Excerpt
Turning from dawn breaking over the Quarter, I crossed over to the canopy bed where Mischief was having a completely different experience.
After my thousandth time pacing the room, Mischief had crawled on top of the mountain of decorative pillows placed against the headboard and fallen asleep. As normal, she’d started off in a dignified little ball, resting her head on top of her fluffy tail. Barely ten minutes had passed before she flipped onto her back, front legs curved at her chest and hind legs spread in a most un-ladylike manner.
Without thinking, I mimicked her—flopping to the mattress on my back with a cry of terrified frustration.
Mischief snorted in surprise and tried to twist around onto her feet. Instead, she sank between the pillows. She only disappeared for a heartbeat before she thrust her head through a gap at the bottom and shook off a little trail of drool left over from her nap.
“Sorry, sweet girl.”
Mischief only groaned, yawned.
Despite everything, she could still make me laugh. I curled onto my side, snagged under her front legs, heaved her free from the pillow avalanche, and pulled her to my chest.
“Oh, Mischief, what have I gotten us into?”
She snuggled against me and in answer issued a long, relaxed sigh.
“You know, I’m always amazed how much you understand what I’m saying and what’s going on around us. However, you seem completely clueless at the moment, which is surprising.” I buried my face in the large white patch of fur at the back of her neck, tears stinging my eyes. “Although I have to admit, I wish I were clueless right now too.”
Mischief exhaled, sounding annoyed, then squeezed her way out of my embrace, trotted about a foot across the mattress, and plopped down, staring at me.
I laughed again. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to insult you or anything. I only…”
The expression in her eyes brought me up short and ushered back the memory beside Eudora’s body. How in the world had I forgotten?
“I could have sworn you talked to me earlier.”
Her annoyed expression deepened.
I leaned closer. “Are you irritated because that’s ridiculous or because I’ve been too busy being a stress-mess to remember until now?”
She glared, though not necessarily angrily, but more like another flash of what I thought was annoyance. She leaned closer so her nose almost touched mine and held my gaze, staring so hard had it been anyone else, it would have felt invasive and too personal.
But it was Mischief, so I stared right back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”
She blinked, then stared again.
“You are!” I gasped at the realization. “You are trying to tell me something. Actually, trying to say something… right?”
Though I couldn’t hear even the faintest reply, the expression in her dark eyes was a resounding Yes. Truthfully, it was probably more of a Duh!
“Okay.” In my excitement, I attempted to push aside being captured and my probable purging and scurried up into a sitting position on the bed.
That was instantly too high, so I repositioned to my knees, leaning forward and resting on my forearms, returning our faces to eye level.
Again, I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I got the impression she was laughing.
Strange. Although I suddenly realized how I must look spread over the bed with my rump up in the air. “Kind of like you when you want to play, huh?”
Her eyes twinkled.
Another thrill shot through me.
I had always felt a bond between us and frequently had the impression we could read each other’s thoughts and feel each other’s emotions. But I’d heard other people who loved their dogs say similar. I figured every doggy parent felt that. But this was different, even though I couldn’t hear any words like I thought I had at the cathedral. This was new, even for us.
“Okay… what’s different from earlier?” I thought back to the moment at the cathedral, trying to recall. She’d been on my lap, and I’d buried my face in her fur, as I so often did for comfort. But… I’d just held her a moment ago. Just had my face buried in her fur while I tried not to cry.
Before I could sit up, drag her into my lap, and try again, Mischief drew closer once more and pressed her forehead to mine.
I started to argue, to tell her of my plan of recreating the scene. However, she seemed to know what she was doing better than I did, so I held my position.
Mischief pushed a little harder against my forehead and took a long, slow breath, then released it. Her breath didn’t smell minty fresh or anything, but the warmth washed over my cheeks and felt as familiar and safe as home.
I attempted a slow breath of my own, but it shook.
Mischief did it again.
So did I—longer, deeper, and slower that time. The tightness in my throat lessened, and the claws gripping around my heart loosened ever so slightly.
Safe.
I scrambled back, startled, as I hadn’t really expected it to work. “You said that, right? Not just my imagination?”
Her scowl was all the answer I needed.
“Okay, you did say it. That’s… amazing. And I love you think we’re…” My turn to scowl. “Wait a minute. Do you really think that, or is safe the only word you can say?”
Her chuff upgraded from mild annoyance to exasperation.
“All right.” Despite our situation, I chuckled, because talking or not, Mischief was Mischief.
I wasn’t entirely convinced, but whether because of hope or delusion, I wanted to find meaning.
“All right, let’s say you really are talking and I can hear you. We’ll go a step further and believe you’re choosing to say safe because you truly think we are.”
She blinked. Maybe confirmation? That seemed like a good sign.
“Great, so… you believe we’re safe.”
Reality broke through. I was sitting here talking to my dog. Although I always talked to Mischief—all the time—I’d never expected her to answer back with actual words.
Was I losing my mind?
Mischief growled softly.
“Okay, good point. We’re surrounded by witches. Plus, black cats, otters, alligators, and opossums while we’re at it. Not a huge leap that you might start talking.”
Her growling stopped.
“I’ll take that as agreement.” I couldn’t help but grin at her, then reached out and stroked her beautiful face. “So you think we’re safe. I guess that’s good, but there’s not a single thing that’s happened that leads me to believe that. Why in the world do you think we’re safe?”
