Spellstruck

by Martha Waters

Genres: Romantic Fantasy; Fantasy Romance; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

From beloved author Martha Waters, a lightly magical, enemies-to-lovers rom-com about the owner of a speakeasy supplying magical drinks and an enforcer of the ban on magic who must team up when potions begin to go awry, proving that chemistry isn’t just for cocktails.

In an alternate version of 1920s London, vestiges of England’s magical past exist, but the use of magic has been outlawed, leading families still with powers to operate illegal speakeasies for a public still hungry for magic. Vesper Holloway runs her family club, where a dash of spell powder or an enchanted cocktail can add a little extra intrigue to the evening. But one night a man drinking a Flotation Fizz that should allow him to levitate a few inches finds himself bumping his head on the ceiling. Word among the magical elite is that such accidents have been happening more frequently, and the club owners are worried that the danger will spread.

Enter Maxwell Ashbridge, a onetime friend of Vesper’s brother, who has joined the government agency tasked with enforcing the ban, and who has a personal vendetta against the magical elite. But he does not have a vendetta against Vesper; in fact, he finds her rather enticing. He promises her immunity for her club, if she teams up with him to help gain entry to other establishments and find out who is responsible for the contaminated magic threatening her family business. But their investigation does little to quell the chemistry they share. As accidents continue and the fight to repeal the ban gains ground in Parliament, Vesper and Max will have to decide—is the magic between them worth fighting for?

Release date: September 29, 2026

Publisher: Atria Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter One Chapter One
Vesper loved autumn because she had a fatal weakness for men in scarves. It was not entirely logical, since she spent much of her time with men involved in a race to rid them of their clothing as quickly as possible. However, this weakness had led to more than one enjoyable evening in her past; so far its results had been decidedly mixed this autumn, but that was not enough to dissuade her from being fondly disposed toward the season.

October in England was admittedly rather hit-or-miss; it could be sunny and crisp and glorious, but it could also be gray and damp and miserable, and it felt so often that the latter sort of day tended to win out. Vesper found this rude; she knew that her golden bob looked particularly alluring in the autumn sunshine, and it seemed that the weather ought to oblige her.

Today, it unquestionably did not. She was in Quill & Ink, the famous magical bookshop on Marylebone High Street, hiding from the rain among the teetering wooden shelves and browsing idly when Freddie found her.

“Sister of mine.”

“Toad.” She didn’t so much as glance up from the book she was skimming; it was by D. H. Lawrence—one of his that hadn’t been banned, evidently—so she was fairly certain there was something interesting to be found within if she read far enough.

“I didn’t know you could read.”

She turned, blowing an errant curl out of her face. “That joke would work better if you hadn’t tried it out five hundred times in the past.”

Her brother shrugged, leaning casually against a shelf. His blond hair was ruffled from the same stiff breeze that had driven her indoors in the first place, and his cheeks were reddened from the cold. He was wearing a scarf, but her scarf-induced weakness decidedly did not extend to elder brothers.

“Don’t you have a job?” she asked peevishly.

He shoved a hand into his pocket. “I don’t have rehearsal for another hour.” Freddie was an actor, much to the delight of their parents—who felt it reflected well on them to have “interesting children”—and to the horror of their one living grandmother. He was currently in rehearsals for a show soon to open at the Adelphi, in which he played, if Vesper had the details correct, a lovelorn clown.

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” Vesper said, and he smiled serenely in the way he knew irritated her.

“I heard,” Freddie said, casting a casual eye about his surroundings, “that you went for drinks with Ainsley Sherwood the other night.”

Vesper frowned at this; Freddie was not one to usually pay much attention to her romantic (mis)adventures.

“And?” It had, in fact, been a few cocktails at the Savoy, followed by a cab ride back to Vesper’s mews flat, a rather hurried and uninspired romp in the sheets, and then a cigarette at the door as she waved Sherwood goodbye. On the whole, it hadn’t been worth the bother of getting dressed up for, but she’d been feeling restless, and Sherwood had been stopping by Holloway’s to flirt with her for weeks, and she supposed there were worse ways to spend an evening.

“He’s a bounder. You must know this.” Freddie tilted his head at her. “Surely you have better taste than that.”

“Bold words indeed, from someone who, last I heard, was sleeping with a man engaged to the daughter of a duke.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, which was satisfying. “I don’t think we really want to go down the road of ill-thought-out romantic entanglements, do we, Vesper?”

She sighed. “Probably not.” She shook her head ruefully. “I’m not going to see Sherwood again—he was a bit lacking in stamina. The entire interlude barely took a quarter of an hour.”

Freddie grimaced. “Please spare me the details.”

“You raised the subject in the first place.” She glanced down at the book in her hand, and then said, “Come on. I’m buying this, and then I’m going to the club. If you promise not to annoy me, you can come along.”

“That is frankly a lot to ask of me,” Freddie said, falling into step beside her as she made for the till.

