’ I asked, glancing up at Étienne. ‘You’ve hunted every kind of predator in this forest.’ 

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘But does this look like it was done by a hawk? Or a fox?’ 

It was a rhetorical question and I didn’t bother answering it. I surveyed the carnage. The longer I looked in any one direction, the more I saw. The other head with a crown of antlers, its cheeks torn away by small, scavenging mouths. Shattered bones. Lengths of offal. Trenches dug into the earth by panicked hooves. 

I shivered, hoping Étienne didn’t notice, and resumed my sketching. ‘What makes you think it wasn’t wolves?’ I asked. I hadn’t encountered wolves before, and I’d yet to find an article on their habits, which made Étienne my best resource. 

‘A few reasons,’ Étienne said. He stood, carefully pacing the site. ‘From what I’ve seen, wolves hunt by separating a single animal from its pack, usually something small and vulnerable. The hind I could believe, but not the stag. He’s young enough to be in his prime.’ 

I made notes beside my developing sketch as he spoke. ‘And you don’t think it’s likely the wolves overwhelmed the stag?’ 

‘Not really,’ Étienne said. ‘There aren’t many wolves in this part of the forest, and they seem intelligent enough not to take chances on stronger prey. But even if they weren’t, they kill beasts on the run. The carcasses should be spread through the forest, not side by side.’ 

I pondered the remains again. They were confined to a roughly circular area of perhaps three metres. ‘And they wouldn’t have dragged them back to a communal place?’ 

‘There’s no blood to indicate it. Or tracks. And that’s the other thing. I don’t see any prints that don’t belong to scavengers or the deer.’ 

I lowered my gaze. Amid the trenches, I could see hoof prints and gouges, the dainty prints of several foxes, but nothing that could have overwhelmed a pair of deer. ‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘There are only two possibilities that I can see. Either these deer were killed and eaten by one of their own, or…’ 

A spark of excitement stirred in my belly. ‘Or they were killed by something nobody’s ever seen before.’ 

Étienne’s cheeks dimpled. ‘Something capable of covering its tracks.’

The idea of it was thrilling. An unknown species, ripe for discovery. I tapped the butt of my pencil against my lip. ‘We can hardly jump to conclusions from one example,’ I said, and was proud of how sensible and restrained I sounded. ‘Have you tried tracking it?’

‘That’s why I stayed out here so long,’ he said. ‘I’ve searched in every direction the beast could have gone, but I couldn’t find a damned sign of the thing.’ 

That was significant. Étienne never lost a beast he set his mind to killing, or so his admirers liked to say. Lusty as they were, I didn’t believe it was mere fawning. ‘Are you going to keep looking for it?’ 

‘Naturally. If this truly is a beast nobody’s ever seen before, then I’m going to need its head stuffed and mounted in the entrance of my house.’ 

I clicked my tongue. ‘A brand new specimen belongs in a museum, not your foyer. It’ll need to be studied.’ 

‘Then you and all the other scientists will have to come to me and study it,’ he said with an easy smile. 

I rolled my eyes. ‘Will you let me know if you find any more evidence of it?’ I asked. ‘Even if it seems like nothing?’ 

Étienne batted his long, dark lashes. ‘What do I get in return if I do?’ 

‘A small acknowledgement in my first publication,’ I offered. ‘The beast of La Baie Dorée, as documented by Celeste Rossan, with help from local boor.’ 

Étienne laughed. ‘Change boor to hero and we’ll have a deal.’ 

‘Truly? Do you promise?’ 

Étienne held a hand over his heart. ‘I promise.’ 

A shadow fell over us. I looked up. The sun had moved further towards the sea. 

‘Damn,’ Étienne muttered. ‘Father really will be furious. Come, I’ll take you back to town.’ 

‘Go yourself,’ I said. ‘I don’t need an escort.’ 

‘You do, actually,’ he said. ‘I know you think you’re invincible, but look where you’re crouching.’ 

A rebuttal rose to my lips and died as my eyes met the hind’s. I wondered what had been captured there, immortalised behind those glassy voids. A ripple of fear and something I couldn’t quite explain ran through me. ‘Fine,’ I said at last, closing my notebook. ‘You can ride with me. But whatever will your mother say?’ 

Étienne grinned. ‘I’ll risk it. Just this once.’

Chapter Two: The Angels of La Baie Doree

‘I’ll have to leave you here,’ Étienne said as we crossed the bridge separating the overcrowded eastern side of La Baie Dorée from the fashionable west. ‘Now that we’re past all the ruffians.’ 

‘You mean the poor?’

‘Same thing, really,’ Étienne said, one cheek dimpling to show that he didn’t entirely mean it. ‘Get home safe. And give my love to Geneviève!’ 

I smirked and urged the pony onwards. ‘Give mine to your mother!’

His laughter followed me up the street. 

I glanced at my watch and swore, hastening the pony into a canter. I’d stayed too long in the forest even without Étienne’s thrilling little excursion, and now I was hopelessly, unforgivably late. Again.