Mischief’s tail began to dance behind her head. Magic.
I gasped again. “You can say more than safe.”
Her wagging ceased instantly.
“Sorry.”
She sighed.
“You think we’re safe because of magic. I don’t see how.” I continued to pet her and try to parse through things out loud, attempting to make sense of it. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m over the moon it’s all real, but magic is what put us in danger—it’s definitely not protecting us.”
Mischief shook her head, pulling away from my touch. She seemed to consider for a second, then stretched out one of her white little paws and placed it on my hand resting against the bedspread.
Magic.
My heart thrilled again at hearing her voice—which mostly sounded like my own voice, my thinking voice or conscience… but… different.
“Yeah, I get it. There’s magic. But it’s being used against us, Mischief, not—”
Magic. She batted my hand with her paw. Maeve. Magic.
“You said my name!” I gasped again and yanked my hand away, covering my heart like a parent whose baby just said “Mama” for the first time.
She rolled her eyes, which… wasn’t new.
“Sorry.”
She scooted close enough to touch again.
Maeve. She glared again. Magic.
Mischief shook her head in what looked like frustration. I didn’t get the sense she was frustrated at me that time, however.
She gave a little hop, then looked back at me before covering my hand with her paw once more. Magic. Maeve. She tapped my hand, one of her claws accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally—scratching my skin. Magic Maeve. Magic Maeve.
“Uhm…”
Mischief shut her eyes, and her tiny little caterpillar brows furrowed like she was straining. Maeve. Is. Magic.
She opened her eyes, looking deep into mine again. Maeve. Magic.
The Book Junkie Reads . . . Interview with . . . Mildred Abbott . . .
How would you describe your style of writing to someone that has never read your work?
I write cozy-adjacent paranormal mysteries—stories that have warmth, humor, and a strong sense of found family, but also real stakes and consequences. My new series, Whispering Witch Mysteries, is set in New Orleans, where magic feels like it could exist just beneath the surface, hidden in plain sight. It’s also where I live, so that makes it even more fun!
At the center of the series is Maeve, a fantasy author who accidentally reveals a real, hidden magical world through her writing—and quickly discovers that not everyone is happy about it. Alongside her is Mischief, her corgi familiar, who is equal parts adorable and far more powerful (and opinionated) than she first appears.
So while there are cozy elements—bakeries, community, relationships—there’s also danger, tension, and an ongoing mystery that builds from book to book.
Do you feel that writing is an ingrained process or just something that flows naturally for you?
For me, it’s a mix of both. The ideas—the characters, the atmosphere, the sense that there’s something just out of sight—those tend to come naturally. I’ve always been drawn to stories where there’s more going on beneath the surface.
But turning that into a full novel—structuring it, pacing it, making sure each book builds on the last—that’s very much a practiced process. Especially with a series like this, where each installment expands the world and raises the stakes, there’s a lot of intentional work behind what hopefully feels effortless on the page. For example, for this series, I planned and mapped it all for two years before I started writing. I have notes books of characters, magic rules, histories of magical elements that go back centuries, and even a spellbooks of spells I’m creating.
Have you found yourself bonding with any particular character(s)? If so, which one(s)?
Maeve, absolutely. She’s someone who finds herself in a world she didn’t ask for, trying to make sense of rules no one fully explains, while still holding onto who she is. There’s something very human in that.
But if I’m being honest, Mischief has a special place for me. I’ve had four corgis in my life—Dunkyn, Dolan, Alastair, and Winifred—and they’ve all had such distinct, unforgettable personalities. Corgis are stubborn, funny, completely food-obsessed, and just full of character. They’re impossible not to love, and honestly, they make perfect inspiration for a familiar.
Mischief carries a lot of that spirit with her—the humor, the attitude—but she’s also deeply intuitive and fiercely loyal. She often understands what’s happening before Maeve does… and sometimes before the reader does. There’s a quiet strength there that I really love writing.
Can you share your next creative project(s)? If yes, can you give a few details?
I’m continuing the Whispering Witch series, and each book builds on the last—expanding the magical world, uncovering more of its hidden history, and raising the stakes for Maeve and those around her.
As Maeve becomes more entangled in this world, she’s forced to confront the consequences of what she revealed. Not everyone believes she belongs there… and some would prefer if she didn’t stay.
At the same time, the heart of the series remains the same—found family, connection, and the bond between Maeve and Mischief, which becomes even more important as the danger around them grows.
Have you ever felt that there was something inside of you that you couldn't control? If so, what? If no, what spurs you to reach for the unexperienced?
For me, it’s always been the need to write.
It’s an overwhelming, persistent pull that I’ve had for decades. Even when it’s difficult—even when it would be easier to step away—it’s not something I can seem to let go of. These worlds and characters live in my head and heart in a way that feels very real to me, and they’ve been with me for years.
There’s something incredible about getting lost in those stories, about following the threads of who these characters are and what they’re going through. And even more than that, there’s something deeply meaningful in sharing them—having readers connect with these characters and care about them the way I do.
It may sound a little cliché, but for me, it’s never really been a choice. It’s just something I’ve always needed to do.
Thanks for having me on the Book Junkie blog today! I so appreciate it!
If you enjoy stories where magic hides just beneath the surface, where found family and danger go hand in hand, and where even a cozy world can carry real consequences, you can begin the Whispering Witch series with Gossiping About Grimoires.
Website: http://www.mildredabbott.com
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