The club’s name was Holloway’s, and it occupied prime real estate in the heart of Marylebone just off the high street. Its Neo-Palladian facade sported impressive columns that flanked the steps leading to its black lacquered doors. Vesper’s family had owned the club for a few centuries now, meaning that when she and Freddie appeared on the front steps a few minutes later, the doors opened as they approached, and Geoffrey, the doorman, bowed them in without question.

During the day, the club was a quiet, peaceful enclave. There were luxuriously upholstered sofas and chaises, plush window seats, and intimate tables tucked into alcoves, perfect for a private conversation. The walls were painted in warm jewel tones, and a few sported wallpaper in intricate floral and woodland prints; plush Turkish rugs covered the gleaming wood floors. The large bow windows offered a glimpse of the glittering streets and headlights below, making the club’s interiors look even warmer and more inviting by comparison. Waiters made their way quietly in and out of rooms, always ready to supply a pot of tea or coffee, a glass of something stronger, or a bite to eat. The establishment catered to a well-heeled, politically progressive, and fairly young set, as had been the case for most of its history, dating back to its founding by a particularly rakish great-great-et-cetera grandfather of Vesper’s.

This afternoon it was crowded with patrons eager for a cozy escape from the damp gray autumn day outside; a quick glance around as Vesper and Freddie made their way through a series of connecting rooms confirmed that nothing looked amiss. She caught the eye of Sam, one of the younger waiters on staff, and smiled at him, causing him to blush furiously. She was used to having this effect on men, so she ignored it. “Sam, could you send us a pot of tea? We’ll be in the office.”

“And whatever cake looks nicest,” Freddie added hopefully; Vesper and Freddie were each in possession of a sweet tooth. Soon they were ensconced in the back office—a large room that was a combination of a traditional office, with a desk and bookshelves, and a workroom, with a marble-topped table cluttered with any number of ingredients, vials, and sachets. Since Vesper had taken over the day-to-day running of Holloway’s—and the use of illicit magic that was necessary to make the potions and spell powders that comprised a significant part of the club’s business at night—she had thought often that she ought to redecorate the office, which was still painted the rich green that was her father’s favorite color. The floor was covered by a thick rug in shades of emerald and navy; the intricately carved furniture was glossy oak; the bookshelves groaned beneath the weight of volumes that had been accumulated by generations of Holloways. Framed above the marble fireplace, in which a cheerful fire was already burning, was a photograph of the Holloway family at the wedding of Cecily, Vesper and Freddie’s elder sister, and her husband, Simon, immediately in the wake of the Great War. Vesper loved this office, but it still did not entirely feel as though it were hers.

She was distracted by the prompt arrival of a tray bearing a silver tea service and a couple of plates of Madeira cake. Freddie immediately dedicated himself to this bounty, and Vesper could not resist settling herself in one of the armchairs before the desk and reaching for her own slice of cake. She was still somewhat suspicious about her brother’s sudden concern regarding her love life, however, and decided to use this moment, when he was at his weakest, to try to work out what this was about.

“It was kind of you to take an interest in my evening with Sherwood,” she said, all sweetness, as she speared a bite of cake.

Freddie froze with his fork halfway to his mouth and cast her a wary glance.

“In fact,” she continued, “if you would like me to consult with you about all my love affairs, perhaps I could bring men to meet you, before we ever go for a drink—”

“Enough!” He set down his fork and shifted in his seat to face her fully. “I asked about Sherwood because he works for the government.”

Vesper blinked. “Does he?”

Freddie nodded. “The Ministry of Transport.”

She relaxed. “Oh. Well, that’s nothing to do with us, then, is it?”

“No, but his father is a Forbiddance campaigner. You might consider being a bit more careful.” Freddie took a generous bite of cake. “You’re running a private club with an illegal side business—you ought to think twice before falling into bed with any man who happens to walk through the door.”

“We don’t know that he agrees with his father in politics. Plenty of men don’t.” Vesper and Freddie’s parents were refreshingly progressive, but she was fairly certain that if they’d been born to a man like many who haunted the halls of Westminster, Freddie would have lost little time in rebelling against all his father stood for.

“I know,” he conceded. “But I’ve heard mutterings that the Fleas are going to be conducting more raids. Just… be careful.”

Vesper wrinkled her nose at the mention of the Fleas—or, technically, the F.L.E.A.s: Forbiddance and Licensing Enforcement Agents. In addition to issuing licenses permitting businesses to sell alcohol, they were also tasked with enforcing the government’s ban on all magical substances that had been signed into law at the beginning of the decade. They spent their taxpayer-funded time investigating private clubs, looking for signs of Forbiddance violations for which they could either extract a heavy fine, or—in a rare but alarming occurrence—send in Scotland Yard to shut the club down.

The problem was, it was perfectly obvious—to the government, and everyone else—that the members’ clubs that were owned by powerful magical families must be dealing in an illicit potion trade, but they failed to account for how much money the magical community possessed, and how easy it was to convince underpaid civil servants to accept bribes.

Vesper sniffed. “I’m always careful.”

Freddie raised an eyebrow.