Angelique’s Café stood at the top of L’Avenue de Soie. It was a cheerful building painted white and mint-green with the café’s name painted on the awning in carefully maintained golden letters. 

I left the pony in the public stable nearby and walked over, pausing outside the spotless window to take in today’s offerings. They were much depleted, the cakes, tarts, and pastries ravaged by customers far more punctual than I. And yet a quarter of a chocolate gateau remained to sing my name while a pair of plump almond and orange cakes vied for my attention.

But, no, my heart belonged to one cake above all others, and there it was at the very back of the display: a single, miraculous slice of cheesecake as tall as my hand, drizzled all over with plum sauce. 

‘Mademoiselle Rossan!’

I closed my eyes as a voice cut through the air, spoiling the moment between me and my beloved.

‘Mademoiselle Rossan!’ 

I was too far from the door to simply go in and pretend I hadn’t heard him. I took a long breath through my nose, summoned the strength to deal with the young man barrelling towards me, and glanced over.  

He was about nineteen or twenty with a grey bowler hat and a fashionably thin moustache. I recognised him, having been cornered by him at the soiree Geneviève had wheedled Papa into holding several months ago, and again at a salon Geneviève had conned me into attending some weeks after that. A scientific literature club, she’d said. I should have known better. 

‘Bonjour,’ I said, not bothering to smile lest he find some poetic way to describe it back to me.  

‘Mademoiselle Rossan,’ he said again with a smile that was far too broad. He swept off his hat and bowed, revealing a full head of dark hair that looked rock-hard with pomade. ‘You look especially divine today.’ 

I looked down at my russet day dress. Despite my best efforts the hems of my skirt and petticoats were dark with mud, and I had a sneaking suspicion there was a good deal more trailing up the back. ‘I’m filthy,’ I said. 

‘Your exquisite face makes filth look fashionable,’ he said, not missing a beat. 

‘I doubt that.’ 

‘I was disappointed not to see you at the Boucher’s soiree this past Sunday,’ he went on. ‘Or the LaFerve’s the fortnight before that. I hope you haven’t been unwell.’ 

‘Not unwell,’ I said. ‘Just uninterested.’ 

He raised his eyebrows in mock horror. ‘In good conversation and dancing? Surely not.’ 

‘Surely yes, I’m afraid,’ I said, edging my way towards the café door. ‘I’m dreadfully allergic to small talk and music.’ 

‘Then allow me to buy you a pastry and engage you in large talk,’ he countered with a wink. An actual wink. 

‘No thank you,’ I said, my fingers grasping at the doorknob and opening it just enough to let myself inside. I closed it between us, wedging my boot against the bottom. Surely that was a clear enough rejection for him. 

Apparently not. 

‘I’ll see you at the Devere’s, then!’ he called through the glass, his voice only just audible over the tinkling of the little brass bell mounted above the door. ‘On Saturday next!’ 

‘You won’t,’ I called back. 

He gave a jovial smile and put his hat back on, continuing down the avenue with a bounce in his step. My God. Had he considered that a successful interaction?

I didn’t understand men at all. 

‘He was quite handsome,’ a warm voice observed from over my shoulder. I turned to see Angie, the youngest of the eponymous Angeliques, as pretty and round as one of her mother’s cakes. 

‘She can do better,’ her grandmother called from behind the front counter, flashing a wonky-toothed smile at me. 

‘Thank you, Grand-Mère Angelique,’ I said, grinning at the old woman. She informally adopted all of her regular customers, which I believe made her the most prolific matriarch in town. ‘I have no idea what the Deveres are doing this Saturday, but I shall be avoiding it like the plague.’ 

Angie chuckled and linked her soft arm through mine, leading me past glass cabinets of sugared masterpieces and into the cosy seating area. ‘I was starting to worry you wouldn’t stop by,’ she said. 

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ I said, squeezing her arm. ‘You didn’t wait for me to take your break, did you?’

‘My break waits for no one,’ she assured me with an unbothered laugh. ‘What kept you this time? A woodpecker? An owl?’ 

‘A bluethroat, to start with, and then the most intriguing scientific mystery.’

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘A real one?’ 

‘Potentially.’ 

‘Then I suppose you’re forgiven,’ she said, though from her tone the matter had never been in question. ‘Though I can’t imagine any mystery more intriguing than Clement’s. Please tell me you’ve read it.’ 

‘I left before the paper was delivered this morning,’ I said sheepishly. ‘I was hoping you still had your copy floating about somewhere.’ 

‘You’re hopeless,’ she said, tapping my forehead lightly with the palm of her hand. ‘Lucky for you, Claude hasn’t used it to clean the windows yet.’ Claude was Angie’s husband, and at only twenty-two years of age sported the largest moustache in town. ‘Sit down, I’ll bring it to you.’ 

She released me by my favourite armchair, a high-backed, threadbare green chintz pushed so close to the fire that nobody wearing a crinoline dared go near it. 

