Historical Fiction

Mai Linh’s feet pounded the cracked pavement as she wove through the chaotic streets of Saigon. The air hung heavy with exhaust fumes and the pungent aroma of fish sauce from nearby food stalls. A cacophony of honking horns and shouting vendors assaulted her ears as she dodged between sputtering scooters and precariously balanced bicycles. “Coi chừng!” she called out, narrowly avoiding collision with an elderly woman balancing twin baskets of mangoes on a shoulder pole. The woman scowled but Mai Linh was already gone, darting around the corner onto Đồng Khởi Street. ...

Abigail Thorne stood at the edge of the gallows, her fingers curled around the rough-hewn wood. A chill wind whipped across the town square, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke. She stared at the trapdoor, imagining her brother’s feet dangling above it. “It ain’t right,” she muttered, her jaw clenched. “Thomas wouldn’t hurt a soul.” The crowd had dispersed, leaving only a few stragglers milling about. Abigail’s gaze fell on Judge Elias Blackwood as he emerged from the courthouse, his black robes billowing. The judge’s eyes met hers briefly before he looked away, a flicker of… something… crossing his face. ...

The salt-laden wind whipped across the docks of Bristol, carrying with it the cacophony of seagulls and the shouts of sailors preparing to embark on their next voyage. Amidst the chaos, a slender figure in ill-fitting men’s clothing made its way purposefully toward the imposing merchant ship, “Poseidon’s Grace.” Eliza Blackwood tugged nervously at the rough fabric of her borrowed jacket, willing her racing heart to slow. She’d spent the last of her meager savings on this disguise, and everything hinged on her ability to pass as a man. At thirty years old, she was taking an enormous risk, but the alternative – a loveless marriage to a man twice her age – was unthinkable. ...

Paris, 1788 Margot’s fingers moved deftly, weaving golden thread through rich velvet as she sat hunched over her embroidery frame. The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the opulent drawing room. Outside, a cool autumn breeze rustled the trees lining the Rue Saint-Honoré. She paused, flexing her cramping hand. At twenty-three, Margot was already one of the most sought-after embroiderers in Paris. The nobility clamored for her exquisite handiwork adorning their gowns and jackets. Little did they know that hidden within the intricate patterns and flourishes were secrets that could bring their world crashing down. ...

Emilia’s hands trembled as she climbed the iron ladder, her breath forming small clouds in the chilly night air. At the top, she paused, glancing furtively down the empty cobblestone street. Seeing no one, she quickly slipped a folded piece of paper behind the glass pane of the gas lamp. “May this light guide you to safety,” she whispered, before descending and melting into the shadows. It had been three months since Emilia began her nightly ritual of leaving secret messages at lamp posts throughout the city. What started as an act of quiet defiance had grown into a full-fledged underground network, with Emilia at its heart. ...

Ellie Pearson pressed her nose against the car window, watching identical houses blur past as her family’s station wagon wound through the streets of Levittown. The summer heat shimmered off the pavement, distorting the perfectly manicured lawns and cookie-cutter homes. “Almost there, kiddo,” her father called from the driver’s seat. “You excited?” Ellie mumbled a noncommittal response, pushing her thick glasses up the bridge of her nose. Excited wasn’t quite the word. Anxious, maybe. Terrified, definitely. She’d never been good at making friends, and now here she was, thrust into a new neighborhood in the middle of summer vacation when everyone else already had their social circles firmly established. ...