“All right, I’m sometimes careful,” she amended, and was rewarded with a grin from Freddie. “Though I don’t think the raids are anything to worry about—hasn’t Daddy said that he’s paid off his contact at the Home Office?” The unofficial Holloway motto was that there was little that couldn’t be bought for the right price.

“He has,” Freddie agreed, his expression thoughtful. This was an unusual enough sight that Vesper frowned.

“Freddie, what is it?”

“I’ve heard rumors that they’re looking to make an example of someone—one of the most prestigious clubs.” Like ours went unspoken.

Vesper sighed, frustrated. The Forbiddance laws had come into effect during the war—“public war readiness” was given as the initial excuse, and then the laws were extended for public health reasons during the flu pandemic, since crowded clubs full of people with lowered inhibitions seemed like a perfect way to ensure germs spread quickly. Later, they became permanent, and had been a source of constant consternation for certain magical families ever since. Most of the members-only clubs—like Holloway’s—that had done a roaring trade in the concoctions for hundreds of years had swiftly pivoted, keeping their public operations entirely aboveboard and relegating the purchase and consumption of potions and spell powders to secret back rooms. Everyone had carried on quite happily, though prices had gone up as a result, and many operations that had once catered to a more working-class clientele had been driven out of business. Freddie and their elder sister, Cecily, worked dedicatedly to try to turn public sentiment against the laws, but Vesper was not terribly political.

However, things might turn very nasty indeed if the government actually raided Holloway’s—for one, if she were arrested, she could not imagine that the photographs would be particularly flattering.

“Have you spoken to Simon?” she asked, naming Cecily’s husband, an MP who was leading the coalition attempting to overturn Forbiddance laws in Parliament.

Freddie shrugged. “Not since dinner last week—last time we spoke about it, he simply said that”—he cleared his throat and dropped his voice an octave—“ ‘it always pays to be cautious.’ ”

Vesper laughed. She was fond of Simon—the entire family was—but he was considerably more straitlaced than anyone in the Holloway clan, including his wife, and she occasionally caught him blinking around the table at family dinners, likely wondering how he’d managed to get himself chained to this bunch of lunatics (complimentary).

Vesper glanced at the clock and realized that she needed to get to work; the enchanted syrups they used to make their potions tended to lose a bit of their flavor after twelve hours or so, meaning a member of the family had to be present at the club every evening to ensure that they had enough fresh magical supplies. She crossed to the worktable and began assessing the ingredients laid out before her. “Well,” she said over her shoulder, “you may inform Simon that I’ll keep a wary eye out and will do my best to keep my legs closed around public servants going forward.”

Freddie rolled his eyes. “I will not be having that conversation with my brother-in-law. But it wouldn’t hurt for you to start taking things a bit more seriously.”

Vesper smiled charmingly at him. “I do take things seriously. How do you think Holloway’s is still running?” She turned back to the table before her. The ingredients were all prepared in advance by a trusted member of staff—the spices ground, the herbs crushed, the lemons squeezed. It was up to whichever member of the Holloway clan was present to assemble the components into the necessary configurations and speak the family’s Word that would imbue them with magic. For the powders, this merely involved a mix of dry ingredients measured into a sachet and then whispered over; for potions, they mixed a series of magic-infused syrups that were later added to the soda water, champagne, and spirits that the bartenders used as each drink was ordered at the bar.

Vesper picked up a flask of hot water and carefully measured some into a large vial, then stirred in sugar, lemon juice, and muddled basil. She paused for a second; then, with her hand carefully gripping the base of the vial, she closed her eyes and spoke the family Word, quietly but precisely. There was a sensation like sparks racing down her right arm, then a tingling in her fingers, and the glass beneath her hand briefly warmed, then cooled again. And like that, it was done, and Vesper was reaching for a cork with which to seal the vial, then affixing a label identifying it as the syrup used for the Gin and Giggles, one of the club’s most popular offerings.

One down; only another dozen or so to go.

She glanced back at Freddie. “You might look more impressed when I do that, you know.”

He waved a hand. “I can do it too.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“All right. Sort of,” he amended.

It was true; magic was passed down along bloodlines, but for reasons no one understood, it tended to manifest more strongly in some members of a given family than others. Freddie could do magic if required; the Holloways’ Word worked for him, just as it did for Vesper, Cecily, and their father, but the effects of him employing it were never quite as impressive as for other members of the family.

“If you’re done trying to warn me about the dangers posed by underpaid government workers, then I’ve actual work to do here.” She turned back to the worktable before her, reaching for dried lavender. Behind her, she heard Freddie making rather a production of getting to his feet.

“I should be off anyway—don’t want to be late to rehearsals. I need to properly channel my character.”

“Isn’t it a clown?” she asked. “I wouldn’t think that would take a great deal of effort—not much acting involved for you.” Without even glancing behind her, she ducked, narrowly missing the napkin Freddie had lobbed at her head, and laughed as she heard him leave the room.

There was magic to be done, and a club to be run, and—most importantly—an approaching weekend’s worth of plans to be made.

Brothers and their dire warnings could be safely ignored.