I pulled my satchel over my head and sank into it with a contented sigh. ‘You’re an angel,’ I said. ‘By name and by nature.’ 

She bustled back to the counter with a laugh, her black hair bun bobbling from side to side as she went. 

Stretching my feet towards the fire, I pulled out the pin securing my hat and stuck it through the bodice of my dress, angling the head outwards like a brooch. It was an ugly thing, a tiny pewter spider utterly devoid of anatomical accuracy, but it had been Papa’s engagement gift to Maman. A tribute, he said, to her ability to see beauty where others couldn’t — though I suspect the truer story was that it was all he could afford to buy her. Maman had loved it regardless and worn it proudly beside her hatpins of pearl. When she died, Geneviève had laid claim to the pearls, and I to the spider. It must have been the most amicable division of estate in history. 

‘Here we are,’ Angie said, returning a few minutes later with a tray balanced on one hand. She set a mug of steaming hot chocolate and the last slice of plummy cheesecake on a small table at the arm of my chair. 

‘I’ve clearly become too predictable,’ I said, taking up the fork with a grin. 

‘You like what you like,’ Angie said with a smile, handing me a folded sheet of newspaper. ‘Now get reading. I’ve been bursting to talk to you about the false crown all day.’ 

‘How could you?’ I asked, jaw dropping in mock outrage. ‘Now I know to expect it!’ 

‘Serves you right for prioritising science over thrilling nonsense. Let me know when you’re done. It’s quiet enough for me to sit with you for a while.’  

‘I will,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Now go away before you reveal anything else.’ 

She chuckled and tucked the tray under her arm, retreating back to the counter. I refolded the newspaper into a neat rectangle so that I could read it one-handed and, retrieving the fork, lost myself in two delicious vices at once. 

At the conclusion of last week’s instalment of The Adventures of Clement Orlean, the world-famous explorer had sprung a trap while investigating claims of buried pyramids in Giza, sending him plummeting through the sand and into the bowels of an ancient structure alongside his new assistant, the dazzling Charlotte LeRouge. The weekly adventure serial was sensationalist, barely researched rubbish, and Angie and I were its most ardent readers. 

My plate was clean and my hot chocolate half-finished by the time I reached the end of the instalment. I sat back, smiling with chocolate-stained lips as I read the final paragraphs: 

---

…Clement and Charlotte dashed for the moving train as though all the hounds of hell were snapping at their feet. Dust and smoke spewed in the wake of the great metal beast as it gathered speed, the roar of its horn mercifully drowning out the uncouth, foreign clamour of the graverobbers behind them. 

‘Clement!’ Charlotte gasped in ragged exhaustion. ‘I won’t make it!’ 

‘You will!’ Clement exclaimed passionately. ‘I will not leave my assistant to the mercy of these savage Englishmen!’

He shifted the precious bundle to his other arm and turned to the woman, taking her dainty hand in his. He pulled her along behind him, his feet tiring but his spirit driving him onwards. 

‘Take the crown!’ Clement cried, thrusting the bundle into Charlotte’s arms as they drew near to the train. ‘I’m going to throw you!’

‘Clement, no!’ his companion protested. 

‘I must!’ He took her diminutive waist in both hands and thrust her upwards and forwards.

Reviews for The Misadventures of an Amateur Naturalist

[BailzBrium · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I think Everand recommended this to me because I’ve been on historical gay romance kick but I was pleasantly surprised to find an inventive, thoughtful adaptation of Beauty and the Beast! I really enjoyed how this book maintained many of the important threads of the original tale, like Celeste sacrificing herself for her family, while avoiding the Stockholm Syndrome problems, and wove in explorations of historical queerness!
The one thing that rankled from time to time was that a number of the names were not believably French (how I wish it had just been spelled Brigitte!) but that’s a small quibble with an otherwise thoroughly enjoyable read that I can see myself coming back to!

[Jessica Jones · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I somehow had no idea that The Misadventures of an Amateur Naturalist was a Beauty and the Beast retelling going in - and still didn't realise until surprisingly far into the book! I adored how aspects of the story were gently tweaked to remove a lot of the more problematic aspects of the original (and, to be fair, a lot of the elements that I wouldn't have wanted to read - there's no horrific Gaston-figure here, although one character could have so easily fallen into that part, and no worrying imprisonment. Celeste ends up in nearly every situation she finds herself through her own choices and agency). The addition of some wonderful sapphic relationships was also greatly appreciated.
If I have one issue with the book, it's that it is slightly unevenly paced - and this led to me taking a long time to warm up to the characters or story. The second half of the book felt much stronger than the first to me - the last quarter, in particular, is utterly enchanting, and I can understand the multiple 5-star reviews, buoyed along by this feeling. Unfortunately, my rocky relationship with the book's beginning means this is a 3.5 rounded up to 4 star - but there were some 5-star moments nestled in there too.
A really enjoyable, if slightly uneven, read.